It began more than a year ago as a plan for a family visit to see Hazz in Malawi. Timed for September to take in the Lake of Stars festival, five days of kayaking / snorkelling on/in Lake Malawi, four days in Liwonde National Park, a couple of days hiking in the Mulange mountains, a couple of nights in Zomba - Hazz's home in Malawi.
But then things got a bit out of hand. If you're going that far, the theory went, why not take early retirement and go a bit further? What else is on the list "in that area".
Well, there's hiking the volcanic peaks of Isle de Reunion. 110km end-to-end / top to bottom in 10 days. And on the way back, why not drop in on Ethiopia for a fortnight to trek in the Simien Highlands, up to Ras Deshen at 4,620m? Not forgetting to check out the kingdom of Gondar and the rock churches at Lalibela.
So, that's the plan.
Now 6 months since the first bookings of flights, treks and gites we are nearly ready for the off.
Welcome to Skiing!!
Because Debs and I are getting old, forgetful and foolish we have been issued with a tracker. This is called "Steve and Debs go Skiing" (don't know why). It uses satellite technology to allow you to find out where we are or have been in the last 7 days - in virtually anywhere in the world, apparently. So long as we remember to turn it on, that is. Just click or paste the link below to locate us.
https://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=1WS8qjWuB6VERGs1bjBmS8b17WcTK90rP
The password is: Africa2014
So, here we are in Zomba.
Ethiopian Airlines brought Debs, Steven, Hannah and Joe safe and sound via Addis Ababa. And at Blantyre we were met by Harriet our driver/guide. Made a quick visit to the supermarket (like you do) to buy Gin, Brandy, Beer, and a few other food items, in preparation for the next 10 days.
Then on to Zomba, colonial capital of Nyasaland where Harriet has been based, for our welcome to Malawi gin, with small amount of tonic, followed by an Italian meal of pasta, etc at Casa Rosso.
Welcome to Malawi, 'the warm heart of Africa'!
Today its a visit to the market before our 3 hour drive north to Nkpola on the shores of Lake Malawi, venue for the 3 day Lake of Stars festival. http://www.lakeofstars.org
From Zomba we drive north for about 2 hours on a good tarmac road. The road may be good, but the road users not so good. After about 1 hour Harriet, at the wheel, puts us all on "goat watch". She has had experience of near misses with goats before.
The car is a bit heavier now. We stopped in Zomba market for a few more essential fresh supplies (booze stocks holding up OK), but were told by the nice pharmacist that we would need to get a Doctor's certificate before she would issue us anti-bilharzia pills.
We expect to get Bilharzia. But, don't worry, you won't catch it from us and a course of pills 6 weeks into the little parasite's life in our bodies will deal with it. Welcome to the warm heart liver and bladder of Africa.
Arrived Nyanja Eco Lodge at sunset (about 6.00pm) and then into the restaurant for fish and chips. The fish was Chambo - fresh from neighbouring Lake Malawi. And very good it wasn't. Never mind, we can eat elsewhere tomorrow. The "Eco" means, we think, economical - not ecological. So, while there is running water and electricity, neither is reliable. Water is scalding and electric comes and goes. Unlike the ants who, like the poor are always with us. Mr Nelson Banda who owns/runs the place, is smiley and friendly. He does not seem to deal with the guests, though. That is down to Elizabeth who is courteuos and friendly and keen to help make us comfortable.
Anyway, we are well-placed for the festival. Its about 1 mile drive away. Or 20 minutes, if you like. We drive. Well, who ever heard of an air-conditioned walk?.
Day 1 of the Festival is scheduled to start at 10.00am. We are told we are the first car into the car park at 11.00. Gates open at 12:00. Except that due to a technical hitch the opening is to be delayed. We return to the Lodge and go back at 3.00pm for the Festival. By 11.00pm, after checking out a few bands and a few beers we are back at the Lodge and enjoying a few hands of Bananagram. Elizabeth is off-duty and keen to join us. We suspect she too has had a few beers: but all passes without incident - though the following morning Elizabeth appears at breakfast a little subdued.
Day 2 and 3 of the Festival follow - in that order. We discover the delights of the Sunbird Lodge swimming pool area from where we can hear as much of the music as strictly necessary. When a particularly interesting band starts up we can mooch over for a closer look and listen, and then mooch back again when it turns out to be pretty similar groove to the other bands. Debs and Steve like the Jazz group from Ghana. We particiularly enjoyed listening from a position a little off-shore from the beach. Steve having had the foresight to persuade the others that they should carry a couple of inflatable kayaks to the site every day, just on the off-chance some one might want a quick paddle. The police at the gate who searched our bags also thought 2 kayaks a good idea.
We eat a lot of chips, some incinerated chickens, a falafel wrap or two - all from the food village. Joe, an experienced outside catering unit managerr is generally unimpressed with the efficiency of the service. Still, none of us got food poisoning.
We agree that Lake of Stars works better as a night-time event: So we extend the duration of our visits into the wee small hours and feel smug that we can stay out till 2.00am. Other festival goers - many expat young people working in the region on various good causes - clearly revel in the chance to relax on the beach, meet old friends and make new ones. Some probably don't sleep at all - the music goes on till 6.00am. All is friendly and chilled. "Chill" is one of several types of Carlsberg lager available and much is consumed at LoS. We do our little bit to help.
By 10.00pm the drifts of marijuana smoke mingle witht the flights of bats overhead. Maybe the bats find it improves their ecolocation - certainly we do not witness any mid-air collisions.
A quick blast up the road from LoS festival takes us to the turn-off to the legendary Cape Maclear.
Stopped at a roadside convenience store for late minute supplies I am approached by a somewhat forlorn seller of souvenirs to exchange my shoes for a wooden model of a bicycle or a Landrover. Tempted though I am, I decline, pointing out that I still need my shoes.
We are loaded with fresh fruit and veg from the market at Mangochi because we are self-catering for 5 days on the island of Domwe. To get there we will need to hire one more kayak. But before that we need refreshment at one of Harriet's preferred beachside bars. Here we are persuaded by Eric and Jesus - local tourist touts - to have Happy Pants custom made to our specifications. And then its lunchtime. Harriet has been dreaming for weeks of enjoying steak and chips at the up-market Cape Mac Lodge wherre she knows the chef. Imagine her disappointment when we learn that steak is served only in the evenings. We make plans to paddle over one evening in the dark.
But now we must leave for Domwe. Our inflatable kayaks attract considerable interest - but no comment - from the nice people at Kayak Africa who provide us with an additional kayak and life jackets for all. My anxiety to arrive at Domwe before dark, to stand a half-decent chance of getting our tents up before we need headtorches is not shared by the other paddlers. But mutiny is avoided and tents duly erected on our allocated thatched camping platforms with cunning use of bungee straps rather than pegs
There is only one camp site on Domwe: 3 camping platforms - of which we have 2 - and 2 safari tents. There are other guests in residence, with whom we are happy to share the kitchen, dining area, sun deck, bucket shower and composting toilet.
We are also happy to share the site with Lulu and her family and Jonathan and his. Lulu is a civet cat and Jonathan is a bush pig. They are regular night-time visitors, usually to be seen near to the kitchen where they get fed scraps by the "island crew" Alex, Richard and Felix. To our surprise we are provided with a cool box with ice - ideal for our essential medical supplies of beer, gin, brandy, etc - this having been brought over by motor boat together with our camping , snorkelling and other kit.
Our job at Domwe is quite simple. To swim, snorkel, kayak a bit, sunbathe, read, play Bananagram and keep refreshed. Add to this early morning 45 minute hikes up to the near-top of the island (on 3 mornings in the case of D & S), exchanging recipes and cooking lessons with Alex, getting fresh fish, chatting with fellow guests.
Most guests stay a night or 2. We are here for 5. Time enough to get to know our surroundings pretty well and to explore further afield. The weather is a little fickle. The first two days sees the arrival of an algal bloom that means we have to travel a bit further to find clear water and on days 3 and 4 the wind picks up enough to send us to the far side of the island to find sheltered water. Life is tough here in the tropics.
One consequence of the stronger winds is that the fishermen are kept on shore. The fishermen operate mainly at night using bright lights to attract fish to their dug-out canoes. Fishing this way is a communal business, accompanied with lots of chat, considerable shouting and occasional singing. A veritable piscatorial son et lumiere to keep us awake through the wee small hours. Somewhat uncharitably, we are not too disappointed that the wind is blowing tonight.
The long & dusty road to Liwonde goes via the old colonial market town of Mangochi where we stop for fuel fresh veggies and something to eat as its now 6 hours since breakfast.Chip butties are not the easiest things to make, or eat, in a moving car over potholes. But this is what we did anyway. Joe complained they tasted dusty - but no wonder.Arrived at the main gate of Liwonde Park in time for an evening game drive to our Lodge. Greeted by a smartly uniformed guard who advised us his name is Innocent. Innocent by name, but not by nature as I think I was overcharged $10on the Park fees. Still, he was friendly and smiley.Harriet, by now very excited and fortified by chips, drove us expertly off-piste along the edge of the flood plains for our first ele sighting. Also on the menu this evening were kudu, warthog (everyone loves warthogs - pumbas) with lesser beasts such as impala, baboons and squirrelly-things (squirrels, in fact).As at Domwe, arrival was close to dusk - but tents were up in a trice and then it was time to explore the bar area and enjoy our first, pre-booked buffet supper washed down with the usuals.Because we had our own vehicle we were able to explore the park under our own steam next morning. This included a period with Joe at the wheel - during which time no-one was aware of seeing anything. Off soon after 6.00 and back by 10:00 for breakfast. Not so straightforward if you have to cook over a firewood stove. But coffee and tea were soon to hand with boiled eggs a la Debs. The day’s routine was to relax around the somewhat greenish swimming pool that was lovingly attended by the cleaning team. The 3 staff spent considerable effort in scrubbing the walls clean of algal growth that the chlorine obviously could not deal with. So, actually, it was probably the cleanest pool within 50km.There are various optional excursions to be had. We opted for an evening boat safari on the Shire river and were allocated a lovely guide who went by the name of Young King David. Really. (Malawian children are given English names by their mother at birth. Often the name reflects the nature and experience of the birth. So, you meet people called Blessing; Innocent: Precious….but what about the guide called Danger?)Anyway, the boat ride was magical (another Malawian name?) - both for the wildlife views (hippos, crocs, numerous waterbirds) and wildlife sounds (grunts, snorts, numerous squawks) and for sunset over the riverine forest. Fortunately David’s suggestion to pack an ice box with some suitable chilled Chill had been taken up and the experience was complete.On day 2 at
6.00am we drove north and were a bit disappointed with absence of game (as we call it). However, we did find the celebrated baobab tree which can shelter 20 people within its hollow trunk as they wait for the ferry. It is said that David Livingstone made camp under this tree. Later on we came across buffalo, Sable antelope (Steven’s target species) and more elephants in herds of more than a dozen proceeding steadily towards the river.In the evening we repeated the prescription - this time with Debs at the wheel. Evening drives set off at about 3:30 and really should get back to camp before dark at 6.00. On this occasion our driver was persuaded to drive off-piste to see what was down on the grassy plain. The answer was plain - a decent sized herd of elephants at a decently safe distance to watch from. And then things got a bit complicated. Entering stage left came a solitary bull - full of amorous intent. He approached the group of cows and calves but appeared to be told to be on his way while the matriarch led her group closer to our car. Undeterred the bull fixed his attention on a cow that was not with the main herd: she made to return to the woodland - also moving closer to our car, the bull in pursuit. So there we were - elephants that had been at a satisfactory distance now approaching from 2 directions.Unfazed, Debs slammed the car into reverse and careened back in clouds of dust to escape our inevitable fate. Too late, though, as the massive bull bore down on our little tin box and with a nonchalant flip of his massive tusks hurled us skyward. Luckily for us we landed right way up and drove home. I exaggerate. But the combination of failing light, approaching elephants and the knowledge that elephants don’t like white vehicles was a bit adrenaline inducing. This episode became known as “Elephantgate”.But they were not done with us yet. Not much further along we encountered a stationary group blocking our road. Reverse gear - back down to the off-piste sandy track to circumvent the obstruction. But wait - there in the gloom the vague outline of a pachydermal shape not more than 5m from the road. Only thing for it is to press on in the hope that we won’t be noticed. And as we pass by the beast turns towards us and, at last, Joe appreciates how big an elephant is.Phew, back at the lodge as night falls
Day 3. The smaller and bigger Smiths rose at 5.00 am for an important elf and safety briefing about the do’s and dont’s of Rhino hunting: hand signals, clicking noises, walking down wind. Important information missing however “don’t wear white this is very visible to a Rhino”.
Smaller Smiths set off at 6.00 with 2 armed guards, an antennae and radio control + David. Bigger Smiths set off in Prado down south. At 10.00 am comparison of experiences indicated all positive. Small Smiths reported “ exceptional sightings of a Rhino on 2 occasions “ with photos to prove outside the boundary of the Rhino Sanctuary. Big Smiths reported more of the same (i.e eles) + Riverside drive in the farthest south of the park.
Afternoon consisted of chilling by pool and a tour of the fruit bat sites on the campsite provided by the Batty Bat Babes (Africa Bat Conservation ABC), whose headquarters were at Mvuu Camp. Delightful 22 yr and 27 yr old girls. The 22 yr old was 'the muscle' with experience of survival strategies in the bush (Zimbawaen born blond amazonian skilled at wrestling crocodiles, killing elephants and climbing trees to escape rhinos, elephants and lions + able to identify ailing hyena calls in the evening). 27yr old Toni from Bulgaria described her true love as a “leaf nosed bat from Central America”. The most engaging dedicated batty person we have ever met. After 1 month into a 6 month assignment they were both craving company and MEAT, so we invited them to supper after an evening game drive and witnessing them bat catching and ringing.
The evening game drive was eventful: several “dazzles of Zebras”, beautiful male sables, eyeball to eyeball with buffalo and a lone roan antelope were the main animal highlights. As dusk fell we were driven to the riverside and presented with a previously laid table, ice-bucket filled with a bottle of pink fizz and delicious snacks. Apparently we were most esteemed guests and therefore valuable (having stayed a total of 4 nights compared to the usual 1.5 days. ) A fantastic final drive.
Day 4: The Big Smiths turn for Rhino hunting (trekking with antennae for 20 minutes provided a brief glimpse of a very shy and anxious Rhino). Apparently Rhinos are really shy and run very fast away from everything; their main fear is being killed by another male rhino. 3 deaths so far from rhino-warfare in Liwonde. Small Smiths engaged with elephantgate 3, 4 and 5: managing to travel only a short distance as their journey was impeded by 3 large groups of elephants including big bulls. Small Smiths reported “ elephants were boring, we have had enough of elephants, it’s time to leave”. So we left in the afternoon after an afternoon swimming and small smith illicit pool-side drinking session (against camp rules but endorsed by Father Smith), subsequent collapse of camp, and game drive back to base-camp Zomba.
Steak and chips at Italian restaurant washed with 2 bottles of Tall Horse (i.e giraffe) Shiraz from South Africa
The Mulanje massif lies in the south of Malawi hard up against the border with Mozambique. It is a 650sq km area of forest and grassland encompassing more than 20 2,500m peaks that rise from a central plateau at about 2,000m. The highest peak at 3,000m is the loftiest point in central Africa. The plateau itself is some 1,000m above the surrounding plains. This type of formation is called an inselberg and is the result of the hard granite of the massif proving more resistant to erosion than the sediments that surround it.
Today we drive to Mulanje via Limbe - an industrial/commercial extension to Blantyre. Our immediate destination is the Ljeri Tea Estate at the southern edge of the massif. From here we are setting out on a 3 day/2 night hike up to the plateau, across and down. Nights will be self-catering wooden mountain huts. Our itinerary has been recommended by no less a person than Maggie O'Toole, Chairman of the Mulanje Mountain Club (of which we are members, BTW). By merest chance we met Maggie on Domwe Island and she was very forthcoming in providing details of reliable guides, huts, routes, etc. For the next 3 days we are in the hands of our guide Patrick
We are 3 minutes late for our noon-time rendezvous with Patrick at the top end of the tea estate. It is blisteringly hot as we climb out of the air-conditioned car. Patrick introduces us to his brother Freddie - also a guide, but who on this trip will be portering all the food we need for 3 days.
Patrick tells us its 4-5 hours to our halt at the Madzeka Hut. The first half hour is easy-going through the plantation. The emerald green of the tea bushes contrasts with the purple of the jacaranda blossom and rich red earth. Against the backdrop of the dark green of the sheer forested escarpment it's a stunningly beautiful landscape. After passing through a village the ascent proper begins. Gently at first through the villagers' gardens, becoming steeper as the path passes through burnt-out remnants of the forest. But as the gradient increases and the midday heat takes effect, some of the party are wishing they were somewhere else - anywhere else.
Dunking our hats/ headgear in the streams and springs and drinking lots helps. So does ingestion of glucose sweets. But still its a beast of a 800m climb. On steeper sections we have to use fixed wooden ladders. Patrick confirms that we are (one of) the slowest groups he has guided on this route. Joe manfully exchanges his pack for Deb's heavier one. After about 3 hours (and no food and insufficient water) Steve runs out of energy and needs a glucose boost. At 4 hours we are more or less on the escarpment rim and enter a forest. The gradient is easier but in the dim light of the forest, the path is a tricky one over rocks and roots. Steven cramps in both legs - due to loss of salts and sugars - and has to hand his heavy pack to Debs for a while.
Welcome to the bastard-hard heart of Africa!
Anyway, in the words of the prophet, all things will pass. At 6.00pm the last of the party (Steve) stumbles up the veranda steps of the Madzeka Hut. The watchman has brought water from the stream below and set a fire in the open grate. In the gloom we can see little beyond the beams of headtorches. Simple wooden furniture, mattresses, tin plates, bendy cutlery - what more does a mountaineer need? Answer: delicious veggie and soya noodles prepared by Joe.
Awake at 6.00 and a dunking in the cool (cold?) stream for some before breakfast. And then an easy (hah!) hike across the level(ish) grassland plateau. Time to take in the scenery, flowers and cool mountain air. We easily keep to Patrick's schedule and by lunch-time are at the Chinzama hut. Scenes of devastation greet us. Extensive areas of what little remains of the forest and grass have been burned out. Patrick tells us its the result of illegal timber felling. The prized trees are the indigenous Malawi Cedars, now much threatened by unlicensed felling. The fellers are quite open in their activities. On the way up we were passed by several men on the way down, each hunking a huge baulk of roughly planned timber on their shoulder. With no, or broken shoes, its a feat of extraordinary strength and balance to just bring the wood off the mountain.
Patrick does not know (or will not tell us) why they set bush fires, but says he thinks sometimes its done simply to spite the Forest Authorities and their efforts to stop the felling.
After lunch (peanut, tomato & onion rolls, biscuits and hard-boiled eggs) its 1 1/2 hours to Minunu Hut. We arrive in time to settle in, have 4 mugs of hot sweet tea (Steve) and plunge into the river below the hut. Debs sets to in the kitchen preparing veggie curry. Joe wins the lottery for the spare bed, but generously alots the prize to Hannah. Bed by 9.00.
Last day on the mountain and its all downhill! Hurrah! There is cloud below us . The first section is through forest, takes 1 1/2 hours and is about as steep as the ascent - but thanks to gravity a deal quicker. But harder on the knees. Once across the river we enter a deep gorge with the mountain high above and now cloud-covered. The forest provides shade and we make good progress till about 11.00. At that point Patrick suggests that the walk can be shortened for the majority by about an hour if one of us goes ahead to collect the car and drive back up to meet the rest of the party. Joe volunteers for the task and sets off at a run with Freddie. The remaining party enjoy a leisurely stroll through the tropical forest to arrive at the pre-arranged meeting point by midday.
Half hour later, accompanied by beeping of horn Joe arrives triumphant at having matched Freddie on their rapid descent and then had off-road fun retrieving the car.
By 1.00pm we are loaded and, having said goodbye to the brothers Pat and Fred are headed back to the tarmac roads back to base camp Zomba.
Malawi has a Carlsberg brewery. Not just any old Carlsberg, though. Here we have a choice.
Harriet prefers Chill and this is what we mostly choose. About 50p/bottle in the supermarket £1.25 in a posh bar, its slightly dearer and not so widely available as the ubiquitous Green. So sometimes we have to slum it and go Green.
For a fuller flavour we choose Special Brew. In UK Carlsberg Special Brew at 9% is right up there with White Lightening and Buckfast as the preferred tipple of people who start drinking early in the day in public parks and bus stations. The Malawian version is not so strong and is much enjoyed by Debs.
Stout is a bit like Macheson - served chilled. No-one except Steven likes Stout very much.
It comes as a surprise to be able to get from Southern Africa to France in a little over 3 hours.
But here we in Reunion enjoying a pichet of rose, salade gourmande etc in a petit bar and speaking our best French, having left the unnerving environment of Johannesburg's gated communiites and averted gazes.
We will set out on our 11 day hike tomorrow after buying a local mobile phone SIM card, the number for which we will post on the message board. Would be best if you text us, rather than call if you need to get in touch as you will be charged international rates! (sorry).
First day's hiking route requires us to climb 1780m. Too much for one day, so we are taking a taxi to 1200m
It will not be possible to update this blog or load photos while we are in the mountains, but hope to be able to connect from time to time using Debs smart phone, to read and send messages on the message board and maybe access emails
So, we go into (virtual) internet silence till 29th October.
Over and Out
"The hardest thing I've ever done, but alive to tell the tale: just" D.K. Thornhill
Armed with trekking poles (DK X 2: SS X 1), filled rucksacks and lunches for 2 days we took an expensive taxi half way up the 1700m hill to the first night's stop. The day had turned to rain by 10:00am and we set off into the misty moisty forest.
A few hours later as the clouds broke we arrived at the gite too early to check in. So off to the viewpoint we went - disapppointingly this provided views of clouds and not much else.
More fun was the prospect of a portaloo WC and shower, and a cosy bunk bed in the dorm. A meal of smoked pork kari, rice, lentils and cake and a night disturbed by snorers marked the end of day 1.
Day 2 started at 6.00am as the early risers broke camp, while we enjoyed the delights of breakfast of jam, biscottes, coffee / hot choc and a return to the viewpoint where we were able to peer timidly into the craters and across to the far peaks. By 11:00 we were en route to Dos d'Ane (yes - donkey's back); mostly downhill through primary forest of tree ferns and other exotics, including tiny orchids and chirruping birds. It was a memorable day's hike in fine weather with stunning views towards Mafate before we dragged our weary selves to Les Acacias B&B (fortunately finding a Dodo shop in the village).
Days 3 - 10 followed a similar pattern. The photos provide more detail, but essentially our day goes like this:
06:00: awoken by other hikers fussing and shuffling around in the gite
06:30 - 07:30: breakfast: invariably bread, jam, coffee / chocolate / tea
07:30 - 12:30: hiking away from gite towards next gite on paths up and down, sometimes across a river
picnic lunch: bread, salami, cheese, tomatoes, onions, peanuts (wine on occasion)
13:00 - 15:00: hiking towards gite away from last night's gite - yep, on paths up and down, sometimes across a river
15:30 - 16:30 check into gite: allocated bunk in dorm with snoring German or French people. On good days get own room
16:30 - 18:30: chill out with a Dodo / Kindle/ pipe. Queue for shower (not always available and not always hot)
18:30: start lurking for dinner
19:00: dinner with convivialite. Rhum / punch then soup or salad: followed by kari, rice, beans/lentils with piment and cake to finish
20:00 French people scurry off to bed while the only 2 English people in Reunion play Bananagram and talk with nice German people (if available)
21:00: lights out
21:00- 05:30: Communal snoring
Day 3 in Ethiopia, having had a 24 hour stop-over in Nairobi. This was not part of the original plan. Long story short - our connecting flight from Madagascar was cancelled so we re-negotiated our itinerary with Air Mad. To ensure we did not miss our connection, this meant an upgrade to Business Class on Air Kenya and overnight accomm. in Nairobi.
We used our time in Kenya to visit the Karen Blixen Museum before being returned to airport for on-ward to Addis.
A day at leisure in Addis, so self-guided walking tour of the city and main tourist sites: a church and a museum. Addis is not a place to stay long in: its largely a building site. However, we survived on our own and found a 'traditional' Ethiopian restaurant near our hostel (Mr Martin's Cozy Place) for our first tast of injeera - though were not especially taken with it.
Many travellers tales were told in the hostel of pickpocketings and muggings, so was with some relief that we joined the rest of our group. We have this morning flown from Addis to the city of Gondar, from where I send this message - but because its at in internet cafe, there are no photos to share. But there will be!
Tomorrow we drive into the mountains and then we will be on trek for 6 days.
Adios
A series of high plateaux, characterised by 1,000m high sheer cliffs, the Simien Highlands are the result of volcanic activity 20-30 million years ago that has left lavas 3,000m thick.
We spent 6 days trekking to and from the highest point - Ras Dashen - at 4,600m. On a long day we did 23km in 10 hours and ascended/descended more than 2,500m. Most of the time we were above 3,200m and spent the nights in tents. Day time temperature reached 30 and dropped to -5 at night.
A typical day started at 6.00 with breakfast tea brought to our tent. Breakfast in the communal mess-tent of bread, jam, porridge, pancake/omlette set us up for the off at about 8.00. Lunch was brought to us by 'the teamen'. Afternoon trekking brought us to camp by about 4.00. No proper toilets at camp - just squat-down long drops of the most heinous kind. At one camp there was a shower - actually cold water from a pipe. Sunset at 6.00pm. Dinner was soup, veggies (lots of cabbage), sometimes meat of indeterminable origin, but plenty of bones, cake/tinned fruit. Coffee. By 7.30 its too cold to sit around so other than on 2 nights when we could get round the open fire in the kitchen hut, it was tucked into 4 season sleeping bags by 8.00!
Having completed our trek it was time to return by bus to our hotel in Gonder before taking a 25 minute flight the following morning to Lalibela.
At 2,600m asl Lalibela was the capital of Ethiopia from the 11th century. It was the Emperor Lalibela who decided to make this place the capital and to create there a complex of churches that would mirror the Holy city of Jerusalem and celebrate in synbolic refferences, the life of Jesus. Not just any old churches. No - these would be hewn ffrom the solid rock.
Two half-days of sightseeing sufficed to give us a sound idea of what these rock-hewwn churches are all about. Some writers have called them the 8th Wonder of the World - not sure we would go that far, but the whole effect was impressive enough.
In betweeen churching we found time for dining in restaurants with views - including the rather unusual Benababa restuarant - see video & photos for more details, drinking beer and watching birds (including Lamergeyer) from the hotel grounds. The Hotel also provided us with bed bugs.
Final day of the whole trip was a morning flight to Addis followed by a few hours essentially killing time before being ferried to our final activity - a cultural evening of music, dance and food. Not just for us tourists, as a number of Ethiopian families and couples also enjoyed the evening.
And guess which member of the audience accepted the invitation to go on stage and join in a frenzied Ethiopian dance ......Well, it wasn't Steve, so it must have been.....Yep, Debs.
While in Ethiopia in November 2014 we met Claire Robinson. Claire lives in Athens. She mentioned that property in Greece is cheap. Everyone likes the sound of cheap property, don't they, and we got to thinking.
Some 2 months on the idea of buying property in Greece - cheap or not - has fizzled.
But Debs has a particular interest to go to Greece anyway, and Steve fancies the idea of a trans-Europe cycle ride. So we have decided that our 2015 skiing adventure will be to take our bikes and a tent to Greece from where we will cycle home.
We will fly to Kefalonia on April 7th - in time for the Greek Orthodox Easter - from where we plan to cycle 3,500 miles back home through 10 countries over 15 - 20 weeks.
After a circumnavigation of the Peloponnese to Athens, we will track up the west coast of Greece - maybe venturing into the Pindos mountains - before heading north-west along the Adriatic coast of the Balkans. From Trieste we go west, by-passing Venice, riding up the river Po valley towards Milan. From there we turn north crossing the Alps by the St Gotthard pass to Berne from where its downhill all the way along the river Rhine to Rotterdam / the Hook for the crossing to Harwich.
For want of anything better, Steve is calling this the MRSA. The Mountains, Rivers and Seas Adventure.
UPDATE Good Friday 2015. Because Debs and I are getting old, forgetful and foolish we have been issued with a tracker. It uses satellite technology to allow you to find out where we are during our trip. So long as we remember to turn it on, that is.
Just follow this link if you want to see where we are:
https://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=1baprg8T7Ykh3UWzy5YTl6PLNMjeezEZi
The password for the tracker is: Eurovelo2015
If the link doesn't work, try copying and pasting it to your browser's address bar.
A shakedown is what you do before your expedition proper. It's a dummy run to make sure you have all your stuff and it works. Not so sure our's is a proper shakedown as we spend 6 days on Kefalonia and Ithaca pootling about a bit and being nice to the nice friendly Greeks we meet.
Longest day ride is about 40k, which is a little short of the required distance if we are to keep our 4 days on, 2 off routine. But there's plenty of time to catch up or change the routine if needs must.
It's 2 days ride to Olympia from the port of Kylini. The last off the ferry we trundle through an area of horticultural towns and villages, stopping occasionally to ask the route: navigation is old-school map which at 1:150,000 is not large enough to show village streets.
We are headed for our first AirBnB at Palouki. The map shows a turn off to the minor coastal road, and we follow, only to find ourselves in woods populated by packs of loose dogs, but they all seem docile, though mangy. It's a bit of a hunt to find our accommodation, but are rapturously welcomed on arrival. The need is felt for a celebratory drink down at the beach bar
A 45k ride the following day brings us to Olympia. As we approach, we are passed by gleaming tourist coaches going the other way. The town is wholly given over to tourism - mostly coaches, so we settle for 2star hotel Posidon away from the centre. Then its 5 hrs tourism starting with the museum and finishing with the site itself.
We boldly set out the following day without prebooking accommodation. The weather is fine with many flowers, scents and vistas and a midmorning break for spinach pies. At Kiparrisia, an unremarkable seaside town we have a bit of a frazzled time looking for rooms but eventually turn up an unremarkable studio that does the job- at least the bikes are indoors.
Day 9 ends with our first wildcamp. After an afternoon swimming and climbing to the castle above Voidokilia we decide after much indecision to be brave, and after a meal of souvlaki (meat on sticks), chips, beer and rose we bed down just behind the beach
From Voidolika it's a long slow haul up before we sweep down into the port of Pylos (aka Navarino). Here we enjoy a Greek coffee in an old mens kafenion (cafe), of the sort to which we seem to gravitate, a stroll around town, and manage to find camping gas of the right sort, which means we are now properly set up for camping. Pylons to Methoni is another long climb up then a fast descent back to sea level. We are 2 weeks too early for the campsite, so settle for a set of rooms handily placed for bar and restaurant. Methoni is popular with N. Europeans, as we observe in the restaurant: the owner tells us that out of 600 houses, 400 are owned by foreigners. Later we learn that the mayor is, or was, a German woman.
We pass more closed campsites the next day en route via Finnikounda, which also boasts a spread of semi-derelict industrial parks. We opt for the shorter inland route and in the village of Iamia are hailed by a German couple on MTBs out on a day ride from Koroni. Turn out to be expats running a watersports and biking centre. Both resplendent in branded lycra and shades and sporting impressive girths. The descent to Koroni through olive and orange with distant view of snow-capped mount Profitas Illias is brilliant. By days end we are happily tented at a proper campsite - complete with pool, taverna, hot water and Wi-Fi: oh, and sunshine.
The Mani is the middle bit of the Peloponnese, and in the old days the most remote. EU subsidies for roads and Wi-Fi have changed all that, it seems.
It is a place of castles and fortified towerhouses - evidence of tumultuous past. Invaders have always found it a difficult place to subdue; the Maniots have a reputation for being fiercely independent and it was in the Mani that the struggle for Independence from the Ottomans took root in the 1820s.
We found all to be peace and harmony, with the revival of the most recent invasion - that of the Northern European tourists - eagerly awaited.
One of our guide books is "Greece on my wheels". Written by Edward Enfield (father of Harry) it recounts the adventures of 73 year old Ed on his spin through the Peloponnese.
On this part of our trip we find ourselves to be following quite closely in his footsteps. Importantly, he gives reassurance that if a 73 year old can rise to the challenge of cycling 70k over the mountains from Skala to Leonidio in a day, so can we.
We also takeke a side trip by bus to spend a rest day visiting the ruins and churches of the Byzantine city of Mystras and make time to stay in the much restored Byzantine town of Monemvasia.
This is all part of Laconia (Greek: Λακωνία), also known as Lacedaemonia. The word laconic is derived from the name of the region by analogy—to speak in a concise way, as the Spartans were reputed by the Athenians to do and which Debs wishes Steve would.
For various reasons we changed plans and decided not to include Athens on this visit. Instead we would spend more time doing the Peloponnese.
Things turned out a bit different from what we thought we would do, however. Because Mayday is a public holiday, we were unable to get into the ancient site of Mycenae as planned. So instead we headed off to see the Corinth Canal, to be followed by a visit to Epidaurus, then on round the "thumb" bit of the Peloponnese before returning to Mycenae a week later after taking in the Venetian port town of Nafplio.
But even that plan was flexed. Due to a surfeit of hills, disappointingly busy,rubbish-strewn roads and general idleness, we decided to miss out most of the thumb bit and have a day of relax and culture in Nafplio. Well, you can't do it all can you?
Because we travel slowly, sometimes very slowly - on one occasion being overtaken by a fellow who was walking to work - we see things that speedier travellers might miss. Here's a selection of some things seen in the slow lane.
So to leave the Peloponnese we chose the southern shore of the Gulf of Corinth. Shorter and flatter than the northern route, but also missing Delphi.
First day ended at Melissi after a lovely downhill run through the vineyards of Nemea. En route we met Tony from Adelaide who had returned to reopen the family Kafenion. He insisted on providing us with coffee that he cadged from cousin Nico who also produced some olives, bread and cheese. In lieu of payment we gave Tony our address.
The next day we stopped off at Diakopto to catch the rack train to Kalavrita for a visit to the museum that commemorates the massacre by the occupying Germans of the town's male population in 1943 as part of the attempt to subdue the Greek partisan resistance.
Our final day in the Peloponnese was 50km of constuction traffic, dust and noise before crossing to the mainland and a peaceful stay at Nafpaktos where we celebrated the outcome of the General Election in an appropriate way. From there should have been a straightforward run to Messalonghi. Instead we were obliged by a landslide to return to the mountains for a 22km detour round the blockage and a night wildcamp by the beach.
MessalonghI itself turned out largely to be worth a miss despite its historical / Byronic connections and we hurried on to stay overnight in the island town of Aitoliko.
Things improved the following day with a splendidly varied 70k ride through lush, well-tended farmland with only a modest uphill ascent before whizzing down to the port of Astrakos, from where we followed the coast for 30km of scenic splendour as thunder started to rumble to the east.
Here we lucked out again. With both the campsites shown on the map closed we were given permission by the owner of a beachside restaurant to pitch our tent for nothing, but make use of his table, chairs and toilet. Turned out the man was a professional chef and master butcher who had worked with Jamie Oliver, no less. At least that's what he told us. He also told us he was due to visit his daughter in Aberdeen later this year: so we gave him our address and an invitation to drop in.
After all these excitements it seemed only right to kick-back and chill-out for a day at the very next picture-postcard place we came to. Which is what we did, here at Paleros.
After a day of rest it's time to move on.
First day passes easily through pastoral landscape with ferocious-looking and sounding dogs. But we escape unharmed and pass through the tunnel to Preveza. In doing so we pass under the site of one of the most decisive naval battles of all-time. The battle of Actium starring Anthony and Cleopatra.
Having all-but given up on proper campsites, which are mostly closed or derelict, we find Camping Monolithi near a suitable beach.
Our next site of destruction is the 4thcentury BC city of Kassope which sided with other Epirote cities against Rome, lost, and so was destroyed by the mighty Empire. Apart from 2 strimmer-men we are the only visitors. Continuing upward we then clamber the stone steps to the Monument of Souli, where in 1803, the mass suicide of despairing Souliote women is commemorated. A big downhill run then brings us to the town of Kanalliki for overnight.
This leaves us refreshed for a visit to the River over which the dead are ferried to Hades followed by an unscheduled hike up the Acheron gorge to visit the castle at Souli, which Ali Pasha built in1803, to ensure no further trouble from the now-defeated Souliote tribe.
Probably enough death, despair and destruction for now. Next stop Albania
To be clear, we did not venture into the Accursed Mountains (yes, that is what they are called), for these are in the North East of Albania. Our route runs from the south western border with Greece, then north along the western coast until we reach Montenegro.
Entry to Albania is a doddle. In her enthusiasm to have arrived Debs overruns the border checkpoint and is called back by the passport man who had wandered off for a chat with his mates.That's how busy the border crossing was.
First stop is the site of Butrint, a well-presented mix of Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman remains. Mediterranean history in a nutshell. First overnight introduces us to the sight of unregulated over-development at the town of Ksamil. We stay with Lynda and Alexander. In their mid 40's they are a product of the Communist era when citizens were allocated jobs according to the Party's instruction. Both are teachers. Alexander hates it so much he is now re-training to be a lawyer.
As we travel north the weather turns cooler and unsettled. Which makes for reasonable cycling conditions without the need for early starts to beat the heat. There's no beating the hills, rough roads and erratic Albanian driving, though.
So for the next few days we proceed with caution, enjoying friendly welcomes (we have 2 words of Albanian - hello and Thank you) and come to admire the way in which the country seems to have got on with it, following the unhappy 50 years of Communist dictatorship.
After the excitement of the coastal mountains, it's a relief to see flat lands. Short lived, though as the road conditions north of Vlore deteriorate rapidly and for the last 10 miles into Fier we are reduced to riding the narrow gravel shoulder to avoid being swept away by trucks and buses.
For respite and to see something of historical interest and beauty we vote ourselves 2 days off biking in order to visit the UNESCO town of Berat. No, not Borat. It's a minibus ride inland and we decide to spend the night there, leaving the bikes and most of the bags safely garaged back at the Internacional Hotel in Fier.
Suitably refreshed we then take on the worst that Albanian roads and drivers can offer and manage 84km in a day, much of it on dual carriageway with no exits, finally reaching the seaside resort of Durres. This is just an hours blast by stolen Mercedes from Tirana, and there's an air of dodgy doings and bad vibes at the Hotel Majestic, where we stop off for a beer and to consult booking.com for somewhere more salubrious to stay. An otherwise restful night is marked by the relentless barking of a dog in a nearby appartment. Our host is apologetic, but frankly the animal needed shooting.
Such uncharitable sentiments get their just reward the next day in the form of a torrential downpour that maroons us for 3 hours in a service station cafe where we overdose on caffeine and tuck into a bowl of rice and yogurt. Well, there wasn't much else to do apart from observing the comings and goings of expensive motors (BMW, Merc, Audi, Range Rover, etc) driven by dodgy looking blokes. At midday we set off in improving weather. By late in the afternoon, after detouring through backcountry villages populated by "starey men", crossing a one-way only wooden planked swinging suspension bridge and navigating muddy and rocky farm tracks, we end the day riding along a proper motorway to arrive at the 4 star Europa Park hotel. We are pretty much the only guests, there are only 3 things to choose from on the menu, but hey, we cycled on an Albanian motorway!
Our last full day in Albania is pretty straightforward. We travel on secondary roads as much as possible, and these are of variable quality. Traffic is light, which is a blessing. Our final night is in Skroder, which I read somewhere is one of the oldest cities in continuous occupation in Europe. Today it boasts lots of cafes and bars on its pedestrianised main drag, most of them patronized by young men drinking coffee. Gender segregation is very much in evidence, even in this university town. On a positive note there were lots of people on bicycles. One of them was a nun. A country that has nuns on bicycles can't be that bad.
To be honest we are not sorry to be leaving Albania after 11 days. Much to admire, little to love. The people are warm and hospitable, have suffered much and are working hard to catch up with the rest of the region. Time will tell if that works out for the best.
Our first night inMontenegro is in the overcrowded coastal resort of Ulchinj. We stay in the road-less old town, which involves carrying bikes up several flights of steps to apartment Naser, where we are rewarded with sunset views over the Adriatic, grilled bream and calamari.
After the unsettled weather of Albania we get into a spell of cloudless days to enjoy the coastal scenery. We also find ourselves occasionally plunged into unlit tunnels, which is a bit disconcerting. If a measure of whether a coast is overdeveloped is the volume of traffic, then the coast of Montenegro is seriously overdeveloped. It's only early June and the road is full. Heaven help you in July and August when it gets busy.
The prospect of a quiet beach is enough to declare a non-riding day. Time for relax and bike maintenance.
Suitably oiled we then press on for the promised beauties of the Bay of Kotor. But not before passing through the town of Tivat (now serviced by Ryanair) where we overnight at Olga's guest house.
The ride round Kotor is indeed memorable and we stretch it out to 2 days with a stopover to get the full benefit and dine on mussels and frites. Hey, who knows when we will pass this way again?
Then its on following the low level secondary coast road to hit the frontier with Croatia at Kobila where the Croatian police were not interested even to look at our passports. So much for tales of over-zealous drug searches
A full day sightseeing in Dubrovnik is called for - well everybody says it's a must-see / do. We splash out on a 15quid day pass, which gets us into the major sights and museums, in addition to various churches, which are free. We also see the exhibition of photos of the city during the shelling by Serbs in 1991/2 which is part of a permanent gallery of war photos. Plus ca change.....
12 hours, several coffees, ice creams, wines, etc. later we are back in the apartment recovering from the exertions. Ivanna our landlady reports the cruise ships alone had brought 10,000 visitors to the town today. We encountered most of them, I think.
An early start the next day takes us some 50k to a well-run camp at Prapratno on the Peljesac peninsula, which is lauded for its wines and oysters. We find time to enjoy both. From Prapratno there is a ferry crossing to the island of Mljet and, by way of a change we opt to spend the day cycling the island without baggage, returning to camp in the early evening. Mljet proves more testing than expected, with a succession of hill-climbs, but we are rewarded by a flat ride around the pretty bit at the far end, and by the sight of Steven swimming: strange but true.
Our detour to Peljesac was prompted by the need to find quieter roads as an alternative to the increasingly busy major coastal roads, as well as by the plan to island-hop a bit up the coast. This turned out to be a good move as the road was definitely quieter, the scenery magnificent. A 50k ride took as to just short of Orebic, from where a short ferry runs to the island of Korcula. Camp site Ponta lured us in and begiled us into having a layover day for sunning and swimming. Also repairing of our first puncture in some 2,500k. Three cheers for Schwalbe marathon tyres.
Korcula provided us the best 2 days of the trip. And the nicest campsite. Superb scenery, easy gradients and sunny skies. No wonder we encountered other cycling groups enjoying themselves. So taken were we that we have had earnest discussions about returning to do a bit more of Korcula, involving water-craft of some description.
All to soon, however, we found ourselves at the ferry terminal at Vela Luka in time for the 3 hour crossing back to the mainland. Time enough to enjoy a fine ferry-picnic, gaze disdainfullly at 2 cruise ships at anchor off the island of Hvar and contemplate the next stage of our journey.
PS. You may notice there is an unusually large number of photos of Steven. For 2 reasons. Firstly, some readers have requested there be a few more than in previous postings. Strange but true. Secondly, the pictures taken on Steven's camera have been lost due to a corrupted memory card, so all photos on this posting are from Debs tablet.
A 3 hour ferry brings us to Split where we bed down for the night in smart rooms in the old town, an easy stroll into town for the evening and following morning.
Then its an uncomfortable ride on busy dual carriageway and urban extension roads as far as Trogir for cultural and gastronomical refreshment. An expensive but otherwise unremarkable campsite a bit further up the coast is as far as we care to go.
From Trogir to the next city of Sibenik is 62k of good roads, easy gradients, moderate traffic and clear coastal views. Many yachts and marinas. We take an appartment in the old pedestrian part of the city and sleep the evening away. But an early morning stroll round the largely deserted streets turns out to be a joy, before we smoke the apartment out preparing breakfast of bacon and eggs.
We left at 11.00 intending to do a short run up the coast. Best laid plans, and all that. By 8.00pm we had done 107k in hot sun having abandoned the heavily trafficked tourist route to explore the hinterland. Here we see evidence of the 1990s war in the form of shelled buildings, mine-warning signs and the testimony of a man who spoke of hiding in the mountains when "they" came to kill "us". Such things are effectively hidden on the tourists coast
We also saw orchards of cherry, peach, nectarines, olives and figs.
An already long day is extended due to road and camp closures until we finish at camp Borik on the outskirts of Zadar. Of course we take the next day to recover, while exploring the delights of Zadar.
We arein Zadar to catch a 7 hour ferry to the island of Losinj. This chops 200k of hilly coast tourist road off our journey. Instead we have 3 days on the island, which is linked to the island of Cres. One of these days we are effectively wind-bound in the small coastal village of Valun, Cres, which lies at the foot of an horrendously steep hill. We escape by speedboat a day later.
Then its back to the mainland, as we cross back to Istria. Here we decide thatwe've seen enough shimmering Adriatic for the time being and so opt for the cross-country Green Istria itinerary. With the help of Mr Wolf host of our restaurant with rooms we plot a course that takes us on minor roads through hilltop towns that are said to rival Tuscany for beauty. I don't know about that, but I do know it has some unpedalable hills. But a refreshing change, despite light rain.
A second day in Istria is a possibility, but instead we opt to make tracks for Italy.passing through a bit of Slovenia to get there. The bit we pass through is pretty much like the bit of Croatia we just left.
So into Italy!
First stop is Trieste, which takes a bit of getting into through residential area of high rise blocks. The centre of the city is heaving with people - due in part to the presence of the same huge cruise ship we encountered at various ports along the Balkan coast, and partly to a so-called fun run. All a bit of a shock after the quiet calm of Croatia / Slovenia.
Following day and we ease into the Prosseco before embarking on a ferry across to the town of Grado. Another 70k of busy main road saved. Leisurely lunch stop before the unaccustomed joy of a flat 10k cycle path to the ancient city of Aquileia. A big deal in Roman times, but now probably better known for its early Christian basilica and extraordinary mosaic floor. On reflection we highly recommend Trieste and environs as a city break destination.
We camp overnight and Aquileia keeps us busy until the afternoon when we set off for a short ride to an excellent wild camp site on the edge of a nature reserve, though we don't see much nature.
We are more or less now following the course of the Eurovelo8 cycle route and sometimes see signs to that effect. But these are a bit tricky and we rely more on a plotted route on website copied by hand to my paper map. With a few diversions this works tolerably well and we cycle across flat farmland to the seaside resort of Caorle. The weather is still unsettled and we camp at a proper site before a mighty wind and rain leaves the tent shaken but unstirred.
But the morning is bright and sunny and we stay beachside till late in the afternoon before managing a quick 40k to a wildcamp in a poplar plantation.
Day 79 of the trip sees us island hopping the outer lagoon round Venice. Not many tourists on this route, which should take about 3 hours, depending on the 3 ferries you need to take. But we are in no hurry and take most of the day , lingering on the island of Pellistrina - which strikes us a being what Burano probably was before tourists started going there.
At the far end of the lagoon is Chioggia and we make the mistake of choosing to camp at one of the resort campsites. Crowded, noisy, mosquitoes, and overpriced. Should have stayed on Pellestrina on reflection.
But its only one night and by 8.00 the next day we are off towards the mouth of the river Po. But we don't get there because the ferry we need to make a 100m river crossing is no longer running. So we opt to spend the afternoon relaxing (aka prosecco-quaffing) before backtracking to a quiet lagoon-side wildcamp.
Suitably refreshed the next day sees us complete a 78k ride up the north bank of the mighty Po, crossing late in the afternoon to the other side to make it to the municipal campsite at Ferrara, where we plan to get our first exposure to the wonders of the Italian Renaissance. Of which more later
At Ferrara we at last find an agreeable campsite. Camping municipale is 2k from the city centre, quiet, shady and reasonably priced. We check in for 2 nights, intending to spend a day soaking up the delights of the city. Turns out this takes us 2 days, so an extra night is taken.
Suitably reinvigorated we then press on for Parma, which is 190k up river. This means an overnight stay somewhere in between and a wildcamp is on the cards. But on this occasion we luck-out and happen upon a small riverside marina that has rooms and caravans and also provides space for our tent. There are few other people staying, and most of them go off for the evening, leaving us in the company of a man who spends the whole time sharpening his hunting/fishing knives. This would ordinarily be a little unsettling, but as most of the visitors to the marina are anglers from Germany, Hungary and Slovakia, understandable. In fact, Antonio the owner tells us the world record catfish was caught here. All 197kg, 2.73m of it.
We are riding mostly on the top of the wide embankment that holds back the periodic river floods. Antonio tells us the water this winter was 11m higher than it is now. This makes for very easy pedalling with little or no traffic and wonderful rural vistas of farmland, villages with churches and plantations of poplar with occasional views of the River and its tributaries, which we cross from time to time.
We spend 2 nights in Parma, busting the budget on 40euro accommodation in a b&b with no b, and then a 1 star hotel. We also do some cultural stuff. And, yes, ham & cheese. Also discover the delights of locally produced Malvasia, sparkling white wine. Well, one needs a break from prosecco.
By the time we reach Cremona, we have passed a total of 3500k. Including non-cycling days this is about 40k a day: 46k a day counting only cycling days. But the Po section on flat mostly tarmac means we are averaging 73k as we speed between Renaissance treasures.
Cremona is the home of the violin. Guarneri, Stradivari and co. There are still some 100 instrument makers in the city. In recognition of this we buy a set of violin strings. Well, we don't, but Daniel does. Daniel is a 19yr old solo cyclist from Lucerne on day 4 of his trip to Rome. He checks in to the campsite while we are quaffing a surprisingly agreeable chilled fizzy red and he joins us for a coke.
Daniel is struggling with the heat,with 100k plus days, with boredom and loneliness. We spend the afternoon and evening together, including the visit to a violin maker to get the strings. Curiously, the first violin maker we find still open in the evening is Japanese. He has no strings to sell, but knows a man who has. So the second shop supplies a set of strings. These are made not in Cremona, nor even in Italy. But in Germany. But Daniel is happy, to have bought strings in Cremona at half the price he normally pays in Switzerland.
We part company with Daniel the next morning, having encouraged him on his journey and given suitable advice and wise counsel on how to make his journey go better. We arrive for early lunch in Piacenza and later check in to our hostel for the night. Here we receive an email from Daniel that he has returned home by train. So much for our wise counsel. Still, we accept his invitation to drop in on him in Lucerne in a week or so!
And so to the final leg of the Po section. After 6 days of effortless cycling and 3 days of sightseeing, despite the heat, and 440k nearer home than when we first reached its banks we part company with the Mighty Po as we arrive at Pavia, the last of the Italian Renaissance cities on our route.
A bumper edition, covering our crossing of the Alps from the Italian to the Swiss Lakes.
Pavia is our last Renaissance city and we take a day off to enjoy a self guided walking tour of the city's main sights. Kept awake for much of the night by a group of 70 first-year German architecture students.Left to fend for themselves and unsupervised they were a bit feral, as we made clear to their teachers the following morning.
So heading north we run into bug-infested woodland on an off-road route recommended by the camp commandant. Returning to tarmac we make up for lost time in sweltering heat along the canal towpath before getting a bit lost inAbbiategrasso. The mosquitoes in the campsite were pleased to see us.
A complete change in the form of Lake Maggiore marks the next couple of days and we dawdle up the west side of the lake on relatively quiet and flat roads enjoying the views, ice creams and the occasional glass of something.
Switzerland is reached on day 94 and suitably loaded with Swiss francs we plunge fearlessly on following Swiss bike route 3. This takes us gently up hill for the first 30k along the valley of the Ticino river. Due to lack of campsites and expense of alternative lodgings we end up riding further and higher than we wanted to. Still, metres gained today is metres we don't have to do tomorrow, I tell Debs.
From our campsite its 10k climb to 1,120m at Airolo from where the 14k St Ghottard Pass road proper starts. There are numerous ways to cross over and under the pass. The cycle route takes the old road which is 14k long and cobbled for much of its length - especially near the top on the switchbacks. Its not particularly steep and most of the traffic is also on 2 wheels, some of it annoyingly noisy, but by 2pm we have summited and are enjoying a cold one with the myriad other trippers and punters. It's hardly heroic.
AND NOW IT'S DOWNHILL ALL THE WAY TO ENGLAND.
We mostly freewheel down to Andermatt for overnight then continue in similar vein the next day to reach Lake Lucerne by late afternoon, so ending the mountain section of the tour. The 58k run around the lake is an absolute joy with superb scenery on quiet roads which sees us pass the 4,000km mark. But it is over all to soon when we trundle into Lucerne. Here we are joined by many tourists, a lot of them from Japan and China, curiously. Our rendezvous this evening is at Daniels home just outside the city. (Remember Daniel from the previous blog?) After enjoying a meal with the family Daniel takes us off for a whistlestop tour of Lucerne which in contrast to the afternoon is all but deserted. Well, it is a weekday, says Daniel
From Lucerne it's about 100k to Basle and we cover this in 2 days. The cycling is easy, the sun warm with pretty towns and villages lining the route. We rather like Switzerland and find the Swiss pretty agreeable too. Only pity is the cost! Our last night in Switzerland is a wildcamp in the woods which we reach after a surprisingly tough uphill stretch back up to 800m.
BUT NOW IT REALLY IS DOWNHILL ALL THE WAY TO ENGLAND!
Basle is where we hit the Rhine. Deb takes hitting the Rhine literally and with not much persuasion joins the locals in the swim / float downstream. S cycles alongside with the dry clothes for the walk back to the start point.
We avoid the old city and pass up the opportunity to spend 10 quid on a Big Mac. Instead we bimble our way out of Switz back into Euroland. This means first crossing into Germany, then on a footbridge back over the river into France. And not a border post to hinder our passage. Back into Germany for the supermarket, then return to our only just good enough for 2 stars French campsite for the night. What a transnational couple we are.
6 days traversing Alsace south to north.
To get home all we need do is follow the Rhine to Rotterdam on Eurovelo route 15. From Basle we choose the French side of the River reaching the town of Neuf Brisach where the delightful camping Vauban detains us for 2 nights. Our "rest day" is a 30k round trip to the town of Colmar in the foothills of the Vosges. Very pretty but very touristy.
The cycling for the next few days takes us away from the river on smooth level cycle paths through farmland.The days are a bit cooler with some overnight rain, but it stays very warm. On our third day in France we reach Strasbourg and join thousands of red shirted French Scouts wandering the streets. We find lunchtime shelter in a chic bistro and, though iit's 2 days early, celebrate 31years of wedded bliss in suitable fashion before detouring off to marvel at the wonders of Strasbourg's European Quarter housing the grand buildings of Euro-government.
2 further days of easy riding gives us ample chance to savour a few more Alsace delights - including the famed "flammen kuche" of which we had 3 varieties - before taking a ferry across the Rhine and into Germany.
The first couple of days in Germany are through urban-industrial landscapes in humid weather. We pass through Karlsruhe to reach Mannheim, a place remarkable chiefly because it took us an hour to find our way out after an overnight halt.
From there to Worms, passing en route the vast expanse of the BASF works. From Worms back to the other bank and another lakeside camp for Debs to enjoy a swim. This sets us up well for the next days ride that sees us reach Nierstein in time for lunch before pushing on to Mainz.
Finally the hot weather breaks and we are battered by strong winds, thunder, lightening and heavy rain overnight. The storm continues the next day as we start late and manage a modest 30k heading for the Rhine Gorges. Fate smiles on us for our ride through the Gorges in good weather and a following wind, before more rain overnight. A strong headwind is the feature of the next days ride out of the Gorges through Koblenz and it is with heavy legs that we arrive at a small woodland campsite a little distance from the river where we continue our custom of celebrating the end of each days riding with a cold beer, and so to bed.
A shorter day follows, punctuated by a visit to the "peace" museum at Remagen, and on 29th July we arrive at Cologne. A rest day is called for and we much enjoy visiting the Wallraf-Richarts gallery and the Farina eau de Cologne museum. We did not enjoy discovering that our pannier bag had been pilfered in our absence with the loss of waterproofs and Debs down coat. Still, worse thing happen at sea, as they say.
This called for an unscheduled stop at TKMaxx the next morning and suitably 're-equipped we make good progress through Dusseldorf, but by-passing Duisburg, all in beautiful warm sunshine on well-signed cycle paths, with few diversions. Much to enjoy in the way of rural landscapes and villages, and a last night in Germany is a wild camp.
Cycling into the Netherlands, we pass the 5,000k milestone. Actually, the Netherlands was quite hard to find: there is no visible border point on the cycle path, so we had to stop a passing cyclist to ask what country we were in.
Failing to find a campsite in a suitable place, we opted for a delightful, secluded beach camp with sunset views. All peaceful until 7.00am when we were joined by a herd of ponies who took a keen interest in what we were doing and having for breakfast. Also an unhealty interest in the bikes (which they chewed) and the tent (which got pawed). Bravely, we shooed them away.
Then a few miles into Arnhem where, after 28 days consecutively of tenting, we opted for the comfort of a B&B and to await the arrival of Andy and Nicky who had organised ferry and trains from BSE in order to join us for 3 days in the Netherlands and the final day from Harwich.
A & N duly arrived the next morning suitably kitted for camping and attired for the rain. Yes, rain! But the forecast for sun proved accurate and by mid afternoon it was shirtsleeve order and cold beer in the sunshine. This set us up well for our campsite, suitably positioned across the road from a riverside restaurant serving delicious pancakes. That left 2 days to cover the remaining 150k.
The first leg ended with a wildcamp in the marshes of the Biesbosch National park after an excellent day's cycling through "typical" Dutch landscapes and a luchtime dip in the river for 2 brave members of the party (A & N, you know who I mean).
And so to the final day in Continental Europe. Day 121 took us through the urban industrialised approaches to Rotterdam, where we admired the modern architecture (well, some of it) and enjoyed an Indonesian meal in a restaurant where we were the only diners. A final stretch along the Rhine into a strong headwind brought us in good time to the Hoek of Holland for our ferry. Well, we were in good time, but were left standing on the quay for 90 minutes after check-in before being allowed on board. A small inconvenience, considering........
And finally........
Harwich to Bury St Edmunds is 50 miles through fine Suffolk (and a bit of Essex) countryside. Off the boat and into Costas for breakfast before tracking along the river Stour to Manningtree. Thence to Hadleigh for a break, then through familiar countryside to reach home where Joe and Harriet lay in wait with a warm welcome just after completing final cleaning operations.
Suitably refreshed with beer, prosecco pork pie and scotch eggs, we then moved up the road to A & N's "work in progress" new house for celebratory swim (for some) and a bit more fizz.
And that was it! (apart from the unpacking)
For the record 3,380 miles in 122 days through 11 countries.
Now planning the next "skiing trip"
So, here is an outline of our plans for a 2016 cycle
We will fly to Mallorca on 8th Feb for a few days "training" before crossing to Valencia. From there down to Andalucia, then north through Portugal, during March, east across Spain in the general direction of Pamplona. From there track along the Pyrennes towards Perpignan. Into France late April / early May heading for Montpelier before winding back towards St Malo by early June
A couple of weeks through the west country should bring us back to Bury by mid-June.
D Day minus one seems a suitable day for a quick posting. Our outline route is shown crudely on the photo, but what actually happens may turn out a bit different: check the map page of this blog for the true picture.
Also, our tracker will show day-by-day location on Googlemaps: use this link, https://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=1baprg8T7Ykh3UWzy5YTl6PLNMjeezEZi
Password is Eurovelo2016
Bright blue sky on arrival, but for the most part our 4 days on the island are overcast. And windy. Steady 35kph winds take the edge off the cycling - even without luggage. But our apartment is perfect, our hostess Maria delightful.
The ride from the airport sans GPS or map was a mini-adventure all its own, but Hotel Helios provided for us well for our first night. Then 35km cross-country to Maria's house in Binissalem. Day 2 we opted for tourism not ciclism so hopped the train into Palma. The cathedral is superB.
Maria introduced us to the delights of emsaidas - baked pastries made with pork lard - and we also sampled an excellent menu del dia on day 3 when we took the bikes to explore villages in the foothills of the Tramuntana mountains. Returning by train.
The train took the strain again on departure day. Rather than going for an early start to cycle 35k to the ferry, we wheeled our laden bikes on to the train into Palma, from where an easy 20 minute ride brought us to the ferry in plenty of time for our 8 hour crossing to the mainland city of Valencia.
From where the adventure proper begins.
The ferry from Palma docked after dark, leaving us the task of finding our apartment on the far side of town. But there is a good network of cycle paths in Valencia and just before 10.00 we were ringing on Ben's door and a few minutes after that in the restaurant downstairs enjoying a variety of 'raciones'.
Sunday was given over to sightseeing the old city. Highlight was the display of music and dance in the main square. Close second the chocolate con churros. Also recommended, if you come this way, is a visit to the main train station for its wood panelled walls and mosaics. The modern side of Valencia is the City of Arts and Sciences, an impressive collection of modern architecture where we lingered a while on our way out of the city.
Our route out has been cunningly planned to avoid the worst of the hills to start with. So we pedal south along the coast with a following wind for about 25k before heading inland to stop at Xativa. Because its Monday, most places along the way are shut, but we survive, even without wine.
The plan to avoid hills works. We cycle on a mix of back roads and gravel tracks and on a stretch of the Camino de Santiago are joined by Pablo, who rides with us a few kms through the orange and almond groves. Pablo is training to be a teacher and is keen to improve his English. So we exchange emails and encourage him to come to stay with us. The afternoon ride brings us to Caudete, where we have kept our AirBnB host Carlos waiting for 2 hours. But he is charming and attentive to our needs and leaves us to a quiet evening in the apartment.
A similar friendly welcome awaits us at the end of the next day's ride to Jumilla. Juan Antonio and his wife Sinfo meet us at their weekend home just outside the town and we enjoy an evening in front of the log fire.
The weather has been kind so far. Coldish, but dry, and mostly favourable winds. The landscapes are wide and open as we climb steadily, reaching a highpoint of 810m before descending to the somewhat rundown town of Calasparra, famous for rice growing, though we see none. But the hotel Primavera is bright, new and warm: the fact that its on an industrial estate is of no consequence.
Friday 19th is the shortest day at just 40km. But we stop off in Caravaca de la Cruz, which is one end of a pilgrim route that I have a feeling we will visit the other end of in a few weeks. It's very out of season, but we do our tourist duty, including another menu del dis, before pushing on out of town to stay with Raymond and Vanessa, English departs of 12 years who have made their home here and grow fruits and veg, when not off travelling in the winter. We are their first AirBnB guests in 4 years. So we must be a bit off the beaten path. We enjoy an evening meal with them, hear tales of Spanish expat life - not all wine and roses, even though, we are told, a couple can live well on 10000 euros a year.
Raymond was worried that it would be too far to our intended stop at Galera. The map suggested about 80 km. Undaunted we left in dull overcast conditions that stayed with us as we climbed to the Mojante pass at 1,100m. Once over the pass, skies lightened and with following wind we blew into Puebla de Don Fabrique for lunch.
Truth to tell it would have been nice to call it a day there, but we had a Warmshowers booking 35 km further on. As it turned out this was mostly downhill and by 5.30 we were in Galera. Here we found Marc & Mallorie, 30something Belgian couple resident in Spain. Previously in paid employment in Seville they now own a delightful cave house in Galera, where they lead a simple life developing a web-based cycle map of France, with other countries to come. This, our first experience of Warmshowers was a complete treat and revelation. Not just a shower and bed, but also dinner and breakfast was graciously and warmly offered.
So it was with a good vibe that we left M&M the following morning to continue westwards. Mountains of the Sierra de Cazorla on our right provided some sense of the wildness of Spain and we had a fairly gruelling climb for about 10km of the 68k before a long downhill whizz through pinewoods to arrive at about 6pm at an appartment complex where we were the only guests. It took a little while to locate the personnel and a little while longer to ensure we had adequate heating in our otherwise comfortable 2 bedroom apartment. But with good humour and patience from us and Sandra ("don't worry, love", was an expression she had picked up working last year in Ibitha), we soon had a huge fire blazing in the grate.
These were always likely to be fairly testing days, with the possibility of poor weather and hills. So the sight of snow by the roadside does not come as a huge surprise. But the weather is good enough, the wind, especially mostly in our favour. We are trying to sneak around the worst of the hills, but sometimes ...... Anyway, for every up there is a down and the views provide some compensation, although visibility is not the best, maybe because of Saharan dust - but that's just a guess.
So its with some relief when we roll into the mountain town of Quesada, where we are to make contact with Enrique, our second Warmshowers host. Although we have an address this turns out not to be the right place, but after SMS and phone calls we are directed to the town hall where we are met by a French Canadian girl who leads us to the house where she and her sister are staying, together with a guy from Brittany. They are on WorkAway scheme helping Enrique in his olive groves in return for free lodging. We get a room to ourselves then explore the town and bar crawl for a while (tapas with every drink) before returning to the house to be taken to meet Enrique and his partner Alexandra in another bar for more beer and tapas and very interesting, possibly life-changing conversations. (Of which more later)
Just when we had had enough of hills......the next day was a breeze through olive groves in warm sunshine. Of course, there was a climb at the end on the approach to the hill-top town of Ubeda. (I know there's a reason they are on hill-tops, but really.....). Check-in at our centrally located appartment is also a breeze and we have time for an evening stroll around this splendid Spanish Renaissance city.
We've elected a rest day here so spend a very enjoyable day exploring more of the delights of Ubeda. Off-season its mostly devoid of tourists, but the locals are friendly. One, Simon by name, cigar in hand accosted us and was most insistent we visit the church where he first took Communion. We are happy to do so. He tells us he once had something to do with the Rolling Stones: exactly what, we can't quite understand. But he knows all their names.
Leaving Ubeda we plunge deeper into the sea of olives. Spain produces more olives than any other country and most of those are grown in Andalucia. We spend 5 days in the sea.
The centre of production is the provincial capital Jaen. Here we stay with Andres Gomez.
Andreas is 58, is a nurse at the hospital and keen cyclist. He's exceptionally generous in his welcome. After shower and change he drives us into the old town for a walking tour that takes in the cathedral, the Arab baths which he sweet-talks us into just before closing and a drink in an old taverna. Then a late supper before early bed at midnight. Andres speaks little English, but we get by famously in French. As a Communist (but not a Marxist) Andres cannot understand why, despite the economic crises things are still going on as normal. He wonders why unemployed people do not join the demonstrations organised by the left wing Podemos party and he despairs at the absence of political spirit among young people.
He serves up a typical breakfast of toast with olive oil, tomatoes, coffee before escorting us on the first 15km of the off-road route known as the Via Verde de Aciete. Aciete means oil (as in olive). It's a splendid 46km that takes us to our overnight stop in time to beat the rain.
The weather has turned unsettled but we are undaunted as we press on to Cordoba. The draw here is the Mesquite, the mosque that was converted into a cathedral, considered one of the finest buildings of Europe. It does not disappoint when we visit in bright sunshine on the last day of February. We also enjoy a guided walking tour of the main part of the city, most of which we had already discovered by bike - which proves an excellent way to get through the narrow traffic-free lanes of the old city. Many tourist places here, but we are outside the tourist zone and find a few pleasant places to eat and drink.
We have decided to head to Cadiz, rather than Seville. This will take at least 4 days longer and involve a few hilly bits. Probably some wind too. Crazy, no?
Anyway, we set off on another off-road trail along a disused railway. These green routes (vias verdes) provide welcome relief from traffic and, because designed for trains, they go round or through the hilly bits. Marvellous! From Cordoba the Via de Campina goes to Ecija through rolling countryside now intensively farmed. Not so long ago I guess it was mostly open grassland. It takes us to Ecija, a well-heeled place and from there on easy roads to Osuna, another pleasant Andalucian town where we AirBnB with a British expat family who are a bit too busy to give us much of their time. But Osuna is nice.
The sea of olives is thinning out a bit as we head to Moron de la Frontera. We are navigating largely with Google maps as the paper map shows only biggish roads. This works fine, but for the occasional locked gate across the road. Rather than detour, we sneak around, hoping there are no dogs on the loose. There aren't and we complete the day's ride back on the main road to town where we book ourselves into what is probably the only hostal (not posh enough to be a hotel, but better than a hostel). But it's comfortable enough and leaves us well-placed for the push to Cadiz.
From Moron we must travel south west towards the sea at Cadiz and from there swing north along the coast towards the border with Portugal. But, wait, I hear you cry, there is no coast road from Cadiz to Portugal! True, but it is possible to cycle along 30km of beach that forms the seaward boundary of the Coto Donana National Park. So, that's the plan.
The ride fro Moron is on good quiet road through pastoral countryside until we reach the Via Verde de la Sierra which provides 15km of level off-road through tunnels and across viaducts above the river Guadelete. The area is known for its colony of Griffin Vultures and we see a few. A headwind slows our arrival into the town of Villamartin where, according to Google, there are a few hostals. But enquiries in 2 bars prove otherwise and the only option is a budget-busting hotel 2k out of town used by Germans attending the flying school at the nearby aerodrome. At least the room is warm and comfortable.
Next day is a bit of a tester. Not for nothing are the hills above Cadiz ringed by wind farms. A cold steady breeze from the Atlantic keeps them turning and keeps us in check as we cycle through intensive horticultural landscapes, an area of cork oaks grazed by sharp-snouted black pigs, and by-passing the cliff-top town of Arcos de la Frontera.
But lighter winds and brighter skies make the following days ride to Cadiz a pleasure. We detour on an off-road mtb trail for a while before carefully following instructions on how to find the bike path from Chiclana across the marshes of the bay of Cadiz. Flamingos and Spoonbills are the avian interest. We arrive at the appointed time at our AirBnB apartment to find that our host Willy is in the pub enjoying the flamenco. We accept his invitation to join him, but the flamenco has finished by the time we arrive. But he stands us a glass of fino and later provides a good recommendation for supper. So that's ok.
Our stay in Cadiz is short. We look at the cathedral, view an early Santa Semana procession and cycle round a bit. But the old part of the city is small, claustrophobic and generally uninviting. Plus, there's a yellow warning for wind and the only way out for us (save the train) is a catamaran across to El Puerto de Sta Maria. We arrive as the clouds gather and although it's only 15km to our overnight in Jerez, the wind and rain make it seem longer.
But once in Jerez we get stuck in to the local produce, check in early to our accommodation and then get stuck in a bit more. Do you know how many different kinds of sherry there are? No, nor do we: we lost count.
What a difference a day makes. On from Jerez the ride to Sanlucar is in warm sunshine and a breeze scarce strong enough to turn the blades of the wind turbines. So we arrive in the pleasant seaside resort in time for an excellent seafood lunch washed down with more local produce and a comfortable hotel stay. Steven manages a late afternoon twitch to tick White headed duck.
It's still dark when we cycle off to catch the 7:15 boat across the mouth of the Guadalquiver. On board is one other cyclist and a handful of National park staff off to work. 5 minutes later we are disembarked on the sand as the sun rises behind the town. Our cycling companion, Gerard, is pleased to have company as he does not know if the tide is low enough to cycle the beach. But we know, cos we checked. 3 hours either side of low tide is the best time and today low tide is 10:00. So, it's perfect!
Turns out we need 4 1/2 hours to reach the other end, which Gerard's bike computer says is 31.5km. Combination of some soft sand, where the only option was to push, photo, snack and pee stops kept our speed down. But we are in no great hurry, and have coffee and wash down the bikes on arrival at Matalascanas. Not so Gerard. He is in a hurry to make it to Huelva, which he thinks is 40, or 60 km (he doesn't know for sure) and he wants to watch his beloved Barca play Arsenal. But for us its just 20 km up the coast road and our first camping stop at the only-just-about-open Camping playa Donana. This turns out to be next to a military establishment where some fairly loud ordnance is occasionally discharged - no doubt in our honour.
For our last full day in Spain, (for the time being) we have a leisurely ride through the oil and gas refineries south of Huelva, by-passing the city itself to arrive in good time at the unremarkable town of Aljaraque. Here we have to plead for a heater for the room, and are grateful for a one bar fire that just about does the job.
From Aljaraque we head west finding our way off-road through pinewoods, then a stretch of good major and minor roads alongside polytunnels of strawberries and raspberries arriving finally in the town of Ayamonte along the Via Verde litoral across the saltmarshes. Many tourists here, even in March, mostly in campers, we think. We join a gaggle of them on the 4.00pm ferry that crosses the river Guadiana to arrive in the Portuguese town of Vila Real de Sto Antonio.
We were advised that the coastal section of the Algarve would be dominated by villa developments and golf courses. And so it seems.
But the only road out of Vila Real was a dreadfully (un)maintained busy A road to Tavira. So after a brief detour down to a quiet seaside resort for mid-morning coffee we branched off into the hinterland of low hills, olive and citrus groves. Still many villas, but no golf courses. We had arranged a Warmshowers stop with an expat English couple north of Faro whose house we managed to find despite them posting the wrong address and having their phone switched off. But it was a comfortable night with interesting conversations about cycle touring and the habits and distribution of the expat - a very common species in the Algarve.
Continuing to shun the coastal belt we found good quiet roads to Algoz where we were the only guests in a self-catering complex set among Orange trees. On a whim we decided to book a second night and take a day off to make full use of the facilities- principally the washing machine. The proud owner Ricardo drove Debs to market before sitting down with us to share a fairly leisurely lunch in the sun. As often happens on non-cycling days Steven degreased and re-oiled the bikes.
The settled weather of the last few days gradually gave way on 15th to clouds as we made our way towards the coast at Lagos. Different landscapes unfolded as we travelled west with fewer fruit trees and more open, pastoral country. Also, for the first time this trip loose dogs. Reminder of Greece. By the time we came out of the backcountry it was looking very gloomy indeed, so after a late lunch stop for grilled chicken and chips we booked into, literally, the nearest place we could find. Just as well, because , well, the rain in Spain is NOT mainly on the plain.
But, as before, the rain cleared overnight and with sunshine aplenty we found the western coast of the Algarve a very pleasant place. So too did the campervanners we found perched on cliff-top headlands and beach-side car parks. Pre-dominantly French, these were not the first examples of this species we had encountered, but they were much scarcer inland. We puzzled as to what their occupants (mainly retired couples) do all day; sit in deck chairs and cafes seemed to sum it up.
In many respects the habits of this species are similar to those of another species of north European migrant - the superannuated hippie - which we also found in good numbers in small flocks near the coast. Though we suspect the hippie is rarely found in cafes and probably has more weed in it's diet.
The hippie can be identified by its much scruffier and younger appearance and is sometimes accompanied by juveniles. Neither adults nor young seem to bother much with bathing and are able to survive without recourse to WCs. They also favour much more untidy mobile houses. In many cases these are, indeed, old horseboxes or unconverted panel vans, rather than the shiny white palaces of the campervanners. The most unusual hippie-home was a railway carriage hitched to a Swiss-registered tractor.
The third species of migrant from northern Europe to be found in these parts is the surfer. Sometimes accompanied by local individuals, and possibly also vagrants from the Americas or Antipodes, these like to gather in rafts on the sea. Here they bob about happily waiting for waves. Easily identified by their usually all black wet-suit plumage, we spotted them at suitable beaches all along this coast. When not waiting for the surf to be up they loaf beside their vans which are a bit like hippie vans, but smarter, but not as big or smart as campervans. But some surfers like to use hotels or apartments and we met a couple of Dutch ones at the apartment we stayed in at Sagres.
Sagres is where the great Portuguese navigators like Magellan and V de Gama learned their trade in a school established by Henry the Navigator. And Sagres is also the departure point to visit Cape St Vincent, so Debs the Pedlar and Steve the Cycler joined a handful of other folk to watch the sun set from this the most south-westerly point of mainland Europe.
And also a turning point for us as we head north from Sagres along a good open road with little traffic. There are more cork oaks and eucalyptus now and fewer olives. Also many fewer visitors of any species. That may be because they are all down on the coast. We don't go down to the coast partly because its not really beach weather and partly because we are happy enough where we are. Our last night in the Algarve region is in the town of Aljezur. The most notable aspect of this is when we turn up promptly at 9.00 for breakfast to be told that Portuguese time is 8.00.
So for all our time in Portugal we have been an hour ahead of all those expats, campervanners, hippies and surfers.
Onwards from the Algarve, the area of Portugal best known to foreigners, our route is through the Alentejo. Sparsely populated rolling agricultural country with little traffic makes for very agreeable cycling. The weather is changeable, but for the most part perfectly acceptable; neither headwinds nor rain.
We are covering about 50km a day at a leisurely pace. We break camp around 10.00, manage a couple of hours before coffee and 'pastel de nata time' sets in. Then a few more km in the hope that we find somewhere for a late lunch, then on to night halt, arriving between 4 and 6. We have sufficient supplies for a picnic, if lunch in a restaurant is not available. There are quite a few days when this happens, and on some others the only lunch option is a roadside truckers cafe. Good wholesome stews and grills.
We rely on booking.com a lot of the time and touch down in small towns where not a lot goes on in the evenings. Sometimes with no sign of restaurants. Even larger towns such as Beja have little on offer beyond the basic facilities of fairly basic hotels but the rural stays at small guesthouses where we are the only guests are delightful.
The centre of the region and a popular destination for visitors is Evora. We spend a couple of days here, pottling around the largely traffic-free cobbled alleys of the old town on our bikes and taking in some of the sights. Our accommodation is a cheap and cheerful room in a modern appartment whose rooms are rented out to young travellers (like us) and student types. It's run by 'Donna Candida' mother of the absentee owner who likes to pop in at will to fuss about, but really, we think, to check up on the inhabitants: which makes our stay a bit unnerving.
Happy to leave Evora, our route includes 20km of cycle way along a disused railway - so flat - to take us to a much more agreeable and restful rural b&b where we veg out in front of Foxtv for a few hours.
From there we are into the Easter break. This means many of the village shops and cafes are shut. It's also an unseasonably cool and damp Easter. More of a disappointment than a disaster for us, as much as for local people whose family reunions took place in full winter dress, it seems.
Between breaks in the clouds we enjoy the peace and gentle prettiness of the countryside and from our lodgings near Alter de Chao have a 360 panorama of the country we have passed through and an inkling of the hillier terrain to come. Just as well, because Easter Saturday is a bit of a wash out as its wet-weather gear for most of the 40km ride to the small town of Tolosa. This is a bit of a detour but accommodation is harder to find the further we go, and not just because its Easter. Anyway, we are again warmly welcomed on behalf of the absentee Eduardo by his mother, father, sister and brother in law who ensure we are settled in the apartment that was previously mum & dads home. As such its contents and decor harked back to the 1980s, serving as a reminder to us of the relative under-development of the area. In the bar next door we are happy to find an open fire, and enjoy a few glasses, as well as a few complementary tapas. Most of these are identifiable as olives or peanuts, but one appears to be chunks of chicken neck in a piquant sauce.....yum.... Debs rustled up a delicious pasta carbonara, though.
Easter Sunday was bright and breezy, in a good way, and so we made good time, despite an unscheduled 1 hour guided tour of the old part of Nisa, courtesy of Jose. Jose engaged us in conversation as we stopped to watch the Easter procession - complete with clergy, paraphernalia, brassband and parishioners - and then showed us around, explaining much of what we have been seeing in such towns in the last few days.
We crossed the river Tagus in afternoon sunshine, but failed to find any food-stops. Until we got to the thriving metropolis of Castelo Branco. "Is the MacDonalds open?" Oh, yes, it was! Big Mac & fries, tasting exactly as everywhere else (how do they do that, BTW?) a perfect Easter Sunday supper, followed by a chilly evening ride up through the old town to the castelo: well, we had to, really.
We had expected Easter Monday to be even deader than Sunday (can you have degrees of deadness?, ed.). But in fact lots of food shops were open, as were the famed Baroque gardens of the Bishops. Actually, that's what they are, rather than what they are called. It was a light English-type of drizzle and I think the man at the till took pity on us and charged us only 1 euro instead of 2, and it was a nice garden to fool around in for 40 minutes or so.
And then on to Monsanto. A very interesting place with a castle made of unbelievably intricately shaped stones at the top and a village tucked in among huge boulders below it. Did I mention the punishingly steep ride up on the cobbles? Apart from a handful of day trippers there were not
many people about and we managed to explore the castle before the rain came in, forcing us to seek refuge in a couple of bars. One of these was owned by Josie, a Dutch woman who after 12 years in the village was a fount of information about the area which until Portugal joined the EU grew tobacco and cotton, as well as olives. She was also a source of gossip about the people who live there and proud of the 19 different types of toasted sandwich on offer.
So that was breakfast sorted the next morning. Which, being Tuesday after Easter Monday also marked a break in the fast of Easter. Hopefully.
The descent from Monsanto tested the braking power of the bikes, but with a following wind and fuelled by cheese and ham toasties we made good progress to the next hilltop town. But lo and behold there was a nice ring road that sped us towards our target town of Sabugal. Choosing the scenic route is always a gamble, and so it proved in the form of a particularly steep and long hill.
Sabugal provided a very agreeable hotel which we decided would be an excellent base for a rest day to explore a little more of the land of border castles. Without luggage we made short work of the run to Sorthelo and back before our second successive visit to the nearest pizzeria.
Deteriorating weather conditions and the need to be in Salamanca by 4th April called for a review of the route. Rather than continue north through Portugal into the hillier parts we opted for the low road into Spain. Exactly, I like to think, in the way Arthur Wellesley opted when clearing the French from the Peninsula in 1810.
So from Sabugal we headed for the frontier at.......Frontera. Here we experienced the least agreeable hotel of our trip to date, before crossing the next morning back into Spain, heading for Ciudad Rodrigo. A very good country route, off tarmac, was a very pleasant welcome back to Spain.
Even more marvellous was the service we got from the Spanish medical system. For the last few days Debs had been experiencing progressively worse toothache. Attempts to manage with painkillers and amoxicillin were proving unsuccessful - due probably to the out-of-date amox. We concluded that a visit to a hospital would be needed. But then, in a small village in the middle of nowhere, we happened upon a consultario medico. So in she popped and 10 minutes later, with a handwritten prescription from a lovely Medico she was in the pharmacy collecting enough amoxicillin to deal with......well, almost anything, probably. No forms to fill, no bureaucracy, no unnecessary questions and all for 5 euros!
We highly recommend Ciudad Rodrigo as a top spot for a short visit. Ours started excellently with late lunch in a warm sunny plaza mayor, followed by a stroll around the walls, several tapas bars and a good night's sleep.
Day 2 of Spain, part 2 took us into the foot hills of the Sierra de Francia as an alternative to the direct route which would have had us tracking the Motorway. We expect to have to make further such detours due to the absence of suitable overnight accommodation on the direct routes. But anyway, we were rewarded with a very comfortable hotel at the end of the day.
And so on to Salamanca. With a strong tailwind the 64k ride involved relatively little pedalling and by 3.30 we were checked in to a cheap hostal for a night, just in time to beat the rain.
For this stage we are joined by Jacquie Williams and Paige White. They had flown to Bilbao, collected their hire bikes then bussed 450k to Salamanca where we met them on a cold wet evening. But spirits were lifted on arriving in the floodlit plaza mayor and even more so when we discovered a display of Henry Moore's next to the cathedral.
A day of sights, tapas and wine followed, preparing us for 5 days cycling in the general direction of Valladolid. With no set itinerary we restricted ourselves to a short first day, then became ever more ambitious in our meanderings. After a night in a rural retreat where the owners left us the key to the bar/restaurant and left us to serve ourselves breakfast we arrived in Toro on the banks of the river Duero in plenty of time to enjoy a few tapas and rose in the sun.
The weather held fine for the next leg along the river to Tordesillas. Here Jacquie and Paige booked train tickets from Valladolid and the decision was made to detour south to Medina del Campo. And a serendipitous decision it was. Not only did we find a lively bar with excellent tapas, but it also turned out to be the very evening of the Holy Week procession for which the town is renowned throughout Spain, if not the whole world. And to top it off we found a flamenco bar in which to welcome in Steven's birthday.
Birthday breakfast included churros and cream cake as well as impromptu can can, courteousy of Jacquie and Paige (thanks, girls). Then with a following wind (thanks, wind God) we raced to Valladolid before the rain came. Time to confirm train tickets, check in to hotel Roma then out to Italian restaurant - change from Spanish fare.
So, 6 fun-filled rain-free days ended with J & P + bikes safely bound on the train for Bilbao and Debs & Steve bound eastward along the river Duero under cloudy skies that later turned to heavy rain by the time we reached the sanctuary of a lovely rural hotel in the heart of Ribero del Duero wine country.
The map shows a large lump of high lands separating the wine growing area of the Duero to the south from that of the Rioja to the north. Tough call. I suppose we could have ridden through the mountains, but at the town of Aranda del Duero the choice was made to stay south.
This meant missing both the charms of Burgos and its famed cathedral as well as the vineyards of Rioja. On the plus side it also meant avoiding the risk of bumping into pilgrims on the Camino Frances route to Santiago.
Apart from dedicated wine buffs we suspect not many foreigners spend much time in these parts. It's farming country of cereals and pigs that at 700+ metres above sea level is cold in winter and hot in summer. But this spring the 'mesete', as its called, provided easy and pleasant cycling on quiet roads with following winds and plenty of sunshine. Also good wines, needless to say. So after the langorous last week we sped along averaging 70km a day, staying in small hotels in small farming towns.
The pace will doubtless change when we reach the Pyrenees.
Our access to the Pyrenees is via the town of Barbastro where we arrived in time for a late lunch. After a quiet evening and night we set out into the foothills, making it to the insignificant village of Santaliestra y S Quilez after a bit of a hairy ride on busy roads with no hard shoulder. Our delightful host Carlos was keen to practice his English, as well as show us a riverside walk to enjoy before supper.
Although the forecast for the next few days was a bit dodgy we were by now pretty much committed to a plan to ride the N260 road through the mountains to the border with France at Puigcerda. This would involve, as Carlos confirmed, going up 3 reasonably long, high and steep sections before we would be able to say we were across the Pyrenees.
But not yet. Leaving Santaliestra under gathering clouds we first had to pass through the gorge - "congosto" - de Ventamillo to arrive at the town of Castejon de Sos, some 550m below the Coll de Fadas, the first of our 3 passes. It had been the intention to overnight here and we found the Hotel Pinieros a most acceptable lodging. So, when the following day dawned grey and cloudy, it was an easy decision to suspend cycling for the day and watch the rain from indoors rather than from a cycle saddle. The hotel also did a very decent menu del dia.
Our delay proved well-judged as for the next 4 days we were able to enjoy mountain vistas on our up-and-down journey. Next stop was at Pont de Suert after a short 35km jaunt. Here we crossed into Catalonia and noticed a perceptible difference from Aragorn - not just because the signs had a lot of "x"s in them. We arrived in Catalonia on the eve of St Jordi, the patron saint of the region. For reasons unexplained the day is marked by an exchange of gifts. Men give flowers, women a book. Which went some way to explaining why streets in the town were festooned with poems strung between lamp posts. Only later did we learn that St Jordi is St George and both are renowned for slaying dragons.
No slaying for us though and by the end of St George's day we had covered 60km and ridden another 500m climb to arrive at Baro. But not before the heavens opened in a thunderous downpour. But at least we didn't miss lunch.
Apres le deluge we had another spell of great weather. The third of the ascents was over 1000m and we has at one stage considered doing a 50km day to achieve it. But having discovered there was a self-catering accommodation half way up we opted for the 2 day leisurely excursion, which gave us all the time in the world to make the most of it. Our stay at the Refugio at Lagunes was in a dorm, but as the only guests this was no inconvenience. We took advice from the host on an off-road variant the following day which saw us easily over the 1750m pass and whooshing down the other side to reach Bellestar to stay with Warmshowers hosts Alexandre and Jordi (or George, I suppose).
She, French, and he, Catalan had met through Warmshowers and now shared the home that Jordi had built by converting a derelict barn. Both keen cyclists, motorbikers and kayakers they were very hospitable, but our time with them was somewhat limited due to their work and other commitments. But this did not stop Jordi offering to drive us in his van through the worst bits of Andorra (which he thought was shit) if that was the way we wanted to go.
But Andorra would involve a long climb to 1950m and the weather forecast was for snow. Not fancying that much we decided to stick with Plan A and head for the border into France. So our last night in Spain was with another delightful Warmshowers couple Narcis and Diana. In the winter they run a ski-hire business and in summer Narcis tends to the gardens of the second homes in the area. But mainly they like to go climbing and we were treated to their tales and photos of their unsupported high altitude treks and climbs in the Himalayas and South America. All very unpretentious. Lovely people, leading busy lives.
And so to France. We had arrived on Puigcerda intending to travel on only 25km or so to Font Romeu where we would stay a couple of days waiting for the inclement weather to pass. But our AirBnB booking request did not come through and when Narcis phoned in that the forecast was for 25cms of snow, we decided to make the most of the sun and tailwind and head on down the far side. But not before one more modest ascent and then a bit of a hair-raising freewheel to Prades where we arrived as the temperature and cloud-line descended, but before the rain, to book ourselves into the first hotel we came to. Luckily we had remembered to have lunch before coming down. Which meant our first night in France could be spent in the warmth of our 2 star hotel watching a movie, drinking a bottle of red and eating chocolate, having passed the 3,400km mark.
From Prades to Avignon via Montpelier
Having made it to Prades, the obvious direction was north towards the Canal du Midi. This meant avoiding Carcassone, but taking in the delights of the southern edge of the Corbieres. First stage saw us as far as the village of Tuchan where we overnighted in a wooden cabin, before the next days ride to within touching distance of the canal.
Here we had the option of attending an evening of Orleans jazz, with convivialite, or heading into the nearest town for something else. Our host at the chambres took pity and offered to drive us the 3km, but we opted to bike it instead and found ourselves an Asian-style eaterie that at least made a change from our usual fare. And then to the Canal. Renewing our aquaintance with the route it was a bit of a shock to see quite extensive felling of canal-side trees - apparently to avoid spread of a disease that is killing them off: comes to the same thing, seemingly.
Not for the first time the next few days were determined more by the weather forecast than the actual weather. Fearing the promised adverse wind and rain we spent 2 days encamped in a not very propitious site near Beziers before contacting Craig and Valerie to accept their invitation to arrive in Montpelier 2 days early. This was sufficient prompt for the weather to ameliorate as we completed the Canal route, passing through Agde and Sete to spend a pleasant night in camp near the Med, where our pitch was invaded by a couple of German cyclists who arrived late and left early. To avoid paying site fees, perhaps?
And so via the etangs to meet C & V for a light fish lunch at Palavas before retiring to the comfort of their apartment in Montpelier. Time then to catch up, relax, enjoy splendid foods, wines and hospitality for 5 days. Time also to spectate the annual Festival International de Sports Extreme (?) or FISS that involved les jeunes on various wheeled contraptions going up and down ramps, accompanied by music of a certain sort.
We had made arrangements to spend a night with the Galinys, Carole and Daniel, parents of Laureline, at their home in Remoulins. This being 60km from Montpelier we were happy to accept C&Vs further kindness in driving us and our bikes the distance. Despite the passing of 14 years or so, we picked up easily with the Galinys, updating on news of families, re-visiting the Pont du Gard before setting out the next day to ride the 25 km to Avignon gare TGV to greet Andy and Nicky who arrived fresh and eager with folding bikes to join us on the next stage: through the gorges and cols of the Ardeche and Lot as far as Figeac
With Andy & Nicky.
A night in a riverside camp allowed us to sample the delights of Avignons Papal Palace and famous half-bridge; it also allowed some scurrilous NDF to nick Stevens saddle bag which he unwisely left attached to the bike. Fortunately this contained only easily replaceble bike tools, but still.....
In improving conditions the 4 intrepids set course north for the Ardeche, easing into our stride on flat roads to arrive at camp near the bridge at St Martin. From here the road climbed slowly to the top of the gorge which in rain and mist looked not at all like it does in the tourist brochures. Still, the roads were quiet and we arrived at Vallons at the far end in time to check into the first of a number of mobil-homes we came to use quite often. At an average 50 euros a night these provide good value and comfort for 4 when the weather discourages tenting.
From Vallons the route followed the course of the river through verdant countryside dotted with small villages and farms taking us up gentle climbs and descents as far as Les Vans. And then the first of the noticeable ascents: 13 km at about 5% slowed the groups progress a little up to the top at 860m before whizzing down 300m to the market town of Villefort. With the town campsite closed we were left with a final 5km climb to find a delightful 2star site and a chilly night in the warmth of a wooden chalet.
The weather staying chabgeable it was with wet-weather gear to hand that we set out for a yet longer climb of 20km to reach the watershed at the 1132m Col des Tribes. It was here that the wind and rain finally got the better of us and we bailed out at Baignols-les-Bains, some 20km short of the target destination of Mende. But Mende was still there the following day, providing a suitable coffee stop before making a decision to avoid the third of the noticeable climbs to Marvejols, opting for the river side road instead. This turned out to be a good call as we made good progress following the river as far as the little village of Banassac where for the princely sum of 7euros per tent we camped by the river and spent the rest of the budget on dinner.
With the river our constant companion the rest of the ride to Figeac was mostly on gentle downhill gradients in glorious spring weather. Skirting the northern edge of the Cevennes and then climbing a little away from the river into the Aubrac we enjoyed the best of cycle touring conditions. Overnight halt in a mobil home in Espinol with pizza for dinner was an alternative to Debs and Nickys mobil-home cooking and a pleasant day time halt in Entragues before another chalet by the river at the Dutch-owned Camping de Coursavy.
The final day for A & N took us to Figeac, finally leaving the Lot at Capdenac for a last uphill section. The intention was to enjoy a final supper before A & N boarded their midnight sleeper to Paris. But on checking boarding times at the SNCF it was revealed that due to a mouvement social the train would not be running and the only alternative was to catch the train leaving in 10 minutes from platform 4. Never have 2 folding bikes been knocked down and bagged so quickly and with hurried farewells we waved them off to an uncertain fate and made our way to the campsite for a night in a tent.
Dark skies France.
Turns out the area we are travelling through has the least light pollution in France. Which means the stars are clearly visible. Except that with 10/10 cloud cover most nights, (as well as days), they aren't.
We voted ourselves an extra day in camp at Figeac. Time to catchup with bike maintenance and laundry tasks. This cycle-touring malarky isn't always glamorous and exciting, you know. And then its off up hill into les Causses de Grammat - that's the darkest part - and a night of camping a la ferme: dry composting toilet, but an undercover seating area, before pushing on to the Dordogne via Souilac near where we bedded down on the very river bank.
Our route then took us to Sarlat-le-Caneda where, as well as eventually finding a new tyre of the right sort we also found our most expensive campsite and an unscheduled rest day t.o allow a day of heavy rain to pass overhead.
All these rest days meant we were now a bit behind schedule. So breaking away from the route in the guide book we hot-footed to Hautefort from where we travelled north along the valley of the Vienne to arrive at Confolens on 25th May.Confolens provided the opportunity to sample local fare in the form of authentic English fish and chips, with mushy peas. Oh, and a pitchet of rose.
This being the Charantes there was other evidence of Brits abroad - including an overheard conversation in a bar between an estate agent and potential clients. Seems the Brits may still be coming. But we're not. Instead we are off north to reach the Loire just to the east of Saumur and just in time to enjoy the longest wet spell of the trip so far: 15 hours non-stop rain, of which 5 spent in the saddle. All part of cycle-touring says Debs. That may be, but it doesn't mean I have to like it, says I.
We rejoin the guide book route at Challones where we cross the Loire and head resolutely north for Normandy. We've calculated that we need to average 60km a day if we want to get to UK in early June. We've also discovered that the ferry from St Malo does not go to Plymouth, only to Portsmouth. So unless we want to extend the French leg to Roscoff, that puts the kybosh on the tour of SW England.
Having sacked the tripplanner for this incompetence we head for St Malo. We meet a few other Brit cyclists. At one obscure camping municipal 5 of us arrive within half hour of eachother. Bit like buses.
For the southbound voyagers its happy days as the northerly winds of the last few days pick up overnight to waft them to their destination. Not so us and we have a long day head down following an uncomfortably busy D road to reach Vitre on the last day of May.
Flaming June its not when we reach Combourg in Brittany. This is cider country so we make a point of varying the grape-based diet a bit. And jolly good they are too. Unfortunately the unrelenting grey skies of these days means we are not getting the best of the paysage. But the upside (or should that be silver lining?) is that we allow ourselves to sample a few more menus du jour than we might have done otherwise. And jolly good they are too.
And so to St Malo. Arriving mid-afternoon we check into our AirBnB apartment, in time to get the laundry done before heading out for cider, galettes, crepes and Calvados. Well, seems rude not to, for tomorrow we sail...........
for England.....!
Lots of preparation going on since last Christmas. House to refurb and rent, stuff to dispose or store, administration to sort. Too much to do, not enough time to do it.........
The intended tour starts in Anchorage, Alaska on 6th June (D Day), then heads east and south into the Yukon, then back into Alaska to Haines. From there by ferry to Prince Rupert (British Columbia) with a stop-over at Sitka in early July for a few days sea-kayaking - or sitting in a cabin, depending on the weather.
From Prince Rupert we must go east towards the Rocky Mountains. We intend to cycle the Icefields Parkway south towards Banff and keep going south till we hit the border with USA in late summer. Steadily south from there through Glacier National Park, heading for Yellowstone in early fall (I think they call it) which should be after the holiday-makers have gone home.
Across the deserts via Moab, we hope to make it to the Grand Canyon by the middle of October, which is when the campgrounds start to close for the winter. From there to the border with Mexico: either Yuma (to get there by 15.10) or Mexicali.
Through Mexico along the Sea of Cortez in November with a chance for more kayaking before crossing to the mainland from La Paz to Mazatlan. From there we don't know......... It all depends on what we find out about route and destination options and travel issues when we get closer. Anyway, possible stop-overs in Mexico include Oaxaca around Christmas time, but in all probability avoiding Mexico City.
Maybe we will head for Cancun for the winter sun in 2019.....or maybe we will avoid the Yucatan altogether and head south through Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, to Panama. At which point we will propably need to decide whether to fly back to the UK........or somewhere else.
We will have a bike each, a tent and sleeping stuff; also cooking and misc. camping kit, lots of bike tools. Bear spray, a kindle for Debs, a few clothes. Not much else. We have been warned to beware of bears, mosquitoes and bugs, orcas and whales, rabid coyotes, wolves, moose, bison, rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas. Noone has mentioned Mexican drug cartels.
Long flight via Reykjavik over and done we have 3 nights staying with Debs ex-work colleague Katie. Katie is kindness personified: from meeting us at the airport in husband Richards truck, to loaning her car, to cooking for us and taking us on a late evening hike, nothing is too much trouble. On top of which she makes time to see Debs in her clinic to recommend appropriate exercises to address her persistent pains.
Two days of buying supplies and basic foodstuffs means we get to explore Anchorage shopping zones. REI takes quite a lot of our $$. In return we get advice, bear spray, bear-proof food bags, camping fuel: Clif bars, dry foods for a few days-we are told there will be no shops to speak of on the road ahead.
But its not all preparation: we also take a scenic drive with Katie, Richard and daughter Jane to a restaurant in Girdwood where we sample Alaskan king crab.
June 9th is departure day and cheered on by Katie and Jane we navigate numerous intersections north through Anchorage suburbs before joining the bike path tracking the busy Glenn Highway. Our destination is the first Warmshowers host Ben and Nicki. A short sharp uphill road brings us to their house in the woods above Chugiak. Our room for the night is a yurt - complete with climbing wall. Refreshed after the obligatory warmshower we spend the evening over supper in conversation with our hosts and their two children Leo and Kaya.
The next morning starts with a live-action demo of husky dog mushing - which is Nicki’s thing - and we are on the road by mid-morning. Traffic thins as we get further from Anchorage and the old Glenn Highway gives an early glimpse of the scenic splendours ahead. A brief stop for Clif bars at a king salmon fishing spot includes a chance encounter with Richard and Gary, both anesthetists out on a short ride. We get a free sandwich and lots of info about life in Alaska: Richard asks if we are carrying a gun for bear protection: we don’t but he does and shows it neatly holstered. It turns out to be just the first time we get asked if we have a gun: even though its not unusual to have one here, it still is a bit unnerving to know that guns is what ordinary folk routinely carry.
The ride is longer and hotter than we had imagined, and though the scenery is “awesome” we are pleased to reach Pinnacle RV park where we planned to eat and sleep. Eating is out as the cafe closed before our arrival, but having dropped in at a pizza place earlier, we managed without. Rain came at 8.30 and stopped 10 hours later. But the tent was (mostly) watertight.
Pinnacle has seen better days and we hastened to be on our way. Many places on the road appear empty or derelict, and quite a few roadside tourist businesses are for sale: it's hard to think there could be any willing buyers. The fine weather has broken and we are soon into rain gear for the 40 odd mile stretch uphill to the Matanuska glacier. We are booked into the RV park, but a call ahead to upgrade to a cabin means that we know we won't be wet-tent camping. Just as well, because the rain is heavy and the temperature dropping when we pull up at Grand View cafe after 9 hours on the road. The welcome is warm, the 16” pizza super-tasty, and by 8pm we are in Tundra Rose cottage with hot shower,ample drying room, comfortable bed and hot stove. Also some Jim Beam.
Day 4 is a short 25 miler that starts in bright sunny weather that deteriorates as we approach Eureka Roadhouse at mile 128 of the Highway. Yesterday they had 5” of snow here, but it's mostly all gone now. Snow in June seems to have taken people by surprise, judging by overheard conversation, but the weather remains changeable and there is the prospect of more rain - according to the report on the weather radio that we carry.
Eureka Roadhouse provides a couple of hours rest before heading on to Slide Mountain RV park where we chicken out of tenting and take a cabin instead. We are also shown how to make Smores. A campground favorite involving melted marshmallow and Hersheys chocolate sandwiched between Graham crackers:-) So-called because they are so delicious you want ‘somemore’. We found one to be plenty.
Our next stop was at Grizzly’s. A roadside general store where we called home on a clear Whatsapp and Steve smoked a pipe with Chris who has run the place for 25 years. A proud veteran way past his prime, but not yet turned 60, Chris lives off pipe tobacco and peanut butter and believes in 2 things: The Constitution and The Holy Bible, copies of both ready to hand - we talked about a lot of things, but stayed off politics and religion.
Our destination for the night is Tolsona Wilderness campground about a mile off the highway; a sunny evening and night spent in the spruce forest.
Glennallen is an important junction and service centre. Important, that is, for the supply of liquor and Thai food. The former for us is a half bottle of Jim Beam purchased from an 83 year old liquor-store owner. She is a staunch monarchist fiercely devoted to the Royal Family, but she somehow missed out on the news of The Wedding. So she is delighted when we tell her it all went off splendidly. Actually we meet a lot of Americans with a proud interest in princess Megan.
The Thai food cabin is also not-to-be-missed. So one green curry and one beef rendang later we continue north and then swing off onto the Tok cut-of road. In 2 miles we reach the Gakona Lodge where camping behind the lodge is free: we pay for shower, food and beer: how fair is that? Our arrival coincides with that of 5 Dutch motorists travelling to Anchorage from Nova Scotia. Somewhat unusually they travel in 3 1930 era Alvis and a Logonda with a 1970’s ex British Army Landrover troop carrier as support vehicle. Not something you see every day.
It's 123 miles to Tok and we think to do it in 3 days. Cycling conditions are near perfect with gentle gradients, awesome scenery, coolish and a strong tailwind. Unbelievable. So we make good time to arrive at Grizzly Lake campground where we enjoy the comfort of a traditional Alaskan dry cabin where we break out the Trangia stove for supper and listen to 12hours of rain on the tin roof.
But tomorrow is another day with weather that improves by mid-morning as we make for a tent-stop 2 miles off the highway down a gravel road. We jangle our bear bells nervously as we make our way down ‘bear alley’ to Log Cabin Wilderness Lodge where Jessie prepares us dinner and we learn about growing up in Alaska where her father taught in Indian schools and went hunting. Hunting is a thing. Yesterday we called in at a Lodge where we were shown a wolf skin that owner Richard had shot while out hunting Moose: case of mistaken identity?
Talking of which we have seen numerous Moose from the road. Mostly singles at some distance, but early on a cow and 2 calves much closer. Lots of people tell us to be more wary of Moose than bears - especially cows with calves. Oh, no bears seen yet. But we did encounter a lone Caribou crossing the road just in front of us today.
Sunday 17th takes us into Tok, the most northerly point of the journey - the strong southerly wind of the last few days will no longer be our friend. We are a day ahead of schedule and after 9 days cycling call a R and R day. We take a room for $50/night at the Alaskan Stoves Lodge and Hostel where we can cook, rest and sleep in comfort. Also exchange stories with other passing travellers: Andrew, a thoughtful American biker and ex-ballet dancer now living in LA. We talked about Brexit and Trumpistan - his expression. Cathy, a lone French-Canadian cyclist whose plans to cycle North were curtailed by snow, forcing her to head home early. And late on our second evening 3 BMW mounted Brazilians who had made it this far in 45 days, heading for the Arctic Ocean at Prudoe Bay. Asked what they will do when they get there? Take a photo a go home.
We consult maps and the Info office about facilities on the road ahead. Few and far between is the answer. It's 113 miles to the next settlement which is across the border. We reckon to do it in 2 long days. So, with 3 days of food on board we set off: the problem will be finding water. We are drinking 5 litres a day between us, but need more for cooking. At mile 50 we reach Northway Junction which has a store, showers, campground - and cold beer. So there we stay.
Which leaves 62 miles to get to Beaver Creek, Yukon. We are 10 hours on the road in glorious weather with stunning views across the lakes and forests of the Tetlin Wildlife Refuge to the distant snow-capped Wrangell mountains. We exit USA at Alcan Border, then a tough undulating 20 miles into an increasing headwind through bear country: no bears but lots of scat. It's 27 degrees when we arrive at Buckshot Betty’s cafe and campground. One pizza and 3 beers later we are in our tent by 8.30
185 miles from Beaver Creek to Haines Junction
A late start from Beaver Creek takes us 34 miles on to Discovery Yukon Lodging. Run by Amanda an engaging, energetic English woman who grew up in Ireland and has been running the Lodgings for 12 years. She also cooks beautifully and we enjoy a welcome respite from normal American fare.
The weather is holding up for us, so our next day sees us easily through to the somewhat anomalous French-run Bakery and Creperie at Pine Valley. Places to eat or stay are thinly distributed on this stretch of the Alaskan Highway but after crepes and a bottle of non-alcoholic Normandy cider we are happy to be in a cabin for the night. Not that we have much choice in the matter as the advertised campground is not open. We are the only guests, but curiously madame closes the gates at 7.00pm on the dot, and later turns away a late-arriving motorbiker. A bit French, we think.
We have been advised by the sensible and well-informed Amanda to be cautious about the state run campgrounds due to reports of RVers feeding bears in camp. That puts us a bit on edge so we are pleased to be able to reach Destruction Bay on the shore of Kluane Lake where a motel meal and wifi awaits. Destruction Bay so-named because a 100mph wind storm destroyed the highway construction camp that once stood here.
The motel manager directs us to a free camping site opposite the motel on a raised, covered pavilion that has tourist info boards but, he assures us its fine to set up a tent. So we do, congratulating ourselves on our good fortune. But the best laid plans, etc….. at about 11.00pm a sudden crashing on the tent startles us awake. Immediate thought is of a bear, but it turns out that one of the info boards blown over by a sudden gust has torn a 2ft hole in the rain fly. Destruction Bay indeed. Nothing to be done except reposition the tent and deal with things tomorrow.
We buy a huge roll of duct tape and make temporary repair before pressing on with our wounded tent. Luckily the weather stays mostly dry and we enjoy the forest and mountain views on a 65 mile cycle via the shore of Kluane lake to arrive in Haines Junction at 10.00pm after 9 hours on the road. It wasn't meant to be that way but we got in a bit of a muddle over our overnight stop. Other than wildcamping there is nowhere to stay on this stretch. So we take advice from the Kluane National Park centre and look for a spot at Jarvis River.
It's 7pm when we get to the river, but it looks none too promising for pitching and cooking out in bear country: so, with good weather and decent legs we opt to do the next 25 miles to Haines Junction. But first there's a 5 mile hill and 3 miles into it a stiffening head wind persuades us to return to the river. Alas, first impressions prove correct. We try hitching. A guy parked at the river has a suitable truck, but can't be persuaded. 2 cars stop but neither is able to take us and all our stuff. With mosquitoes biting and hopes of a hitch fading we decide to carry on. It's 8.30 when we start out again on the 5 mile hill. But from the top it's all downhill into Haines Junction: the RV park is open and we buy pot noodles and a pitch in the campground.
The Haines Highway.
Many people have assured us the 150 mile Highway is “awesome”, “gorgeous”, etc. The road climbs above the treeline into alpine tundra above 3,000ft at mile 90. There are 3 campgrounds in the first 50 miles then….not much till Haines.
But we are in no hurry as we have exceeded our 35 mile a day average target. This allows us to pass a leisurely day in Haines Junction, taking in the excellent visitor centre, village bakery, convenience store (expensive), and transferring to the Happy Wanderer hostel to pitch the tent. We meet other happy wanderers and find very decent Greek-style food at the somewhat inappropriately named Guys and Dolls bistro.
We have devised a plan for overnight stops on the Highway which requires just 16 miles on the first leg to Kathleen Lake campground. The wind is churning white horses on the lake, but the white spruce provide good protection in the camp which is clean with outhouses (aka long-drop dry toilets), a supply of water (treat before using) and bear-proof food storage. With sunshine and no bugs we are safe and sound.
The highway is smooth and fast, were it not for a brisk headwind and rising gradient when we head out early the next day to make it to Million Dollar Falls camp at mile 53 of the Highway by early afternoon. There are just a handful of other campers in small RVs, so we have our pick of sites. There's no water other than in the river - which we gather and filter to remove everything down to 1 micron in size. That takes care of dirt, dead insects, bacteria and most viruses.
With no food outlets of any sort on the Haines Highway we are carrying four days of one-pot and instant food. Oatmeal with honey and olive oil for breakfast, tortilla wraps with peanut butter or processed cheese and olive oil for lunch, instant rice/pasta/potato based hot food with olive oil for supper. Good job we like olive oil. We also get through quite a few energy bars: Clif and Larabar are favourite: they involve quite a lot of peanuts. It's not meant to be a balanced diet. It's all about calories. 240 in an enery bar; 140 in a tortilla wrap: loads in peanut butter and cheese and oodles per ounce of oil.
There are no recognised campgrounds, nor any other facilities in the next 100 miles. But just before the pass, we have heard, there is a one-room hut. Known as the green shack, it's available to any traveller on a first-come, first-served basis. Our luck is in as we are the first-comers today. The shack is a bit like a Scottish mountain bothy in concept. There are bunks for 3, a stove with logs, table. 1 chair. It's enough. The bonus is the adjacent outhouse.
Steven tries to get in touch with his inner Bear Grylls by hefting a large and sharp axe. He succeeds only in nearly chopping off his right foot. Now that would have been interesting. But it's only a glancing blow that barely breaks the skin. He then manages to bury the axe head deep into a log and has to saw it loose. Bear Grylls it ain't. But soon order is restored and we pass a comfortable night without further incident.
We are in low cloud over the pass the next morning so don't really take on board the vaunted alpine scenery. But it looks not so different from bits of Scotland. Once over the top we are quickly back into forest: taller and denser than the forest on the other side. And as we swoop rapidly down towards the US border we at last have an encounter of the ursine kind.
Pretty much everyone we have spoken to has at least one bear story. How they've seen a bear, been chased by a bear, hunted a bear, eaten a bear, driven into a bear (actually not that one). One fellow even told how his friend when attacked, killed a bear with his skinning knife; I believe that one. Yep, everyone has a bear story. Except us. 3 weeks on the road in bear country, sometimes for 10 hours a day, and no bear story. Unless seeing piles of scat on the road is much of a story. And we have seen piles.
But now we too have a story. A story of how Steven nearly rode into the back of Debs who had stopped dead on her tracks. Of how an adult chestnut-coloured black bear ambled out of the woods about 50 yards ahead, glanced in our direction, then wandered a few yards along the side of the road before disappearing back into the woods. Of how we failed to observe correct protocol of talking quietly to the bear, while reaching for the bear spray that we each keep ready at hand, supposedly, on the front right pannier. But that, at least, is our first bear story. (Spoiler alert: there are others).
5 miles on we exit Canada and re-enter USA. We hear tell of unpleasantness at US entry points, but our man is as nice as pie. Asks how long, etc., etc., are we carrying produce, etc., etc., and would we like to use the restroom and refill our water bottles? Then, with the obligatory command to “enjoy the rest of your day” completing the border formalities, we are back in the US of A.
It's 40 miles to Haines and barely after noon, so we don't doubt we will be there by evening. En route is 33 Mile Roadhouse, famous for burgers, it says on the sign outside; so that's what we do. The first burgers since arriving. Honestly.
The road in to Haines is easy and pleasant along tree-lined river banks that remind us somewhat of Blighty - but bigger, of course. The headwind is pesky, but tolerable. Unlike the lady at the road construction works whose only job is to drive the truck that escorts traffic single file through the works. We are too slow for the convoy so are required to de-pannier and hoist bikes and all into the back of the truck, getting covered in road gravel dust in the process. While driver lady just watches. All set to go, the 2 way radio announces that work has finished for the day and we have to demount and continue on our merry way. Not happy. Especially not happy with manual handling risks, so Debs profers wise counsel on the potential damages that the construction company’s procedures carry. Humpf.
Hey-ho, we arrive a bit dusty and dishevelled, with nowhere booked for the night. So, into the Fogcutter Bar for a quick pint and use of wifi. Only to discover that the wheel may have come off the wagon.
Offline for the last 3 days it's time to check emails. The ferry company has sent me one. It says our ferry from Haines to Sitka is cancelled due to mechanicals. Next ferry is in one week, maybe.
First things first: finish our pints. Then consider options. Apart from ranting, raving or baying at the moon there are 3. We could ride back 3 days to Haines Junction, then do 700 miles through northern Canada. Or we could hang out in Haines for who knows how long for the ferry. On grounds of cost, inconvenience and sheer buggeration factor neither has much appeal. Besides we would likely forfeit our pre-paid kayak/cabin trip from Sitka.
Or we could fly. Flying in small planes is for the rich and famous in UK. Here everyone does it: it's akin to going on a train. Kind of. So, after a comfortable night at The Inn, where we are given all the time and help we need by landlady Leslie, we part with $480 to fly, with bikes and bags via Juneau to Sitka in the afternoon.
On the first leg we are the only passengers. Our pilot on Harrisair’s scheduled 9 seater looks about 16: but he's probably older. The unexpected bonus of a private scenic flight over the mountains and glaciers of SE Alaska is not lost on us. We are content to lounge at Juneau airport while “our” plane does a short trip to Gustavus before taking us on to arrive at Sitka in the early evening.
Like true jet-setters (actually it was a prop plane) we are met on arrival. Tricia and Brandan are Warmshowers hosts we had contacted in April. Today, with 1 days notice they are on hand to host and be our guide. The least we can do is stand them a meal of buffalo wings (chicken wings in hot sauce) and salad at the Mean Queen (yes, that is the restaurant’s name) en route to what will be our base for a few days until our scheduled kayak/cabin excursion.
The reason we have come to Sitka is to go sea kayaking. Back in March we arranged a 6 day hire of a double kayak and 4 nights accommodation in a US Forest Service cabin at Brents Beach on Kruzof island. We are in Tongass National Forest, which is classified as temperate rain forest: i.e. it rains a lot. So the cabin is wanted and needed both to avoid the need to wild camp in bear country and to avoid the risk of having to spend 6 days and 5 nights kayak-camping in the rain. Which could happen.
We have arrived 2 days early so have time to discover Sitka. In this we are hugely helped by Tricia and Brandan who invite us to join them on a hike on Harbor Mountain. From here we look across Sitka Sound to the area where we will be kayaking. We are also treated to a delicious bbq of black-tipped cod, a local speciality and round off the day with a visit to the Baranof Brewery pub.
The sun is still shining over the next 2 days. We visit the Native American museum; cycle to Fortress of the Bears to view captive orphan bears; nip into the fur shop to learn about the fur coat business. The saleslady tells us some clients have 20 or more furs and some come to Sitka on a cruise just to add to their collection. $27,000 for a Russian sable jacket anyone? We go in search of seafood and find it hard to come by. Brandan explains that no one buys fish here: they either catch it themselves or get given it by someone who does. But we do track done some cooked crab for an evening picnic. And Debs reciprocates for the bbq by cooking an evening meal for us all at Tricia and Brandan’s appartment.
Our kayak rental starts on 4th July, but we leave Sitka before the Independence Day parade kicks off. We depart under clear blue skies but under the cloud of a further email from the ferry company. The mechanical problem with the ship has not been fixed so we have been put on an earlier sailing on a different boat. But this would mean cutting short our kayak trip. The ferry company office is now closed for 2 days. So all we can do is email to request a later sailing and hope we will have mobile phone coverage on Kruzof island to confirm the rearranged rearrangements.
Brents Beach is some 15 miles away so we have arranged for a water taxi to take us and our stuff over and 50 minutes later we are landed on the beach below the cabin. Kit sorted and stashed we spend the afternoon paddling around the nearby Magoun islands. Steven has just about (re)got the hang of navigating by chart sufficiently to be able to know where we are when Debs, up in the sharp end, spots a bear quietly grazing a seaside meadow. It is clearly aware of our presence but content to allow us to drift to within about 150 yards at which point it makes to return to the forest. So we paddle off. All the bears here are grizzly: which makes it our first grizzly encounter.
We spend 2 more days on day excursions from the cabin. Both are hugely rewarding for scenery and wildlife - especially a group of 7 sea otters that curiously watch us watching them. We are also blessed with temperatures in the high 70s (27 C) AND no rain. In the evenings we enjoy a camp fire or the cabin’s wood stove, delicious Trangia-cooked one pot meals and keep company with cans of Baranof Brewery Alaskan IPA, a box of Argentinian Malbec and a small(ish) bottle of Canadian whiskey/brandy/rum. Quite the multi-national expedition we are.
And the wildlife experiences don't stop. On 2 evenings we watch through binoculars the spouting and diving of a humpback whale - albeit at a considerable distance its quite a thrill to know there's whales out there. Also thrilling, albeit not in an entirely good way, is Steven's discovery one morning of a significant amount of very fresh bear scat on the trail just 30 yards behind the cabin. Debs confirms it wasn't there earlier. All the bears here are grizzly: which makes it our second grizzly encounter. So all that clapping, singing, talking, keeping food in smell-proof bags has worked in keeping bruin at a distance; or maybe he/she just wasn't that hungry?
On one day we pass up the kayaking and spend the day in camp, beach-combing and reflecting on the trip so far. Well, it can't all be action, can it. Plus we had covered some 12 miles the day before so were a little weary.
Our 12 mile day gave us confidence that we could do the 15 or so miles back to Sitka in a day. And with the weather forecast warning of a change to rainier, windier conditions we opted to return a day earlier than scheduled, thus foregoing the possibility of a wet wild camp on an island. An 8.30 launch saw us comfortably across the 2 ½ mile open crossing to Middle Island from where we had a choice of routing. It was while weighing the choices that Steven spotted a whale spout. So that settled it. And 15 minutes later we found ourselves in the company of a humpback whale busying itself in spouting and diving. For an hour or so we kept in touch with it, enjoying the sight and sounds from the safety (?) of our little kayak at a distance of about 80yards - which seemed to be the closest the whale was content to let us approach. The sun shone, and the water was flat calm: couldn't have asked for more.
So it was 2 happy kayakers who phoned ahead to warn of our mid-afternoon return to Sitka, having, against the odds, spent 4 nights and 5 days rain-free, warm and sometimes sunny camping and kayaking in SE Alaska.
Oh, and yes there had been a mobile signal so we knew our onward sailing was re-booked for 2 days later.
Our last days in Sitka were spent on laundry, leisurely sight-seeing and hooking up again with Tricia and Brandan to enjoy dinner and drinks together. By the time we peddled (rather than paddled) the 5 miles to the ferry terminal the weather had returned to normal with steady rain, mist and cloud-base scarcely above sea level, it seemed. The lovely Brendan had one more kindness to offer by taking time off work to drive down to the ferry to bid us farewell. And, surprise, surprise, there actually was a ferry! Not the one originally booked way back in March, and not actually headed in the right direction. But at least it was headed somewhere and we were on it.
The Inside Passage is a navigable waterway of some 1000kms that runs north from Port Hardy, British Columbia to the tidewater glaciers of SE Alaska. For its scenic and wildlife splendour it is a draw for yachties, kyakers, cruise ships and us.
Our intention of taking a ferry from Haines, with a detour via Sitka, to Prince Rupert in British Columbia would have hadus covering the Alaskan section; i.e. about half of it. It would also mean cutting out about 1000km of riding through north western Canada.
But for reasons already explained things turned out a bit different……
So there we are on the fast ferry Fairweather heading north out of Sitka, destination Juneau. Juneau is the state capital and transport hub of Alaska and the rescheduled ferry booking means we must stay in Juneau 36 hours until the southbound ferry comes through. Fairweather is a gaz guzzling catamaran. In service since 2004 it is the newest vessel in the Alaska Marine Highways aging fleet. And it is fast. Racing through the narrows of Peril Strait, at up to 44knts and pulling the equivalent of handbrake turns on the twisty bits we are in Juneau by early evening.
It's still raining so we are pleased that our last-minute Warmshowers host Tom is there with Subaru and bike rack to meet us. Tom is the recently retired Director of dental health care services for the native American communities of S E Alaska. He and his wife Eva give us the warmest of Warmshowers welcomes in their fabulous waterfront home and we consider ourselves fortunate indeed when we turn in after supper to a warm and comfortable bed.
And their hospitality runs into the next day when we join them and their regular hiking group for a 7 mile hike through the spruce and hemlock forest in the morning. Then it's a visit to the Mendenhall glacier and a search for a river that has salmon running. Tom takes us to the aptly named Salmon Creek and sure enough there are salmon there. Not so much running as wiggling upstream to spawn. And all of this on Tom’s birthday.
As if we had not intruded enough we join the party of friends and family who arrive in the evening to celebrate Tom”s birthday. After all of which it will come as no surprise to read that we were driven at 10.30pm to catch our ferry south. Warmshowers doesn't begin to describe the hospitality and kindness we received.
Needless to say, perhaps, the Malaspina ferry is late and its not till 5.00am that we leave Juneau. But the next 36 hours more than makes up for all the previous grief of ferry cancellations. The weather improves steadily and by the time we reach Prince Rupert we are in full sun. The scenery was as memorable and compelling as anticipated and we had a pretty full complement of wildlife sightings including more humpback whales as well as adding Orca (or killer whales, if you prefer) to the list of ticks.
The Malaspina was launched in 1962, so she's not exacty brand spanking new. But, built in the days when dinner was served by waiters in evening dress, she is a clean and classy tub with comfortable seating, wide decks for perambulating, a sunny sundeck and plenty of space to lay out our sleeping bags. And the food……...Having been told not to expect too much, we found the food to be consistently better than pretty much anything we had previously encountered. Freshy prepared from real ingredients and not expensive. We had breakfast, lunch and dinner. And then another breakfast.
Prince Rupert is a curious place (beyond the anachronism of the colonial era name). A port town that people mostly just pass through, its a bit run down with vacant lots and boarded shops. First Nations people (Native Americans in USA) make up a sizeable proportion of the population. Just out of town is a modern container wharf that handles a significant tonnage of goods. And most of this gets to and from the port by train. Not just the short freight trains you occasionally see in UK but vast, long, clanking, hooting 2 diesel-loco 1000+ ton behemoths that snake their way along the valley of the Skeena river through the Coast Mountains.
Highway 16, aka the Yellowhead Highway, is the only road out. It too follows the river valley so we will get to see these trains close up over the next 700km or so. But first we have a bit of resupplying to do and its 24 hours before we hit the road. During which time we enjoy pretty decent Vietnamese food and Chinese dim sum and a beer on the terrace of the posh hotel.
First day out of Rupert is a short run to a campsite in a Provincial park. Its the weekend and we arrive in time to claim the last pitch. This we later share with Stefan & Carmen a couple of Swiss cyclists on recumbent bikes who we had met in PR. We compare food supplies and conclude that their more varied diet wins on taste-appeal but we are content with our calorie-loaded dry simple fare.
Overnight stops are few and far between so we are a bit put-out that our next halt, Kasiks Wilderness Resort is closed for a few days. But feeling audacious we pitch tent and make use of the facilities anyway.
The cycling is a joy along the decent shoulder of the 16 with glorious forest and mountain views beside the fast-flowing Skeena. Vehicle traffic is tolerable, despite the constant fast-flowing heavy trucks hauling fuel, freight and timber in both directions. The most impressive are the 8 axle, 30 wheel Macks that put Eddie Stobbarts in the shade. Literally. And the monstrous freight trains are fun too.
Sanctuary from all this excitement comes in the shape of the town of Terrace where we have scheduled an overnighter under a Warmshowers roof. After the best food of the trip so far at the town tandoori, we arrive late at our destination just before our host Meredith finishes work. Time to share a beer and listen to her wise words about cycle touring in USA, Mexico and S America. She also advises that we should be more concerned about cougars than bears on the grounds that cougars are predators and bears are not. And, yes, there are cougars in these parts. Thanks, Meredith.
Encouraged by having survived our earlier night’s semi-wild camp (in spite of “Bears have been seen on site” warnings) we plan to go the whole hog and branch off the highway for a night in the woods proper in the Seven Sisters provincial park. Instead we opt for the softer option of a highway rest area with outhouse toilet and picnic bench. Bit of a mistake. All-night truck traffic and train whistles make for a fairly sleepless night. But the thunder storm across the river was nice. Nice because it was across the river.
But the fine weather returns to spur us on. Aided by a steady tail wind we make good progress north east to find our next Warmshowers, which is off the highway. We are also leaving the mountains and the countryside becomes gentler with forest giving way in patches to cattle ranching. We find roadside stalls selling “produce” - much of it in the form of zucchini. Nice enough, but you can have enough of zucchini after a while.
A few days earlier - in Terrace, in fact - Debs had brought Steve to his senses to realise that without a schedule to keep, there is more to this trip than just banging out the miles on the Highway: a lot more. This takes a bit of time for Steve to get his head around, but in the small town of Hazelton a new phase of the epic begins.
The new phase is to be about taking life easier; stopping to look and linger and enjoy whatever it is we find en route. And to make detours.
So in Hazelton we check into a motel room with kitchen, dump the bags and head off sightseeing the restored pioneer town of Hazelton and the replica Ksan tribe longhouses and museum. Both good fun. That it is raining makes little difference to the sense of being liberated from the “tyranny of the road”
Refreshed and “re-purposed” we follow highway 16 as it swings south. Our destination for the day is the town of Smithers about which we have heard good things. OK, we heard it has a decent brewery. Its quite a long ride and we are greeted by low cloud and rain. But with a break in the weather and anxious to take a break from the traffic we opt to try a gravel road route.
But before we do we find a use for the bear spray we have been carrying. Before we reach the turnoff we pass through the small settlement of Moricetown. Motown as we are later to hear it called is a First Nations village. Amongst other attractions it has a population of more or less feral dogs, three of which take pleasure in pursuing us as we labour up a hill. Debs cleverly chooses to cycle up the centre of the road, where the dogs will not follow. After a pursuit of about 200 yards Steve has had enough of the chase and administers a short sharp burst of spray at short range at the lead hound. Game over.
The turnoff overlooks a small waterfall where men from the Min of Fisheries are netting salmon. Not for the first time we hear tell of how the numbers of returning salmon are falling and fishing is being suspended. So population monitoring rather than fishing is what is allowed. Not that this discourages the fishermen, one of whom is also spectating the scene. Turns out he’s an Englishman living in France whose passion for fly fishing has brought him for the last 5 years to spend 3 months in the Pacific North West in pursuit. The fact that fishing is heavily restricted this year and anything he catches has to be released does not deter. Neither is he concerned that probably whatever he catches will not survive being caught. However he is incensed that First Nations are allowed to take what they catch: but we don't debate with him on this.
Anyway, after this interesting diversion we head out on the gravel road. All is fine and dandy, despite the hills. And then the rain returns. Soon the dust of the road turns to mud. So slip-sliding away we make our way slowly for 30km meeting next to no traffic and no bears. Neither is the scenery there to be seen thanks to the low cloud and mist. All of which makes for a bit of a late arrival at the home of Andrew and Donna Schibli. But they are gracious and generous in their welcome and we enjoy an evening of great conviviality with them.
Smithers is a great place to linger and celebrate our 34th anniversary. So we do. Bikes washed and regreased we drop by the farmers market, the brewery, before a late leisurely lunch of sushi-fusion. All of which takes a bit of a toll on the modest 16km backroad route via lake Tyhee to our Warmshowers accommodation at Telkwa. Here we are met by John “JJ” Neff who has established a near-perfect establishment for touring cyclists in the form of a self-catered riverside cabin with all amenities and cyclists requisites. And JJ himself is excellent company.
A gentle 30 miles the next day takes us to Houston (no, not that one). A wholly unremarkable place save for a totally inept tourist information office, a very large stuffed grizzly, the world’s largest fly-fishing rod, a rather good supermarket, and a nice chat with the lady in the liquor store about Trump, Brexit and stuff. So, come to think of it, actually quite a remarkable place. Feeling a bit lazy and anticipating rain we opt for a swanky new motel with kitchen and wait for the rain which doesn't come.
The forecast for the next few days is promising and we make the most of it with an easy 50 mile ride to Burns Lake where Jay Finstad and his young family house us for the night. The view from their deck (verandah) is stunning, the welcome warm and we sleep well. Jay teaches secondary level in the Community college. Many of the students are First Nations and we are given first hand insight into some of the many significant disadvantages they encounter.
The Finstads are into mountain biking rather than touring, so their generosity in hosting tourers appears especially selfless. However, with few opportunities to travel themselves they see Warmshowers as a way of introducing their young children to people from other countries and cultures.
Burns Lake is in the Lakes District of British Columbia and although the largest of these lie to the south along inaccessible (to us) gravel roads we do pass a few en route to an RV park on Fraser Lake. Not our intended destination, but good enough for the night. Except that its 200 yards from the Highway on one side and 100 to the railway line on the other. Plus the owner confirms there have been recent sightings of a bear strolling the railway track. But despite all this we sleep quite well.
Seems we have come a long way in dealing with the rigours of the epic.
The town of Vanderhoof has an interesting collection of early 20th century buildings that serve as a heritage museum of the early settlers lives. It also provides cream cakes, which helped us decide to take an afternoon break.
Our destination for the night was a Warmshowers stay at Felicity Farm where we arrived in the late afternoon. The 140 acre organic farm is owned and run by Felicity Wilson and her partner Gordon Sweetnam. They were busy loading bins of freshly picked veggies onto their truck in preparation for the farmers market in Vanderhoof the next day. Of course we lent a hand. Which may have been our downfall as, over supper and a round of a game of querkle we were “persuaded” to stay on a day or two to help out on the farm in return for board and lodging. This form of indentured labouring is widely known as Woofing - worldwide opportunities on organic farms. As part of the deal we were offered free passage by truck to Prince George, so avoiding, we were assured, a lengthy section of road construction.
So we stayed for two days and three nights enjoying our time with Felicity and Gordon, the irrepressible dogs Pepper and Champ, 100 broiler hens, two dozen laying hens, two black pigs, a couple of dozen beef cattle, a Jersey cow and, for all I know, a partridge in a pear tree. Not to mention an acre of wonderful and varied vegetables.
The first day saw Steven ‘assisting’ Gordon at the farmers market while Debs joined Felicity in the veg garden. Day 2 involved a bit of cattle wrangling (not for Debs) and more harvesting for the Saturday market. The evenings were spent over Debs-cooked dinner, beer, wine and conversation.
All too soon it was time to load bikes and bags for the early morning run to Prince George. Where we had something of an epiphany. Not without some gently insistent invitation from F & G we decided to extend our stay at Felicity Farm for another week. So, bikes and bags back on board we retraced our steps and spent a great week in Felicity and Gordon's company doing what we could to contribute to the serious business of weeding, harvesting and preping the veggies and flowers, moving stock, maintaining fences and fetching logs. Which nevertheless left plenty of time for great eating, drinking and general conversation and convivialite. That the sun shone all the time only added to our feelings of well-being and purpose.
And when Saturday came again we were refreshed and ready to move on.
During our stay at Felicity Farm the radio carried reports of wildfires throughout British Columbia and beyond. Not that any of this affected us. But after our Saturday morning departure from Prince George en route to the Rocky Mountains town of Jasper things changed.
The first three days cycling was pleasant enough, though the road and rail traffic our fairly constant companion. Notably we spent three consecutive nights camping near a river or lake, including a ‘semi-wild’ site on the banks of the Slim River. On the fourth day out from PG, the effect of the fires had caught up with us. In the small town of Mcbride the skies had assumed an almost Biblical hue with the sun appearing as a red-orange orb in an otherwise smoky grey firmament. Which meant that the splendour of the countryside we passed through was largely obscured. On 8th August, soon after leaving the delightful Tete Jaune Lodge on the banks of the Fraser river (‘the greatest salmon river in the world’), we passed the 1000km marker on the Yellowhead Highway just before entering Mount Robson provincial park, the gateway to the Rocky Mountains. Luckily the visibility was improved enough that we could admire the eponymous peak - not climbed until 1913 and now a popular hiking venue.
It was a particularly hot day and the long hill up Red Pass a bit of a trial. But relief was to be had in the form of a lakeside camp at Lucerne lake where the attendant Taylor, who we had met a few days earlier was kind enough to have reserved us a site having passed us earlier on the road. A swim in the lake by both of us was a simple pleasure only bettered by the sight of 2 bull elk nonchalantly passing just yards from the tent while munching on the shrubbery.
And so to Jasper. Since passing Mount Robson we were aware we were now deep in tourist territory. And Jasper is built on tourism. In the winter they come for the snow. In summer its for the scenic splendours of the so-called Icefields Parkway. The Parkway runs about 230km south to Lake Louise, through exceptional mountain and glacial landscapes, crossing two 2000metre passes. Its been called the most scenic road in the world ever - by the Canadian tourist industry at least. And, in truth it was tourism in the early 20th century that opened up this part of the Rockies and it's the Parkway that has drawn us here.
But the smoke, the smoke…… What's the point of cycling this magnificence if you can't see it? So we hatched a cunning plan. The weather forecast called for rain over the next couple of days and stronger winds. Which, they said, should clear the smoke somewhat. So we resolved to delay our ride for 2 days, hoping for rain and wind. Which, come to think of it is a bit wierd. When did you last hear of cyclists hoping for wind and rain?
We put our time to good use. First, an evening at the rodeo. Professional rodeo is a curious thing. The skill and courage displayed is extraordinary, the action fast and furious. Especially fast. All the events are against the clock. The longest - the womens barrel race - which involves a timed gallop around a three point course is the longest. It lasts 13 seconds. Roping a steer is over in 6 seconds. The shortest is bronco and bull riding. The cowboy aims to stay on board for 8 seconds: the announcer called it the “8 second lifestyle”. In practice, for some riders, its over in under 2 seconds. And no second attempts. After which the competitors drive on, often overnight, to the next venue for another 8 seconds or so of competition. Crazy.
Not wanting to camp in the rain we tried for an hotel. To no avail: not a room to be had. So we stayed a further night in a 700+ pitch site just out of town. Which was our introduction to the prospect of competitive camping. Such was the demand for campsites along the Parkway, we were told that without reservations we would need to get to the “first-come, first-served” sites early in the day to be reasonably sure of getting in. Not so bad if you are travelling by car, a bit tougher if you're on a bike which takes until the afternoon to get to your destination. But, we were assured, late arriving cyclists would not be turned away. So, that's a comfort.
A first day of leisure was put to good use. We went cycling. But without panniers; well, a change is as good as rest. Wanting a break from the road we followed off-road paths, with two hilarious (?) results. The first involved a close encounter with a black bear which, munching on berries just 5 yards from the trail, seemed not to have noticed us coming. And we didn't notice him/her either till we were alongside. And then we were past. Phew. The second involved a bit of prime foolishness from Steven. Attempting to ride up a steep section at slow speed he made a complete pigs ear of it and disappeared gracelessly off piste ending upside down in a spruce tree with the bike on top. No damage was sustained however, either to bike or rider. Though the riders pride took a bit of a knock.
The promised rain came overnight and persisted into Sunday. But we had booked a room at the renowned (?) Athabasca hotel. Shared bathroom for 80quid seemed a bargain for Jasper in August. And come Monday we woke to wet roads, low cloud and mist. And smoke…..?
No, the rain had done its work and for the first day's ride to Honeymoon lake camp we got a taste of what might lie ahead. But overnight things changed again and by the time we arrived at the Columbia Glacier visibility was so poor that the glacier, just half mile away was all-but invisible. Quite atmospheric, though, despite the abundance of fellow gawking tourists thronging the tourist hideousness that is the Icefields Center.
The tents-only campground called Icefields allowed us easy access late evening to the foot of the glacier when we had it pretty much to ourselves. But having come this far to experience the Parkway we were not prepared to give up. So we delayed another day. A day in camp for Debs and a hike to Wilcox pass for Steven.
After which we thought, darn it, we’ve given it our best shot, its time to move on, whatever tomorrow brings. So onwards to camp at Waterfowl lakes where we sensed rather than saw the scenery and Debs enjoyed a glacial plunge. Which left a short day to the end of the Parkway at Lake Louise. Short enough to take a 5 hour break from riding and hike to the foot of Bow glacier where a waterfall marks the start of the Bow river’s journey east to Hudson Bay. A great little hike it was too, shared with many other hikers and ending with a very decent Bison chilli at the lodge on the shore of Bow lake.
Lake Louise and Jasper are the bookends of the Parkway. Jasper is nice, in a touristy kind of way. Lake Louise is not nice, in a touristy kind of way. ‘The village’ is where things are: fast food joints, gas stations, info centre and gift shops huddle round a busy intersection. Without a shower for 5 days we would have taken an hotel. But not for the 280 quid they wanted. So to the campground. But this too was full: except that fellow cyclist Gary had let it be known that he would share his pitch with other cyclists. So, thanks to Gary, we were in.
To celebrate we called in at the International Hostel for a beer and wifi and to plot our escape from the highways, the tourist traps of the Rockies, the high prices of stuff, the smoke. We want to get to where we can enjoy the splendours of the scenery and meet some locals. How we are to do this will not become clear till tomorrow, when we take advice from Gary.
Returning from town after breakfast and restocking supplies we find Gary ready to ride off. Gary hails from New England, but doesn't live anywhere in particular. In February he sets off by bike from Southern California to arrive in Jasper by late August. Now aged 65 this is the 5th year he’s made the trip. Not always quite the same route, but pretty much. He tells us he talks to his bike. He also talks to himself though perhaps without realising it.
Whatever, Gary is a fellow to listen to when it comes to cycle touring in the western US. Poring over a map G suggests that to avoid fire-affected roads we should head east to Banff, then south. So we do.
The second day out of Lake Louise sees us in Banff, having found quiet back roads and a quiet forest campsite followed by birthday breakfast in the cafe cross the road. We stop in tourist-dominated Banff long enough to check Debs birthday greetings emails before making it to the much less touristy town of Canmoor. Here we enjoy birthday dinner of yet more sushi. Anything rather than Canadian-American fare.
Another longish backroads day after Canmoor in clear weather seems to vindicate our decision to come this way. A black bear scampering across the road in front reminds us we are still in the wilds on a day that ends in another forest campsite.
We have found ourselves in Kananaskis Country. Just a couple hours drive from Calgary, its absolutely beautiful. Clear blue skies, soaring rocky peaks, lakes and forest epitomise the Canadian Rockies - with hardly any travellers, and no smoke. Happy days and some compensation for the disappointment of the Icefields Parkway. Breakfast on the terrace at the golf club even makes it seem like a holiday. That we have to climb Highwood Pass, at 2200 metres the highest paved road in Canada, is a small price to pay. And the downward descent to riverside camp at Green Ford is a great long whizz.
We are now in the Eastern Ranges of the Rockies in the cattle and horse rangelands of south west Alberta. Proper cowboy country, as we head south on the Cowboy Trail. Still in bear country though: we watched one at a comfortable distance feeding up on berries (the bear, not us). Also a lone coyote.
The next couple of days were a bit grim. A mix of low rain cloud and smoke combined with heavy traffic encouraged us to spend long days in the saddle. Aided by a strong tailwind and largely unhampered by hills we touched down for a night at a windswept campsite before hitting Lundbreck on 24th August.
Here we had promised ourselves a hotel night, but were not quite prepared for what we found. “It’s a bit old” said the woman in Obie’s, the general store. Not wrong there. We registered in the dark dingy bar for our 28 quid room before discovering the dingy room and stained mattress. The second room was, possibly, even worse. Hey ho - probably all 8 rooms were of the same standard, but it was warm and dry and what do you expect for that amount of money anyway? Plus there was a pizza-serving brewery in this tiny town and the prospect of a community breakfast the next morning.
The brewery, pizza and community breakfast of pancakes and ham and coffee ensured that, alongside the Bates Motel experience, Lundbreck proved a most memorable stop. But it also found us, literally at a crossroads for our onward route.
The preferred route would be east then south through the national parks of Waterton and Glacier. The big draw here was the prospect of riding the “Going to the Sun” road that crosses Glacier Park. But the road had been closed to through traffic for a number of days due to smoke and fire and there seemed no chance that would change anytime soon. Which would mean a 100mile detour round the perimeter of the park. Which given the forecast seemed not particularly appealing.
Which left the alternative, scenically less-appealing but shorter westerly route over Crowsnest Pass. Despite some overnight rain the smoke still obscured the view, so the prospect of lack of scenery tilted the decision in favour of the western route.
As it turned out the ride was interesting for other reasons. Mining of the extensive deposits of coal has left its mark on this part of Alberta and the road is lined by mining villages, industrial archaeology and memorials to mining disasters that made for an interesting day that ended at the town of Sparwood. Here is displayed the worlds largest truck: evidence of rhe continuing exploitation of the first “black gold”.
From Sparwood its a short ride to the ski town of Fernie. After doing the heritage walk of downtown Fernie, but not seeing it at its best on a wet grey Sunday, we check in at our first Warmshowers since leaving Vanderhoof. Our hostess is Liz Bilham, an Englishwoman drawn to Fernie by the skiing some 8 years ago, now working as a physiotherapist: small world. We have a great evening of proper cooking, wine and conversation with Liz before an early breakfast on the last day in Canada. As before, overnight rain has dampened the forest fires and in clearing skies we speed downhill out of the mountains towards the border post of Roosville. Which marks the end of the detour from Lake Louise.
Our last night on Canada was cold enough to leave a light dusting of snow on the tops of The Three Sisters mountain and we left Fernie in a light rain. This had cleared to warm sunshine by the time we arrived at border control. Here Mr T’s representative was brusque and without civility as he welcomed us back to the USA. But he let us in anyway with the admonition to be out of the country by 6th December. We assured him we had no intention of over-staying.
The change in scenery was equally stark. Leaving behind the tree-ed mountains we now find ourselves in the open range country of N W Montana heading to our Warmshowers hosts in Eureka. Latimer our host was away for the evening but texted instructions to find the key and let ourselves in to the basement appartment he shares with Kari.
They duly showed up later. Hailing from Vermont they had come to Montana for the skiing and had found work locally - he as a teacher, she as a “physician’s assistant”. With 70% of Montanans voting for Trump they find themselves a little out of place in a town where the students have few aspirations and the parents only requirement is that the teacher is “nice to the kids”.
Having discovered Eureka we push onward down Highway 93 to reach the well-heeled regional centre of Whitefish where well-watered lawns complement a full range of services. For us this means the RV park, Chinese restaurant for supper and Macdonalds for breakfast. The weather is unseasonally warm which should have made the next few days very pleasurable but for a headwind that blows up as we head across the flat open plains of the Flathead river to arrive at the lakeside resort of Bigfork.
Partly because of the wind and partly because of the excellent brewery we vote ourselves a rest day at The Wayfarers campground followed by a half day ride of just 18 miles. This takes us back into the land of forest and lakes as we cycle along the quiet-ish road of the Swan valley. Quiet enough that we are “rewarded” (?) with two further black bear sightings.
We are headed for Missoula. Missoula is the first reasonably large city since leaving Anchorage some three months ago and probably the last one till Mexico, where we are due some three months hence. So after a Warmshowers overnight on the floor of Felicia (Fay) Reynold’s apartment we run a few errands and drop by the HQ of the Adventure Cycling Association - whose route map has been our guide for the last several days. Here, as tradition dictates, we have our Polaroid mugshot pinned to the wall for all to admire. And, of course, with 6 breweries in town, we cannot leave until they open at noon. So we manage a swift half before heading south along a paved bike path down the valley of the Bitterroot river.
The valley of the Bitterroot is an example of what happens when, apparently, there are few planning restrictions. The busy Highway is lined with small towns with fast food eateries and services to meet the needs of passing motorists. In between are random other commercial enterprises, interspersed with low-intensity agriculture. Interestingly, most of the towns have a brewery. There are also stores along the highway offering a full range of firearms for sale, including assault rifles. Hmmm, interesting juxtaposition, dontcha think?
Anyway, the bike path speeds us 50 odd miles in just the afternoon to reach Hamilton. Away from the main highway the town is, like Missoula, a picture of suburban tranquility. Detached houses sit back from wide, shaded tree-lined streets. The town plan is a simple grid with numbered streets intersecting numbered avenues. The house numbers follow the street/avenue number and orientation is made easier by the addition of “south” or “north” to the address depending on where you are in relation to “Main”. Simples.
This matters to us as we need to find the home of Peggy and Warren who at very short notice have accepted our Warmshowers request. Peggy and Warren are kind, gracious hosts personified. We enjoy a very relaxing evening in their company, and that of Lois, Warren’s elderly mother. Lois has many stories to tell of her journey in the early 1900's from East to the West with her German/Dutch parents and siblings to start a homestead. Dinner is fresh vegetables, risotto, ice cream, locally-brewed IPA and Argentinian Malbec. Breakfast of waffles is equally delicious and we linger long enough to learn more of Peggys career as an attorney, first as a prosecutor then as a teacher in law school, and Warrens time working as a beekeeper and, later,in the Job Corps. After lifetimes spent in public service they are still active in their community and as avowed Democrats, distraught at the rise of Trumpism. How their fellow citizens, including some people they know could have voted for him is deeply perplexing and concerning. It’s a sentiment we have heard before and are to hear again.
Onward and upward to overnight camp at Sula where we hear reports of snow. Next day we leave the mountains after crossing the Continental Divide and visit Big Hole Battlefield where 700 fleeing Nez Perce Indians were attacked in 1877 by the Federal army for not agreeing to the governments wish to reduce their reservation size by 90%.
At the RV park in Wisdom we bump into a couple of North Carolinian fishermen/would be bow and arrow elk hunters. They are pondering the cost of an out of state permit to hunt elk which is $850 compared to $20 if you live in Montana! They tell us about the Bible Belt and their church of a 60 strong congregation and talk about God's wonders and "The Creation". We are declared "lost" and so to help us back on to the path of righteousness, we find a copy of the New testament and 2 Starbucks Frappuccinos on our camp table.
Next day we speed on to Jackson to the Hotel run by Rick. He has a specialist set up for touring cyclists, largely because his establisment is on the TransAmerican bike route. He has camping faciities, queen beds in independent rooms, about 6 queen beds in the dormitory upstairs (which girl cyclists have no hesitation in sharing with other girls….not so the men! ) He has an interesting bathroom affair with 2 sinks, 2 showers and 2 WC’s all in the same room!
We are given a demonstration of a tree stand by which the hunter can shimmy up a tree and then sit safely in the upper branches to shoot elk. We also are introduced to about 11 of the 38 strong community of Jackson at sundowners on the porch of a lady rancher and meet a sheep farmer and his mate in the local diner. He regales us with jokes and stories of ranching. We leave the following morning after a tour of a soon to be re-opened/refurbished hotspring hotel, owned by a Dutchman and his American wife.
We opt to visit the now deserted ghost town of Bannack. Once the state capital. It existed to serve the gold miners who came in the 1860s in search of riches but mostly found nothing. Fortunately the campsite is nearby and it proves to be a very atmospheric visit to this town complete with saloon bar, school house, hotel, gallows, general store , jail and of course…….masonic lodge. Our visit coincides with a meeting of the Lodge whose members include a posse of Harley Davidson riders. Their Chapter is called the Vigilantes, named after a band of citizens who managed to drive out and kill the evil sherriff, Henry Plummer and his men…..the gallows were used in 1864.
We have a chat with a fellow English Cyclist and his New Zealand girlfried and a couple of 55yr plus women from Anchorage who are cycling the Continental Divide on mountain bikes. Surprisingly we have a common contact in Anchorage. Katie Piraino treats and cures a lot of people…particularly cyclists!
We cycle on to Twin Bridges and meet up again with French Matt from Grenoble. We spend a jolly evening by the river in a “donation only cycle specific campsite”.
10th September. We are 2 days away from Yellowstone National Park heading through Ennis. Here we chat with 17 year old Cully. No Republican, he also can't understand the appeal of Trump to his fellow high schoolers. So we still can't find any Republicans.
Although headwinds prevail we cycle through glorious scenery with gorgeous photo opportunities. Huge skies, and huge hay stacks made by a contraption called a Beaver Slide. Along the Madison river we see large numbers of fishing boats designed for 3 men to float down the river in pursuit of trout which, if caught, are released. Men pay $400 a day to do this, we are told. After a horrendous afternoon battling into the wind we settle into an RV park to drown our sorrows in a pint of IPA and a 16 inch Pizza
By the end of the next day we are pleased to reach West Yellowstone, gateway to the Park. A town given wholly over to park tourism it is less pleasing to find that none of the four RV sites in town accept tenters. So we back track 2 miles to the Forest Service campground where the seasonal hosts find us a space. Not what we wanted but a sufficient base for doing laundry, blog, etc and stocking up for the Park. We plan 6 days in the Park, so take a day off in town first.
A passing cold front brought wind and the threat of rain on our rest day, but 14th Sept dawned cold and clear. Through the park gates by 8.00 we headed for our first camping at Canyon Village. The following days saw us moving every day to a new campsite: there are 12 campings in the Park and we managed 5 of them.
After the disappointments of other set pieces on our route all went well for us in Yellowstone. Sunny days and coldish nights with only a strong afternoon SW wind to test us. Our days were filled with new and marvellous sights and sounds. Canyons and waterfalls, geysers and hot springs, splendid scenery and exciting wildlife. Highlighting the wildlife were the bison herds in Lamar valley and distant early morning sightings of wolves. But no bears. We were warned to expect both grizzly and black; but not a glimpse did we get, nor hardly even scat.
We also had been warned about heavy traffic on narrow roads. True enough there was traffic aplenty, but mostly it was cars and pickups, relatively few RVs, and NO TRUCKS allowed! And by and large they passed slowly, giving a wide berth. A number of times we were complimented on our ingenious use of foam noodles / pipe lagging as a means of encouraging compliance with the 3 foot distance from bikes when overtaking signs.
The park is hugely popular. To judge from the car licence plates, people had come from every US state to visit their national treasure. Almost, it seemed a visit to Yellowstone is a pilgramage. And thats before you add in the foreigners in rented RVs and cars. Oh, and the Chinese. Mostly they travelled in buses that whisked them from sight to sight and out again. Of all the visitors they appeared to be having the most fun.
All this host of visitors puts pressure on the park infrastructure, especially the campgrounds. Even in this last week of the season they have been booked solid for months. But this does not bother us. As hiker/bikers we are guaranteed a site even if the camping is full: well there have to be some compensations.
6 days gave us time to sample all that the park has to offer. Heading south we passed into neighbouring Grand Teton park. Famed for mountain scenery, hiking and, in the season, skiing. Not a large park, we passed through with an overnighter at Jenny Lake to arrive in the tourism/skiing hotspot of Jackson in the afternoon of 21st September.
Here we faced a dilemma. Having been without cell or email in the Parks, we had arranged nowhere to stay. Motel rooms are $160 and up (even if available) and Jackson has no campgrounds. But time spent on the internet in the library produced a positive response from Warmshowers host Louie. Turns out Louis Armstrong (yes, really) rents an appartment just 2 minutes from the library and he was very happy for us to crash in his spare room, do laundry and get a shower. Happiness all round improved upon by a visit to a Thai-fusion / brewery in town.
Louie works evenings in the restaurant business so its not till the following morning that we get to chat over a UK-style breakfast cooked by Debs. Louie works summers so he can ski in winter. Not the first college-educated American we’ve met choosing lifestyle over career. He confirms that our plan to cycle 12 miles to Hoback Junction and hitch a ride should work out.
The reason we want to hitch is, essentially, to make up time. We have been lucky with the weather; this far north we could have encountered snow by now and we don't want to push our luck too far.
In preparation we have scripted a banner naming a few towns on our intended route. Our target vehicle is one of the numerous 4x4 pickup trucks that have ample room for us, bikes and bags. 30 minutes later we score a lift in just such a truck. 2 men, 3 kids heading out for a weekend in the hills with bikes, fishing gear and beer and food in coolers means there is room for us and our stuff only in the back. They are only going 30 miles, but we accept their offer. In the event they take us 40 miles. Not only does this 1 hour ride take us a full riding day onward, but it also takes us up a 3,000 foot 15 mile hill past an area badly affected by forest fire.
A second hitch gets us a couple of short ride offers, but we decline these and end up riding 15 miles mostly downhill with following wind to reach Pinedale and the $10/night town campground. The only other camper turns out to be one of the kind people to have offered a ride earlier. Kevin is from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Now retired, at 62 he has time to spend in the wilderness areas of the NW states where he hikes and fishes. But now he's on his way home where, he says, his priority is to campaign to get the vote out for the mid-term elections. There is a chance his party may win one seat in Congress. By his party he means the Democrats. One Democrat, in Louisiana. Well, it would be a start.
Anyway, turns out Kevin is heading out tomorrow to visit with an ex-girlfriend in Arizona. And his route takes him through Moab. Moab - isn't that one of the towns on our hitching banner? Sure is. He offers, we accept.
It's a tight squeeze. By his own admission Kevin is carrying a lot of stuff; including a couple of crates of river rocks he wants to take home. But we squeeze bikes, bags into the back and find room for us inside and as dawn breaks we are off.
Kevin drives at the speed limit, often while taking photos, chatting or spotifying on his i-phone. This is a little unnerving, to be sure. We bypass Salt Lake City, drive through Provo and south through dry desert to arrive in Moab, 430 miles away, in 8 hours. That's 15 days riding done. It's also a few days of hills, open, windswept, dry desert with few lodging or feeding stations we don't have to do. Instead we can admire the awesomeness of Utah from the comfort of Kevin's a/c Ford 4x4. An unexpected bonus of our hitching, we learn, is that we may have avoided being trapped in Jackson. The day after we hitched it, the road out was closed due to…..forest fires.
Having been travelling in the slow lane for so long, arriving in Moab in such a rush is like landing in another country. Or maybe another planet. Certainly, the hot blue sky, red rock cliffs and mesas of Utah seem worlds away from the green forests and grey mountains of the north.
Kevin still has 4 hours driving to do so we have him drop us at the first available camping. This is Moab valley RV park. It's 4 miles out of town, but it has everything we need. Plus its on the doorstep of the must-do Arches National park. More to the point, the ride has given us back 14 days. Plenty of time to explore the canyons arches, cliffs and deserts of south Utah. Which is how we will see out the last week of September and first week of October.
Many people have urged us to visit Zion and Bryce national parks in SW Utah. Not so simple when these are 250 miles off our cycle route. But in a car….simple. The walk-in car hire price with the only agency in town is $80 / day. On-line price with 1 week notice is $35. So that settles it. We decide to spend a week based in Moab then take off in a car for 5 days.
Domestic chores keep us occupied for a day before we cycle across the Colorado river to Arches National park where we spend the day. Fabulous red rock and cliff landscapes under deep blue skies await us and the 3 hour round trip hike to Delicate Arch is a fine choice.
Moab is mountain biking-central with miles of marked trails. The area also attracts 4-wheeled off-road weekend warriors in Jeeps and curious open-sided OHVs (Off Highway Vehicle). These are a bit of a nuisance, especially when they set-off from the RV park at 2am. But never mind, as we are off on an expedition of our own. A couple of people have recommended a visit to the intriguingly-named Dead Horse state park. We think there won't be vacancy for camping in the park, but Horsethief campground 12 miles out should be ok.
In anticipation of a dry camp we set out with an extra 10litres of water which Debs reports to be no great an additional burden. It's 30 hot uphill miles to Horsethief. We make camp in the shade of Pinyon pines before riding unencumbered for the sunset views at Dead Horse Point. From here we overlook the Colorado canyon and take in distant views of Canyonlands park before a Milkyway-filled downhill ride back to camp. We like the peace and quiet of our desert camp and on a whim we elect to spend another night at Horsethief. This gives us the chance to enjoy the peace of riding a few off-road miles in the desert during the day and make a sunrise visit to Dead Horse before a swift downhill wind-assisted return ride to the RV park in Moab.
After a day-off and preparation for our road trip, come Monday we load all our panniers, food and booze into the Hyundai economy rental, triple-lock the bikes in Enterprise's garage and head out.
We backtrack north 40 of the miles we already travelled with Kevin before swinging south towards our first stop at Bryce Canyon. Our route along highways 24 and 12 is spectacular and varied. Hot dry desert with canyons and outcrops gives way to pine and flaming yellow aspen forest at 9000 feet in the mountains of Grand Staircase - Escalante national monument to bring us to camp at the entrance to Bryce Canyon.
Low cloud and rain make us doubt whether we will get to actually see anything of the famed hoodoos of Bryce. This all a consequence of Hurricane Rosa which made landfall in Baja a couple of days ago and is now bringing cool, unsettled weather to the SW USA. Apparently Mr Trump has plans to build a wall to keep illegal Mexican weather systems from entering the US. But our patience is rewarded. As we hike the rim of the Amphitheatre, the drizzle dries up, the clouds part and we are rewarded with atmospheric vistas of the extraordinary landscape of Bryce. Our experience is complete with a short hike down into the canyon before the rain returns in the afternoon. The weather Gods were smiling, for sure.
The Gods stay with us for the rest of our road trip. Next on this whistle-stop tour is Zion. Completely different from Bryce in character and scale, the bit of Zion that run-of-the-mill tourists like us get to visit is the deep, wide canyon carved through the rocks by the Virgin river. The press of the tourist throng is mitigated by the free hop-on, hop-off shuttle buses that run up and down the 15 miles or so of access road. We make full use of this to “do” 3 of the set trails. More by luck than judgement these include cliff, river and open canyon routes and we leave Zion as the sun sets feeling we have made best use of our time.
We return to our tent at the Hitch-n-post rv park in the town of Kanab where we have booked 2 nights. Doug, the camp host has told us of Kanab’s fame as a centre of western movie making, and from the look of him we suspect he may have himself been an extra in some of them. But the attraction of Kanab for us is no more than its convenience as a jumping off point for Zion and Grand Canyon, north rim. Oh, plus it has a Macdonalds.
Why are people so down on Macdonalds? We love Macdonalds. Well, ok, Steven loves Macdonalds. For the touring cyclist they are a boon. Free wifi, clean toilets, opening early and closing late; warm, or cool as needed, friendly service, decent reasonably priced coffee. What's not to like? Apart from the food. We've tried: big breakfasts, egg and sausage Macmuffins, chicken-things, big macs, Macflurries. Nope, you don't go to Macdonalds for the food.
Anyway, after the second of 2 breakfast visits to Macds in Kanab and a phone call home to wish Dad happy 95th birthday we are off early to drive 100 miles to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. The Canyon is one of 2 sights Debs wanted to see. Our original plan was to visit the south side of the canyon by bike. But this way is better. At close to 9000 feet North rim is higher than the south, recieves far fewer visitors and is much less developed. Because of snow it closes mid October. Today is 4th October and cold enough to snow. It doesn't snow; but it rains for much of the 2 hour drive to the Visitor Centre. But our luck is in. With clouds lifting we get sun and shadow on the canyons and the views are truly spectacular. Photos barely convey the scale and grandeur of the Grand Canyon.
We take the usual photos anyway and drive to another viewpoint: amazing how easy it is to tour in a car! Job done, Grand Canyon ticked, we have a night and a day before we must return the car.
The evening before we worked out we could make a circular tour that would take in the second of Debs must-sees: Monument valley. By chance the route to Monument valley, via the town of Page, would take us to Navajo bridge across the Colorado. Here, we were told by a ranger at Grand Canyon, there is a chance to see Californian condor. We rock up just in time to see one fly in to roost on a girder of the steel road bridge over the river. It wears wing tag number H9. Wild and free….?
And so to the last night of the car tour. A pleasant pitch in an RV site on the edge of town convenient for an early MackyD breakfast before heading out into the Navajo reservation towards Moab. The reservation is a largely featureless desert dotted with shanty dwellings set back from the highway. We think we will be cycling back this way in a few days so make notes about camping, eating and watering stops, and about the condition, absence/presence of the hard shoulder. It's not hugely encouraging. Also we learned that a flash flood, courteousy of Rosa has washed out the road further south along our intended bike route, that would require a 200 mile detour. Hmmm, not good.
But that's for another day. Today we are happy to be enjoying the Monuments of Monument valley, but have neither time nor overwhelming inclination to detour off the main road into the so-called monument valley park. But we do stop at a roadside stall to enjoy a freshly prepared fry bread. A Navajo speciality, this is a deep fried flour and water pancake-type offering topped with your choice of syrup, cinnamon, etc. Enjoy!
Like Cinderella we have to be back on time or our car will turn into a demand for extra $$. Car returned, bikes collected and the rental contract closed we can relax that we won't be hit for the cost of spurious minor damage on the way that we have been “done” in Europe. Time to revel in the relative comfort of our pre-booked cabin at the Lazy Lizard Hostel. Traveller’s hostels often have a reputation for attracting dubious characters, being grubby and unappealing and being targets for theft and worse. Much of the Lizard hostel is grubby and unappealing, but the cabin is clean and affords privacy and a sense of security. We prepare for our onward journey. The bikes each have a new chain and rear casette, the brakes having already been renewed, and we have restocked food, fuel and booze. The bit we can't organise is the weather or the hills.The forecast is for headwinds, rain and low temperatures and the next 50 miles looks like its uphill to 7000 feet. But, hey, a bit of wet, cold uphill battling is just part of the cycle touring business, so stop yer wingeing and get on yer bike.
With wind, rain and low temperatures in the forecast it's with some misgivings that we leave Moab before sunrise. The next stopover is Montecello some 54 miles south, but our progress is slow. By mid afternoon we are pleased to find sanctuary some 8 miles short at Roughlock Inn where we are grateful for the last available room, shower and dinner of steak and pork loin. It rains all night.
Rain holds off the next day long enough for us to get to Montecello. But we have resolved to get south faster than our little legs will allow. So, 10 minutes later we get a lift from Claus & Sandra, 20something Dutch couple in their rented RV. They are going to Monument Valley, which suits us fine.
Our luck holds and we soon score our second lift from the crossroads at Monument valley. Trudi is on her way from her home on the Navajo reservation to the Laundromat in the town of Kayenta. Her sister and 3 kids are going too, but there's room in the back of the pickup for us, bikes and bags. On arrival in Kayenta at 3.30 Trudi tells us she is going on to Flagstaff later and offers to take us - but not till the evening after she's returned home to have dinner with the family. We gladly accept and she agrees to pick us up at Macdonalds (where else?) at 7.00pm
At 8.30 Trudi pulls into the parking lot. 5 hours is a long time to have spent in Macdonalds, so we are happy to be on our way. And Trudi is happy for the company on the 180 miles to Flagstaff . Trudi is a Nurse Assistant in a care home in Flagstaff, so this is her weekly commute. There is plenty of time in the 3 hours on the road to get an insight into her life. Without husband, she lives with her parents, one of her sisters and a whole bunch of kids. She is the only one bringing in a wage. Her parents are in poor health and like many Navajo, dependent on government handouts for food and healthcare. The poor quality of the food parcels is to blame for their diabetes and kidney failure, she believes. Her 2 girls go to boarding school on the reservation where there are very few jobs, so her aspiration for them is to train as welders.
Just before midnight we check in at the $60 Travellodge motel on Route 66, bid farewell to Trudi and crash. Over coffee and toast breakfast we decide to continue our flight south. Phoenix offers the best prospect of settled weather so we pedal to a likely point on the road out of town and start thumbing. No luck, so we cycle a few more miles and try again; still nothing. Third location, this time on the slip road onto the interstate, proves lucky. But only just. We had rolled up our hitching banner when Andy pulls over.
Andy is driving a battered Ford pickup towing a flatbed trailer. Plenty of room to tie-down a couple of bikes, and plenty of room for us and bags inside. Andy is heading down to his house just north of Phoenix and invites us to spend the night. He now runs a junk bond fund out of an office in Scotsdale, but he's a man of many talents, having worked in construction, mining, engineering. Most recently he's taken to small scale beef ranching on a few acres “off-grid” near Flagstaff. His wife and 2 college age girls live in Indiana and in a few days he's taking a load of frozen beef and a car up there. Which explains the flatbed trailer.
Sun, sun, sun. Phoenix is some 4,000 feet lower than Flagstaff and its proper desert - with cacti. Refreshed after a night at Andy's we are ready to hit the road under our own steam. An rv park in Wickenberg provides adequate accommodation and the day after we press on westwards under hot sun and passing clouds through dry, rocky desert to arrive in the town of Salome.
We arrive in Salome courteousy of Bruce O’Hara. He owns an rv park that does not take tents but was good enough to drive us to one that does. This is Arizona Sunset RV park. Its run by Maxine who shows us a place to pitch our tent. She tells us she doesn't charge bicyclists to stay. She also offers us use of the “club house” which has shower, wc, kitchen, dining room, bedroom. Normally used by park residents, we are left free to make use of whatever we want.
Which we do. For the next 6 days. Well, we have time in hand, there is another wind and rain storm and Maxine and husband Tom make it clear we are very welcome to stay. But its not days of idleness. We are keen to mug up our Spanish, but enquiries about lessons or homestays in the border area have turned up nothing. But Debs has found an online course that seems to fit the bill, so we knuckle down and plough our way through several hours a day of homestudy.
As luck would have it there's a half decent Korean-run store next door that gives us what we need and the days pass comfortably and usefully. We take time out to attend the annual town founders day parade and community supper and also learn from Maxine and Irene, one of the parks residents, a bit of what its like to be poor in America. Suffice to say, its tough.
We have made some Warmshowers contacts in Mexico and have also logged into a Facebook group in the town of San Felipe. From this we can plot our route through Baja California for the first week or so. But we also learn that our road south of San Felipe has been washed out in places by Hurricane Rosa but can be detoured by 4x4. Ho hum.
But we can't stay in Salome. So with mucho mas espagnol under the belt it's onward to the curiousity that is Quartzite. Badging itself as rock capital of Arizona, if not the world, it attracts a motley collection of folk, including those who scour the surrounding desert for semi-precious gems and rocks. Yes, rock rocks, not rock music. It also serves as Snowbird centre. Snowbirds are people of a certain age who spend winter in the warm dry SW desert before migrating north for the summer. They live and travel in rvs of different shapes and sizes. How they actually pass their days - when not trying to run us off the road - is a mystery to us. Anyway, Quartzite in Mid-October is wall-to-wall rv parks, many not yet open and the others largely vacant. This gives the town an air of post-apocalyptic semi-dereliction and many of the people on the site where we camp appear to be tent dwelling vagrants rather than rv owning snowbirds. Not at all what you see in the tourist brochures promoting “America the beautiful”.
Not sorry to leave Quartzite, we make good speed the next day to cross the rio Colorado into California. Here we are presented with a sudden contrast, leaving behind the harsh desert landscape of Arizona to find expansive acres of irrigated land growing cotton, alfalfa, hay, potatoes. We also notice signs that Mexicans live and work here. Our destination is a campsite on public land on the bank of the Colorado. Very pleasant it is too until the camp host fires up a generator to power his rv and leaves it running till quiet time at 10.00pm. His example is followed by the only other rv on site and by the only other tenter who likes to share his radio with everyone. So much for a tranquil evening in the desert. Which led us to muse on and grumble about what is it with Americans and machines?
Time to hasten to Mexico. We have a long full day to reach Brawley, a reasonably short hop from the border. Its a 68 mile haul on a tricky stretch with lots of rvs and big trucks. The road rises and falls across the desert before descending to the non-settlement of Glamis. Sitting on the edge of an expanse of sand dunes, this is now a centre for the seemingly pointless passtime of dune buggy riding.
The open-sided ohvs and quad bikes used for this are straight out of Mad Max. Coming so soon after Quartzite, and taken alongside the insights from Trudi, Maxine and Irene into their lives, we feel somewhat uneasy about aspects of American society that have developed, largely it seems, unremarked by outsiders.
On which note its time to sign off. Our time in USA is all-but up. Motel 6 provides a comfortable lodging on our last night. We enjoy a few final excellent IPAs with selection of tapas from the supermarket over the road before heading 20 miles south tomorrow to Mexico.
We delayed our departure from Brawley for a couple of days to catch up with family affairs in the UK and to do more Spanish lessons. Turns out Brawley is below sea level, so the road South is, strictly speaking, uphill. But it runs straight and true via small towns to the border at Mexicali (a blended name derived from ‘Mexico’ and ‘California’ while the town on the U.S. side is called Calexico)
The border here is used mainly by local people going about their daily businesses. Probably for this reason fimmigration procedures are informal, to say the least. No checkpoint on the US side and a new multi-lane approach to the Mexican passport control. A cursory glance at Steven's passport only and we are waved through. But being savvy travellers we know we need to get a 6 month entry permit from an office just round the corner where a nice man talks us through the paperwork, relieves us of $60 and wishes us ‘buon viaje’.
A night at the hotel Azteca de Oro gives us time to consider our plans for onward travel. We are in no great hurry, and with matters in UK still needing attention we decide to take advantage of a Warmshowers hosting in the old part of town. We end up enjoying 5 nights of the warmest, most generous and kind hospitality you could imagine. Our host is Dr Roberto Garcia. Trained in both western and oriental medicine his clinic provides comfort and safety for passing cyclists. Herman, Claudia and Idolinda the staff at the clinic are equally hospitable and take care to introduce us to a couple of simple nearby eateries. One of these is owned by Jose Barrios who adopts us so he can practice English English (as opposed to American English, which he knows is not the same). But he also is a patient teacher and we supplement our Spanish course with Spanish conversation classes.
So our first week in Mexico is spent within sight of the border fence - flouting the conventional advice to move on from the border asap to minimise the risk of unspecified nastiness. But we feel quite at ease on the streets. Though Jose advises caution and speaks of drug-related petty criminality, local people are friendly and even when the hairdresser sets to with a cut-throat razor Steven does not flinch.
But there's more to Mexico than Mexicali. On 27th October we are back on the bikes heading for San Felipe, the next town on the road South. We take three days to do the 125 miles. Its flat and hot, but the road is good and the wind at our backs. Once clear of Mexicali the traffic soon diminishes and we can relax a bit. We enjoy a comfortable camping at Campo Mosquedo, a small resort on the bank of the Colorado. By accident, rather than design, we are here at the weekend so the bar and restaurant are open. We do not hesitate.
We spend the next morning at leisure. Given a choice of recreational watercraft to rent, we plump for a pedalo. Of course we do, we're cyclists. The afternoon's ride takes us to a simple (primitive) camping at what elsewhere might be called a wayside inn. Here its just a spot out the back to pitch a tent, a small shop (with beer) & WC bordering on the unspeakable. But the owner Cesar makes us welcome.
San Felipe provides winter refuge for superannuated North Americans (aka snowbirds). Some have moved into brick and mortar condos in gated communities by the beach on the outskirts of town. Others come in RVs with assorted motorised toys. At Kiki’s rv park we somewhat reluctantly bed down with a small gaggle of Rvers, but there are too many dogs, flies and N Americans for our liking so we find preferable accommodation at the other end of town at Club de Pesca. Its pleasant enough to spend a couple of nights, savouring simple tasty tacos, beer and a glimpse of the Day of the Dead festival. This falls close enough to Halloween that here in US-influenced San Felipe the two have somewhat run together. But we get the general idea of Dia del Muerte and enjoy the Mariachi band on the seafront.
Pre-trip research had suggested the road beyond San Felipe is tarmac for all but the last 18miles or so. But we knew that Hurricane Rosa, which had affected our weather in the SW States had swept across Baja washing out sections of the carriageway south of San Felipe. And so it proved. The next 130 miles were quite testing. Not only for the gravelly, sandy, rocky detours around broken bridges but also for the 15mile stretch of planned improvements. Not to mention the 20 miles of new route under construction. But we survived. One night camped on the porch of the village shop, the next at the beach at Gonzaga Bay and the third a wild camp in the desert. Our first proper wild camp of the trip. Common to all 3 camps was the spctacle of star-filled nights with the Milky Way as clear as you like.
With a sense of achievement we reached the end of the difficult Highway 5 at it's junction with Highway 1. The One is the principal route through Baja. As such it carries most of the traffic - including trucks that take up the whole lane. And no hard shoulder. Needless to say we had been warned often enough, north of the border, to be careful of Mexican driving (actually to be careful of Mexicans). But then, the Americans are a very fearful people.
Another reason to be cheerful (small prize for anyone who gets the reference there) at this point was that we caught up with the Cycling Dutchies. Sjoerd and Hanneka with son Ramses, aged 2yrs 10months had arrived in Mexicali at Dr Garcia's a couple of days after us and moved on the same day we did. Since then we had been riding the same route, so inevitably often caught up with each other, shared a couple of campings and a few miles of roadway / rocky path in between. Now we found them in a roadside cafe where we joined them for breakfast.
Like us they had decided to make a detour off Highway 1 to Bahia de Los Angeles. By mutual consent we agreed to travel together, so it was as a loose convoy that we set off for BDLA. And what a great couple of days it was. Nice fast roads, little traffic and the wind pretty much in the right place. Luxuriant desert vegetation and distant hills provided the setting for the ride and for our second desert wild camp.
BDLA is at the end of the road. A motley collection of small businesses, modest houses and simple hotels line a wide bay, protected from the sea by a cluster of small islands. We found a small simple campsite at Campo Archaelon about a mile out. Palapas (beachfront camping shelters) for $16, WCs, fresh water showers - the first in several days - with wifi available, provided everything we needed.
We end up spending 3 nights with days spent in, on or near the sea. Pelicans and cormorants fishing just off shore, with attendant gulls and waders, ospreys and vultures give a clue to the abundance of wildlife in the bay. One day we team up with Norman & Emilia, a travelling British / Costa Rican couple, to hire a boat to go out in the bay. 4 hours later we return having spotted sealions, seabirds and swum with a whale shark. Just saying. Happy days in Baja.
We left the coast in the company of the Cycling Dutchies (Sjoerd, Hannika & young Ramses). They had spent a couple of days as guests of an American couple in their house on the other side of the bay
Their host Tim offered to truck them 30k up the hill and we ‘invited’ ourselves along for the ride. And so it was that for the next 3 days we shared the road and a couple of overnight halts. With dusk falling at 6.00pm our riding days through the desert were relatively short. One night was spent encamped behind a restaurant that supplied food, beer, basic washrooms and a noisy night of dogs and trucks. In the early hours the frantic bleating of goats suggested a pre-dawn raid by coyotes, but come morning it seemed it was the birth of a kid rather than a death of a nanny that was the cause of all the excitement.
On 10th November we crossed into the State of California Sur to camp in comfort on the verandah of the restaurant Ojo de Liebre. Well-known to touring cyclists the restaurant makes no charge to camp, on the assumption that you will eat & drink. Which of course we are happy to do. For a couple of days now we have been keeping pace with 3 Americans from Portland - Hank, Charles & Evan - making their leisurely way south and, together with Sean from Canada we were a multinational party of 9 desert travellers that evening.
We had now crossed to the Pacific side of the peninsula. This is where the grey whales arrive in December to breed and provide a source of tourist dollars. But we are a good month too early for whale watching so press on to the dusty crossroad town of Vizcaino. The CDs opt to push on for a wild camp, but we opt for the comfort of the Hotel Olivia.
Which leaves us a day to ride 52 miles to San Ignacio. The last 12 miles is uphill into a stiff headwind. As the wind is forecast to strengthen over the next few days we plan a few days off to enjoy the bucolic charms of this old colonial oasis town. Founded by the Jesuits in the mid 18th century it has a mission church, a charming square with bar/resto and lots of date palms. And the wind does blow.
We stay 3 nights in the adequate but not luxurious hotel posada. Well for £17 it's pretty good, really. The adverse weather proves oddly timely as Debs develops a significant head cold virus that would preclude riding anyway. But on 15th November she passes herself fit to travel and after a late start we make jt as dusk falls to the port town of Santa Rosalia. It was a tough day of 50 miles and Debs is all-in. All in for a refreshing margarita that is, a slice of pizza sinaloensa, and a 5th consecutive hotel night.
Santa Rosalia repays a morning exploration, with cafe frappes and tacos for lunch before a 40 mile sprint down the coast to the town of Mulege. It's as dusk falls that we pitch tent in the tropical surroundings of the rv park Huerta Don Chanos. Its here that Debs virus really takes hold and given the comfortable surroundings the sensible thing is to wait and rest until the worst has passed.
There's little to do apart from taking things easy. A bar down the road offers generous cocktails which we enjoy in the company of the 3 Americans. We also follow recommendations from Spanish overlanders Carlos & Diana to find “the best fish tacos” they have tasted in Baja.
After 4 days of such treatment we are a bit restless and Debs a lot better. No reason, then, not to continue the journey. The next 2 days takes us 85 miles to Loreto via the picture postcard beaches of the Bahia de Conception. A lot of our fellow cyclists relish the chance to camp on the beach, with no facilities, to enjoy swimming and paddling the azure waters of the bay. But we are less enthusiastic to beach bum. Besides, even as Debs recovers, so Steven develops his own version of the debilitating virus.
Posada San Martin in a central location in Loreto serves as Steven's infirmary. The town centre offers a European ambiance with bars, restaurants and a micro-brewery, but a couple of blocks from the centre Loreto seems a workaday Mexican town with dogs, chickens, unpaved roads and friendly folk. Our 4 days in town is a re-run of Debs recuperation. Modest food and drink, Spanish revision and socialising with cyclists we have previously met, keep us occupied.
And it also gives us time to take stock, reflect on the journey so far and decide what to do next.
With just a month before we are to meet the kids in Mexico city, its clear we don't have time to cycle. Besides, reports have come in via social media from cyclists ‘down the road’ of troublesome hotspots ahead. All of which has caused most of our cycling companions to be re-evaluating their plans. But we do want to see something of the Central Highlands, albeit without too much time in the saddle.
Some hasty research suggests that the city of Morelia would be a good starting point for a 350 mile tour over a leisurely 3 weeks. We should be able to take in some colonial towns and cities, some lakes and possibly the monarch butterfly refuges. Which would leave us with a 3 hour bus hop into Mexico by 20th December.
Neither do we relish any more desert riding. So we buy bus tickets for the port city of La Paz, to avoid 6 days desert riding. In a stroke of boldness we also buy ferry tickets for the same day’s overnight sailing to Mazatlan on the mainland.
On 27th November we load bikes & bags into the bus and speed off across mostly featureless desert. A last 12 mile pedal from La Paz brings us in good time to catch the 8.00pm sailing. Baja is done and we have plans. But, as we have come to learn on this trip, travel plans tend to get disrupted by events largely beyond our control. So we wait to see what actually happens.
A pretty uneventful crossing of the Sea of Cortez with fitful sleeping on deck or in the passenger lounge brought us to the port city of Mazatlan. Overnight rain had left the streets wet, but by mid morning we had cycled under clearing skies across town and checked into our junior suite at Suitel 522. And very good it was too at £15 a night. And just a couple of blocks from the seafront.
Mazatlan proved a very acceptable stop-over with seafront, seafood and sun-dappled plazas and we were tempted to stay on a while. But the call of the road proved stronger and we booked our tickets for next day's 16 hour bus ride to Morelia. But then things took a strange turn.
For no apparent reason, Debs suddenly started seeing “lights and floaters” in her right eye. Googling these symptoms raised the alarming possibility of something as serious as a detached retina; which, if the case, would need urgent expert intervention. So followed an intense round of calls, emails and Whatsapps to put in place a plan. To cut a long story short, within 36 hours we got ourselves to Mexico City (22 hour bus ride arriving 5am on 30th November) to keep an evening appointment with opthalmic surgeon Gerardo Moñez. To huge relief all round he diagnosed a not unusual and not serious lesser condition requiring no treatment. A happy ending for sure to a tense and scary episode.
But we could not have managed without the help and support of Jess, our contact in Mexico City who checked out and found Dr Moñez, booked appointments and a hotel for us, and Nicki in UK who patched us into an opthalmologist back home for his opinion. Huge thanks to them of course, as well as to the good doctor.
So here we are, unexpectedly in Mexico City, all clear to continue the epic. But Mexico City does not hold us for long. Now confident that bikes and buses go together like a horse and carriage we decide to bus out of the city to Zitacuaro, from where we can easily access the monarch butterfly reserve. But first we have a full day in Mexico. And as its Saturday what better than to cycle a few miles to join the weekend crowds enjoying the delights of Chapultepec park.
The bus to Zitacuaro takes us effortlessly through the extensive sprawl of Mexico's suburbs. We are relieved not to be cycling through them, and by lunchtime we are enjoying pork tacos on a backstreet in Zitacuaro. Its 3.30 by the time we arrive in the village of Macheros. Its about 3,000 metres up in the mountains and likely to be a bit chilly. Passing up the ‘opportunity’ of a $70 American run B&B and $75 a head tour into the reserve we opt for a $20 cabana at the entrance to the reserve and arrange a guide for $16 all-in to take us into the reserve the next morning. Its a 2 hour uphill hike through the forest in warm sunshine. And it proves well worth the effort. The spectacle of millions of butterflies on the wing and alighted in dense profusion is stunning. The fact that there are only 2 other tourists on the trail adds to the sense that its a special day.
By mid afternoon we are free-wheeling the 12 miles back down to Zitacuaro. Zitacuaro is a pretty unassuming industrial city, but we enjoy the buzz of the packed centre and are enticed to sample the delights of 3 different food stalls. We conclude that each provided a variation on the theme of filled taco: the deep fried chicken tostada (bread bun) was probably the stand-out offering (in Stevens book anyway).
We are heading for Morelia the state capital of Michoacan and one of the so-called colonial cities of Mexico. We get there in two days riding from Zitacuaro, stopping overnight in cheap and cheerful hotels, first in Ciudad Hildago, then Querendaro. The scenery we pass is pleasant enough but not spectacular, the roads busy, but not too much. Roadside stalls abound with offerings of tacos, fruits and snacks, so keeping fed and watered is not a problem. 6th December sees us arriving in Morelia. Traffic volumes build as we approach and the final 5 miles through the outskirts is a bit testing on our nerves and navigational skills. But we find our pre-booked hotel without mishap and settle into a couple of days leisurely sightseeing the city, sitting in plazas and cafes as the fancy takes us.
Highland, green, farmed and forested Mexico offers a stark contrast to the largely flat and essentially brown deserts of Baja, memories of which seem to fade fast. But we must live in the present, they say. Which is particularly true for the cycle tourist. So we bid farewell to Morelia and head hopefully on to the town of Patzcuaro.
What should have been a relatively straightforward 40 odd mile ride turned into a bit of a slog. Partly due to a rather late departure. But more due to the need to back-track after covering about 15 hilly miles and finding ourselves on a busy, narrow and fast dual carriageway. The prospect of riding this with no hard shoulder being somewhat akin to a death wish, we turned tail. A 10 mile backroads detour brought us to a less congested road with a hard shoulder that in turn fed us into a super smooth toll road. The final 8 miles into town brought a timely end to our 60 mile day: in many ways the hardest so far.
Our reward came in the form of a relaxing time enjoying an evening procession in honour of The Virgin of Guadeloupe and next day strolling the streets, squares and old buildings of this pre-Hispanic town. It had been our intention to cycle round the nearby Lake Patzcuaro and we stuck to the plan, completing the circuit in a leisurely two days. In the process we passed the 6 month anniversary of our departure from Anchorage.
The road round the lake brought us back, happily, to a busy crossroads from where local buses were leaving for Morelia. Consultations in broken Spanglish with various knowledgeable locals gave assurance that there was no reason why one of these would not be able to take bikes and bags (and us) quickly and cheaply to Morelia. So just as dusk fell we found ourselves checking into (yet another) cheap and cheerful hotel: this one just a mariachi band's sound radius from Morelia bus station.
Why Morelia? With just 10 days to go before la grand reunion with family in Mexico we felt the need to stop moving on. It was partly the realisation of the 6 month milestone, partly the cumulative effect of unscheduled ‘alarms and excursions’ since early October and partly a shared desire to take a break from the bikes that brought us to this realisation. And to give effect to this we had booked an AirBnB layover in the city of Guanajuato. And rather than cycle there (and/or back) over 3 days, we opted for a 4 hour deluxe bus from Morelia.
Which brings us to Guanajuato. By the time we return to Mexico City by bus we will have spent 9 days here. During this time we have done very little. Sure, from our small casita everything is very handily accessible. So we've looked round a handful of colonial buildings and taken in the small Diego Rivera museum. But mostly we've been sleeping in, enjoying the morning sunshine on the small terrace, and maxing out on the p&q afforded by the enclosed garden of our host’s home off a quiet traffic-free street. But our stay has not been without purpose. Apart from serving to recharge our batteries, which, it has to be said, at aged 60+ they do need, it has been an opportunity to make a plan for the early part of 2019.
Spoiler alert: the plan does not require bicycles
But before then we have the whole of Christmas and New Year to enjoy in the company of Hannah, Harriet and Joe (and sometimes Jess). H & H have already arrived and are now in Mexico City. Joe flies in tomorrow, 20th December, which is when we too will be returning there: by bus, of course.
So, how did we get here?
We arrived safe and sound on 9th January with bikes and boxes all correct. The journey was without incident - except we seem to have arrived with a dose of tropical tummy, courteousy of Etihad food. That apart all is good. Very hot and humid like Hong Kong.
Gamini is our host for 2 days. For breakfast he serves us fish curry, roti made with rice flour and coconut. Milky dhal. Omelette. Sweet bread filled with spiced potato toasted in a sandwich toaster. Star fruit, cucumber and tomato. Black tea.
We have to stay over the weekend in Colombo as the Immigration Dept where we must apply for our visa extension does not open till Monday. So we make the most of what Colombo has to offer. Which includes a spot of lunch at the colonial posh Galle Face Hotel. Some of us had the Sunday Buffet....others had fish'n chips!
On Tuesday 14th January we bid farewell to Colombo City and Katunayaka with our 90 day visas and leave behind the tuktuks /taxis/mayhem/ people/ noise/ horns blaring/ smoke/cars reversing onto pavements/ whistles blowing, etc as we head northwards from Negombo on our bikes. We cycle up the west coast leaving at 7.15. The roads were manic but we soon hit quieter routes and finally the minor coast road. We came across lots of people selling fish of all sorts: prawns of all sizes, tuna, small silver spratt like fish. There were also stalls with dried fish. We found a little hotel and restaurant where we spent the rest of the day. 33km done.
For the first 3 days we cycle about 25 to 45 kms. Starting at around 6.15 to beat the heat and finishing between 9.00 and 10.30 to leave the rest of the day to relax and discover our surroundings. One day we had the excellent fortune to stay at Peacock Spa, a super resort next to a bird reserve which we visited am and pm. The resort's owner is Morvin a Sri Lankan engineer working for BA at Heathrow. He wants help marketing and managing the resort to Europeans and asks if we know people who could do this. He particularly wants a woman manager. We say we will put out our feelers.
From there we travelled north to Puttulam before deciding to backtrack up the Kalpitya peninsula - famous for kitesurfing and dolphin watching. Though neither of these we do. We opt to stay in cheap accommodation called Dolphinchillin, but hang out in Dolphin Resort a classy joint managed by Pat an English woman. For £2 a head we have exclusive use of the pool (towels included) and facilities before retiring to our backpacker room for the night. ..all very acceptable.
We are not bothered by the wind turbines, but are bemused by the Chinese-built pier at the power station. Seems this is too short for coal carriers to moor at (typical Chinese "oversight" apparently). Which means that the ships bringing coal from South Africa anchor at sea while 2 lighters transfer coal to the power station. All of which in a designated area of outstanding natural beauty.
In actual fact Sri Lanka we have found to be densely populated and, in the towns at least, chaotic. So we are thankful for tourist resorts and green spaces plus reserves and parks.
But the kitesurfers of Kalpitya are a glum lot as it seems there is no kitesurfing to be done: the weather has turned overcast and winds light. Both of which are favourable for cycling of course.
We had hoped we would be able to leave the north end of the peninsula by fisherman's boat and so it turned out. After failing to bargain down the price from £20odd (some sort of cartel, obviously), in 15 minutes we are whisked across the lagoon. Our objective is Wilpattu National Park and a conveniently placed tourist hotel. We luck out with both and have the most amazing safari from the little used western entrance finding sloth bear (very rare to see) snakes, elephant, mongoose, spotted and muntjac deer, hornbills, eagles, beaters, boars. Great scenery, very bumpy and muddy but few other jeeps. In the evening we are served amazingly delicious food cooked by a Sri Lankan lady chef! Brilliant experience.
We left after an early morning kayak trip and returned to Puttulam. Here we dropped in at a so-called fancy hotel for a swim and a very poor meal before transferring to cheap accomodation ready for an early start heading towards Sigirya. But en route and on a whim we decided on a second safari to Wilpattu to be followed, by way of contrast, by a visit to the ancient city of Anuradhapura. So after finding a suitable lodging and negotiating a jeep hire we entered the park through the southern gate for an afternoon safari. We just couldn't keep away. And our persistence and tourist dollars were duly rewarded by a late afternoon sighting of a leopard sitting silent in the sand. So, the Sri Lankan "big three" bagged.
We spent 2 days in...here goes...Anurahdapura. In between cycle sightseeing we hang out in the evenings outside our lodgings by the tank (lake) which is part of a clever designed water conservation /irrigation/ sanitary system from 1 BC. Anuradhapura boasts many Dagobas and stupas, Buddhist monastery edifices one of which was, we read, the third highest structure in the world when this city was the ancient capital of Sri Lanka from the 5th century. Not that the builders would have known, or, probably, cared about this. Not to forget the Bodi tree. Most revered in all SL as it is from a cutting of the very tree under which the Buddha gained enlightenment. Which makes it pretty damn ancient. In fact the oldest cultivated tree in the world. So there.
Anyhow cycling around the ruins was very atmospheric and evocative.
Leaving Anuradhapura at 6.30 to beat the heat we cycled 74 kms to Sigirya. Time to laze by the pool in our evocatively name Wali Kakulu (meaning Jungle Fowl in Sinhala) Nest. Up early the next day to climb the Lion Rock. Famous for its preposterous location atop a magma extrusion/ volcanic plug the city palace was the creation of King Kasyapa. Kasyapa buried his father alive in a wall and, having built his palace and gardens, lived there for 10 years before commiting suicide. Guilty conscience?
Today the site features 1 km2 of water gardens at the base of the rock and 5th century frescoes (oldest in Sri Lanka) featuring the king's harem or are they water cloud spirits? Anyway, a collection of big boobed beautiful maidens. Half way up is the so-called mirror wall made from polished egg lime and plaster so the king could see himself (and the maidens reflection?) as he passed. And then there are the thousand + steps to reach the summit.
Gluttons for punishment (maybe make that FOMO), we also climb neighbouring Pidurangala rock in the evening. Well, you only live once.
Next stop Dambulla. Famous for 18th century Buddhist cave temples. It's a great, flat scenic ride from which we detour to check out a 20th century temple in the form of a Geoffrey Bawa designed lakeside hotel.Geoffrey Bawa, the acclaimed Sri Lankan architect, favours the bauhaus style. We think he's done a good job with this classy hotel. Stunning views great lime sodas and the design pretty amazing. We stopped off here for an hour then on to the Buddhist cave shrines. Many hot steps up. All very beautiful and not too many tourists.
A night time foot safari to nearby Sam Popham Arboretum (ok, the main reason for coming to Dambulla) provides views of Grey Slender Loris and rounds out a varied and fun-filled day.
Enough of the cultural stuff. The Hill Country calls. Usually, it would appear, people use Kandy as their gateway to the hills. But that looks like a lot of uphill cycling. So we opt to sneak round the side of the hills to Badulla. It's a 3 day ride to get there, stopping off at a couple of lakeside hotels for post-ride poolside r&r.
After all this time in the lowlands venturing into Hill Country where they grow tea is very exciting. But be careful what you wish for, they say. Yes, it's much cooler, and it seems more spacious. But it is in fact very hilly and there's no avoiding the 700 metres 46 kms 6 hour climb to Badulla.
So, time for a cunning plan. The rest of our hillclimbing is to be done by train.
From Badulla it's another 1000m up to the middle of the Hill Country. We get there aboard a Chinese-built blue train that clatters slowly slowly around the hills giving stunning jungle and tea plantation views. And the bikes? They travel ahead of us on the overnight mail train and we find them waiting for us at our destination Nanu Oya, the station for Nuwara Eliya.
Nuwara Eliya, otherwise known as NE or "Little England". So it's fitting that we should be staying at Little England Bungalow so close to Brexitday.
NE offers clubs, colonial buildings turned into hotels, a race course, and dress codes.Needless to say we visited several silly clubs and had a G&T ice and slice, took some photos of photos "Chaps in the Good Old Days", bills and ledgers. The Sri Lankans have kept a lot of colonial memorabilia.
An early morning visit gave us the Hakgala Botanical gardens mostly to ourselves. Later we (re)visited the Golf Club and paid 75p each day-member fee at the stuffy Hill Club. Once a hunting club for planters and miscellaneous colonials, Hill Club features decaying trophy heads, dowdy dining rooms, notices restricting various activities, glorious gardens, another billiard room, artefacts from way back when. All up itself to say the least, but apparently it's iconic: the rooms all full.
We enjoyed Nurawa Eliya for a total of 4 days, including a visit to Horton Plains national park where highlights were Sambar deer and spur fowl. The acclaimed vista from World's End was a bit so-so and there were lots of tourists on the trail.
From NE we descended (mostly free-wheeled) about 70 kms to Perendiya, a suburb of Kandy and site of a fine Botanical Garden. En route we stop for a visit to the Damro tea plantation for a little tour, cup of tea and cake. Lunch was taken in the Heritage bungalow where HRH's had visited in their youth.
Our host for 2 nights is Upale who holds an American passport. His wife and adult children are more at home in the US, but he has property in SL and land to sell. A gracious host he holds clear opinions about many aspects of Sri Lanka. For instance:
1. The Brits ruined water collection systems and caused soil erosion by planting tea.........2. Muslims in Sri Lanka are being infected by Wahabiism (wasabism as called by Steven) and cannot be trusted. He and many other Sinhalase boycott their businesses ...so they are leaving Sri Lanka........3. Politicians are corrupt but there is hope for the new President and the government looks likely to be a Sinhalase majority with no minority Tamils or Muslims. (80% of population is Sinhalese)......4. The Brits governed by "Divide and Rule" giving the best education and jobs to the 20% minority. 1948 4th February was when Sri Lanka became independent. So it's taken 72 years for the majority population to gain a majority in parliament! Up till now Tamils and muslims have apparently held the reins.......6.Who knows what the Americans are up to in Sri Lanka. They occupy 400 acres somewhere in the North West and no one is allowed there...spooky
We are first through the gates of the Botanical gardens. They do not disappoint and we spend 6 hours there before depositing our bikes at the station for their overnight return trip up into the hills. We follow along in the rather more crowded Blue train the next day. So, no, we did not go to Kandy to see the tooth temple or the town.
In no great hurry to leave the cooler hills we have pre-booked a 2 night homestay just outside the workaday Tamil tea-growing town of Haputale. There is little to recommend Haputale (where for pretty much the first time in SL we are accosted by touts), or our accommodation at the Adisham Village Home. But our host family are anxious to please and we enjoy a nice little hike in Thrangmale bird sanctuary followed by a very crowded, but mercifully short, 3rd class train ride back to town.
So after a great week in Hill Country it's time to head on down to the coast
We cycled 2 days down to another National Park called Sinharaja. The first day saw us rack up the longest so far: 92kms. True, the first half was a wonderful 600m downhill, but the rest was hot and humid. The second day was up and down hilly.
We hung out at Sinharaja for 2 days, staying at cheaper digs but moving a hundred yards across to a more upmarket joint for the swimming pool, beer and cocktails. Not all idleness though. We also completed 2 early morning bird walks as Sinharaja is THE place in SL for endemic birds. We didn't score too well on that front - tropical forest birding is the pits at the best of times. Nevertheless we seem to have clocked about 11 / 33 of the country's endems (twitcher talk).
A long but downhill ride brought us to the south coast near Merissa. En route from Sinharaja one of our Schwalbe Marathon Tour Plus tyres suffered a puncture. The first since Croatia in 2016. Only a 20 minute repair job. But how does a nail manage to position itself in an upright posture ready for a tyre?
On arrival at Paradise Beach (so-called) Debs caused a bit of a furore amongst the other hotel guests for throwing water over 3 dogs hanging round and under our table while we were trying to eat a delicious fish supper to the sound of lapping waves. Other English and French guests seemed very distressed by her action. "Ne pas gentil" "if you don't want the dogs. .eat inside..they weren't doing anything" Oh yes they were...begging and actually touching my legs!
You need to know, dear reader, that many of the dogs we have seen here have mange in a very big way. Many are completely or almost totally bald with horrid sores. In the cool of early mornings the less feeble ones are more prone to bark and attack bikes. They are more docile in the heat of the day. We are fending them off with self imported bangers. Constantly scratching and always begging for food, dogs are not tolerated in any restaurant by the Sri Lankans. We guess the hotel guests have only been here for a couple of days and don't know what we know: ringworm and scabies cross species from dogs to humans.
After a 3 night stay at Paradise Beach we transferred the 50km to Tangalle mostly on quiet back roads. In contrast to the scene at Merissa we found an absolutely stunning location with saltwater lagoons to the rear of an amazingly white sandy beach with palms. A few classier and more budget resorts are subtlety placed behind the turtle egg laying beach (July/August). The beach is amazing. Not just white sand and palm trees but also no dogs plus beer, cocktails and seafood in profusion. We chanced upon a simple Robinson Crusoe type beach restaurant called Sha Sha Seafood on the back of the beach strip. Idyllic...subtle lighting, cold beer. Only one other table of tourists, no dogs, lapping waves and soft wind. Oh yes, the prawns and rice were delicious.
We stay 2 nights at Water Rail Islet homestay /b and b. It has a kayak that we use to see wildlife in the lagoon. Relaxing again.The garden at Water Rail has a resident strutting peacock. 90% of his time is spent displaying and dancing to 2 peahens. But they are not particularly interested, seemingly too busy childminding their chicks.
Supun is our 27yr old host who is very attentive. He fronts the business and picked us a wood apple. A weird fruit indeed. Wood on the outside and a slightly sour pulp inside from which you can make a fruit juice drink mixed with salt sugar and coconut juice.
On 15th February after a late-ish start we cycled on another 50kms on the busy A2 coast road to arrive at Lagoon Inn overlooking Bundala National Park. We pass the 1,000km mark for good measure.
En route we witness an interesting Buddhist approach to animal life. Whilst stopped off for roadside fresh pineapple juice we notice a troup of langur monkeys trying to cross the road. They were turning their heads in time with the traffic and dashing across at safe traffic intervals. "Look…..they understand traffic" says Steven ......when...BOOFHa monkey gets slammed by a black car. Said black car immediately does a U turn to review the damage. A tuktuk coming the other direction holds up the traffic. Within seconds 6 - 8 people congregate around the middle of the road to survey monkey damage. Finally people start disbanding and the money is lifted unceremoniously suspended by it's tail to a nearby roadside tree and left to recover with a bottle of water provided by our juice maker lady. As we left we saw the dazed monkey sitting by the side of the road. We had assumed from the sound of the impact it would be a monkey-mort. But no.... "Monkey lives" as Steven pronounced.
A second interesting observation of the day was around the town of Hambantota. We cycled on a somewhat modern but very little used (defunct?) 4 mile stretch of dual carriageway. Not entirely redundant though, as it was seemingly well used by cows, bikes and tuktuks. Also in Hambantota are to be found other, presumably 'white elephant' facilities including the International Conference centre, International airport, 30,000 seater International cricket stadium, an international port and harbour with at least 3 entrances, and a 10 storey hospital, miles from any housing in the middle of seemingly nowhere. Our guide book refers to a distinct whiff of corruption.
Bundala park is a wetland reserve primarily known for its bird life. It therefore attracts many fewer jeep safari tourists than the honeypot nearby Yala park. But Bundala is home to about 15 elephants and also has a public road running through it. Our appetite for an ele-encounter had been whetted the previous evening with very distant views from our lodgings. So soon after 6.00 we headed into the park. The early sightings of water birds and bee-eaters were nice enough, but not to compare with the stunning views of a lumbering bull elephant that appeared from the forest and ambled across open ground not 200 yards from where we stood, straddling our bikes.
The rest of the day was inevitably a bit less exciting and we ended up in Kataragama where we stayed at Farm Villa. A lovely but completely mismanaged hotel complex with swimming pool they also have a farm with an interesting irrigation system. Every 14 days they open the sluice from the river uphill and soak several acres of crop. This includes: ohkra, aubergine, beans, beautiful looking sri lankan vegetables with unpronounceable names, ash plantains, rice paddies and manioc. The manager is also head gardener, chef, and in charge of the 10 guest suites, (4 of which have not been completed). Quite an undertaking but one to which he is poorly suited. However, there is cold beer, a clean pool, fab bird life in the surrounds with parakeets galore: a flock of between 200 - 300 rose ringed and alexandrine parakeets. An entrancing afternoon is spent watching them eat the rice crop.
A 6.00am getaway sees us heading north, initially on the B35 through Yala NP. This road has become famous for being staked out by elephants who have learned to stand in the road extracting a toll from passing vehicles in the form of bananas. But there are no elephants on duty this morning: we can't decide if this is a good thing.
Beyond Yala the road passes through picturesque countryside where the rice harvest is in full swing and by early afternoon we are checking into Hotel Elaine in the busy crossroads town of Monaragola.
Cycling 75km to the East coast through another National park (with elephant sighting) we arrived in out-of-season, predominantly Muslim, Arugam Bay. Devastated by the tsunami in 2004, much of the infrastructure has been rebuilt and there is little evidence of the destruction. A-Bay is a surfing destination. Although it's out of season there are enough places open to suit our modest requirements for a clean simple room right close to the non-swimming, fishingboat-lined beach.The streets are lined with restaurants largely staffed by feckless youths and few women to be seen. On sale are exotic foods such as falafel, bell pepperless shakshuka, pizza , burgers, mozzarella, blueberries, avocados... and homemade ice cream.
As our room has a fridge we went on an hour long cycle ride out of town to find the beer and wine shop. As usual it was very difficult to find being out of town at the end of a dirt track next to an ill advertised hotel. And as usual it was well patronised by dodgy looking blokes. Women definitely are not encouraged. Debs was offended for the first time in Sri Lanka "you are very beautiful....your behind".
A dawn walk revealed fishermen and their catch, Moslem overseers in full dress, dogs and crows. To round off the day a motorless boat safari on Pottuvil Lagoon was memorable for close up sighting of a cow elephant .