The Cycling Brit

How long will he last without a proper brew?

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I’m Martin and I run www.thecyclingbrit.com blog. Currently cycling around the continent of Europe.
  • 10. Norway II: a mountainous detour down Sognefjord

    10. Norway II: a mountainous detour down Sognefjord

    WarmShowers was just what I needed. My host Rob treated me to a hearty dinner and a warm, dry haven from the torrential rain hosing its way down the cobbled streets of central Bergen. On top of the recuperation, it was refreshing to have some more extended conversation after a stint of solo wild camping, and I was grateful to receive intel on my planned route and where some of the most dramatic scenery can be found. Thanks again Rob, and best of luck with your future glacier research – I was about to do some (rather less sophisticated) research of my own!

    Bergen has a well preserved cluster of timber buildings beside the central dock and I was keen to have a poke around, so I opted to park the bike and panniers in a locker using the Bikely app. There are several clusters of these lockers in Bergen and are free for the first 4 hours, absolutely perfect for cycle tourists looking to spend a few hours in a city.

    The locker narrows towards the rear, so you need to remove the panniers and slide the bike in backwards

    Bizarrely, on my 1 km journey to the bike lockers I managed to ride up a very pointy kerb and gave myself a flat front tyre. It was my own fault for not putting any air inside since Denmark – but if you’re going to get a flat tyre it may as well be in the middle of a city with multiple bike shops and mechanics at the ready if needed. I decided to take some time out and spend the afternoon fixing, cleaning and adjusting. By the time I left it felt almost new!

    Ice cream and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance

    After all the fiddling and tweaking I didn’t manage to escape Bergen until 6pm, so it was another evening ride on the cards. Once free from the urban sprawl on Bergen’s north side there are a couple of road bridges linking to the small town of Knarvik. 3D road designs never come across that well on 2D maps and I briefly ended up underneath the larger bridge at dead end where a campervan and cyclist in a small green tent were bedding down for the night. It was 9pm and the night was young, so I carried on.

    Nordhordland Bridge, with a relic from Nazi occupied Norway

    With every intention of finding a spot to pitch the tent, on a rural road junction I stumbled upon the Rolls-Royce of bus stop shelters: fully enclosed at one end with double glazed windows, chairs and a bench. I know it’s a bit cheeky, but with the buses long since parked up for the night I couldn’t resist the convenience. The issue with this strategy is that if the shelter is a little bit too comfortable, you’re less likely to be up and gone before society springs back to life. So Anna if you’re somehow reading this: I hope you got to school ok, and well done for choosing archery instead of rock climbing like all the other kids at summer camp; it’s important to do what makes you happy, rather than following the crowd.

    We ride together

    On a solo cycle tour you spend a large part of your day in your own company. You have fleeting interactions with cashiers in the supermarket and cafés, and the heavily loaded bike is a good conversation starter with intrigued strangers in the street, but for the most part it’s just you and your thoughts.

    I think the idea of being alone for such a long time puts a lot of single people off cycle touring, which I can understand. But like with other modes of travelling there are ways to make it more sociable, such as staying in hostels, or as I found out, by getting yourself onto a major cycle touring route.

    EuroVelo 1 is the first of 17 long-distance cycling routes across Europe, spanning the Atlantic coast from Portugal up to the most northerly tip of Norway (Nordkapp). The Norwegian leg of EuroVelo 1 starts in Bergen, and I had spotted a few cycle tourists wandering the city’s streets (we don’t exactly blend in seamlessly with the locals, so it wasn’t difficult).

    After waving goodbye to young Anna as she boarded the school bus (equipped with an anecdote about practicing her English with an actual Englishman, eating his breakfast at the bus stop), I rode for an hour or so before stopping to make an adjustment to the bike. Hunched awkwardly over the back wheel, I heard the screech of another cyclist coming to a halt.

    “Hi! Where have you come from?”

    Finn was a high-speed train engineer from Hamburg and a big St Pauli football team fan, with the Jolly Roger emblem I had seen plastered on every street corner in Hamburg adorning his water bottle. He was also practically a baby at 22 and riding an aerodynamic setup equipped with with aluminium frame and time trial bars. He had 6 weeks to get to the Nordkapp and catch a pre-booked plane home, so he was optimised for maximum speed and minimal faff, quite different to my maximal comfort setup. Like a Lamborghini and a Rolls-Royce, horses for courses.

    A rare moment of me riding ahead of Finn

    Realising we were both set to be on EuroVelo 1 for the rest of the day we agreed to ride together. I could just about hold on to the pace even if it did require some heavy breathing and Finn to wait for me at the top of the steeper climbs. After a couple of hours riding we pulled up in a local shop for lunch, where a cycle touring couple from Belgium were sat at the large adjoins picnic bench doing the same.

    Jan and Hannelore were from Flanders and also heading for the Nordkapp (am the only cyclist in Norway not going there?). They were loaded up in a slightly more ‘bikepacking’ style than mine, with less luggage on the rear rack and knobbly tyres, but had a more relaxed approach to daily distances than young Finn, having the luxury of a bit more time to meander their way up north.

    As we lunched in the early afternoon sun someone got chatting to a young chap donning an orange high-vis flotation jacket. He seemed to be some sort of Norwegian social media personality who was ditching the party animal life to renovate an old lodge he had inherited.

    “Things got dark, I nearly died jumping into a swimming pool.”

    He showed us a video on his phone: he was perched on the roof of a house poised to jump into a nearby swimming pool, but something went awry and be botched the entry – smashing his face on the way down

    “The surgeon said I was lucky, if I landed one inch the other way I’d be a dead man!”

    We agreed it was for the best that he was now off the booze – doing less Steve-O style stunts – and wished him good luck with the house renovation. Not everyone in rural Norway has always lived the quiet country life.

    That day we rode as a quad along EuroVelo 1 as the terrain slowly became steeper, more dramatic and wild as we approached the mouth of the mighty Sognefjord, Norway’s longest and deepest fjord. The route climaxed with the largest most difficult climb of the entire tour to date, and poor Finn (who had ridden for longer than any of us and burned a lot of matches going quickly up the shorter climbs) was beginning to suffer. After a much needed descent to the ferry terminal we accidentally took the scenic route on our final crossing to Rysjedalsvika, before settling down on a patch of grass Jan had managed to find using an app for wild camping spots.

    Kudos to Finn for the high-vis Monsters Inc. Crocs attached to his saddle bag

    After the setbacks in Bergen with mechanical issues it was refreshing to talk with fellow adventurers about their own trials and tribulations, and it’s always interesting to see other people’s touring setups…the envy I felt for Jan and Hannelore’s camping chairs was palpable, and this will be front of the queue once Ioffload some dead weight in my own panniers.

    Thanks folks, it was great to ride together

    A detour up Sognefjord

    Rob had recommended checking out the conglomerate rock formations on an island at the mouth of Sognefjord which I was keen to do, so I’d be waving goodbye to the gang as they pressed on along EuroVelo 1. It would have been nice to ride together for a bit longer but it just didn’t quite fit with my desire for going off-route and exploring the mountains and fjords a bit more.

    I caught an early afternoon ferry to the Solund islands and rode into the hills to have lunch amongst the conglomerate, a rock you don’t see much of in other parts of Norway it seems. If you don’t happen to be a geology nerd: conglomerates are a sedimentary rock full of rounded fragments of different rock types, often formed from the remnants of retreating glaciers. They are incredibly knobbly and quite fun to climb, if that’s your thing.

    Conglomerate formations between Krakhella and Domba

    The weather was near perfect for cycling, sunny but not too hot or windy. I’d intended to spend the night on Solund and catch a local ferry out to the small outer islands before taking the ‘fast ferry’ east into the heart of Sognefjord. With a simple tap of my phone screen the Solund plans were scuppered: I’d booked the fast ferry a day early, it would leave 7pm tonight. With no option to amend the booking I took the next ferry off Solund and hooned it over a mountain pass to the fast ferry terminal at Lavik.

    I suppose these nets are effective up to a certain size of boulder…

    I didn’t really know what to expect from this so called ‘fast ferry’ I had booked. I knew it was operated by a private operator Norled and I nearly got on their long-distance car ferry heading back to Bergen by mistake. But there was a separate, much smaller dock for the fast ferry, which turned out to be a small catamaran for foot passengers only. I boarded along a narrow plank laid down between the jetty and the bow, where the crew member instructed me to park my bike at the back of the boat.

    Passenger view of the front ‘fast ferry’ entrance on Sognefjord

    I suppose I expected to enter a foyer or storage deck of the boat, instead it was like walking on stage – the door led straight into the main passenger deck, and I would have to carefully manoeuvre the bike between the handbags, legs and rubbish bins strewn across the aisles. Once onboard it’s a good ride though, especially on the open-air top deck – just try not to spill coffee on your head taking a photo in the wind.

    You don’t need to spend a fortune to cruise the fjords (cost was c.£40 from Lavik to Sogndal)

    Castaway

    The map revealed another ‘dead-end’ road along the opposite bank of the fjord to Sogndal, so I would try my luck for a camping spot. The road turned out to be much longer in reality than in my mind and I was beginning to contemplate a quiet corner of a field on a haunted looking farm – until I spotted a group of islets just next to the shore.

    With the tide drama still fresh in mind I checked the forecast and could see the islands would be cut off from the mainland at high tide by about 20cm of water across a 10 metre wide gap. It was low tide upon my arrival and could walk on quite easily without getting wet.

    The islets at Vinesholmane

    The island was rocky and relatively flat, with only a few small trees and bushes for protection from the elements. The rocks were heavily folded gneiss with marble-like swirls of quartz veins, and broken mussel shells littered the ground. It seemed to be more windy here than anywhere else in the entire valley, but there was something intoxicating about the mere concept of being on your own little island. I found a small patch of grass where the tent would just about fit and settled down for the evening. The wind howled and the tent lunged back and forth as I lay there helplessly; foul weather always sounds worse than it is from inside the tent, doesn’t it?

    I spent two nights on my little island. The plan was to head into Sogndal on the Saturday afternoon and stock up on supplies, only to discover that supermarkets had closed early on the eve of Whit Sunday – when they would be closed all day. I did a stock take and decided there was enough to get through till Monday, just.

    My neighbours on the rock next door were a pair of nesting gulls and a rather noisy oyster catcher. They were initially wary of my presence, but by day two were completely unfazed. There was a log laid in a protected corner under a pine tree which became the kitchen/diner, overlooking the neighbours.

    I knew I would run out of fresh water before Monday arrived. At low tide I grabbed the bottles and set off on foot for the waterfall I’d spotted around two miles up the road, running fresh from the snowmelt above. It was the first moment of the trip that began to feel truly primitive: conserving food, fetching water by long treks on foot, spending extended time in a completely human-free environment.

    It was Sunday evening when I finally twigged and spotted the source of mussels shells: beds of them growing along the stems of bladderwrack just beside the island shore. It was too late to enter the water by then, perhaps I could combine a spot of foraging with a morning swim?

    Can you spot the mussels quicker than I did? Look closely

    I’d already had a brief dip the day before and knew how cold it would be, so I would need to rely on my Danish saunuga breathing exercises to stay relaxed and power through the initial cold shock response. I brought along my small plastic bowl (which helpfully floats) and began to feel my way around the slippery seaweed stems for mussels. There were plenty of them but it was difficult to see, you really did have to feel your way around. I thought of those Japanese women who dive to the bottom of the sea for pearls to see if I could channel some inner strength as my hands and feet began to go numb – my signal to get out, dry and warm.

    After thawing out in my thermals and feeling human again, I got rid of the floating dead mussels, gave the rest a rinse and cooked them up with red pesto for breakfast.

    A successful breakfast

    As I began to pack up and leave something wasn’t quite right on the island. The gulls and oyster catchers were agitated, leaving their precious eggs to circle the rocks whilst screeching at full volume. Were they annoyed at me for eating their mussels? There were plenty more where those came from. Maybe they thought I got too close to the nest? But I was nowhere near their rocky outcrop. I looked up and saw a different bird making its way slowly up the fjord – a white tailed sea eagle, with a phenomenal chunky, sharp beak. Spotting a creature that might realistically turn around and eat you and your family seems like a valid reason to be agitated. I was just glad the neighbours weren’t mad at me.

    Up amongst the glaciers

    Now that I was deep into Sognefjord I was within touching distance of the Jostedalsbreen National Park, where mainland Europe’s largest glacier lurks in the high mountain valleys above, largely hidden from view of onlookers below.

    The best places to see the glacier are where the main body of ice branches off and makes its way down into the valleys below, before melting and dumping thousands of tonnes of crushed rock and boulders in the process. I decided to head for the nearest such place – the valleys north of the isolated town of Veitastrond.

    I waved goodbye to the seagulls and oyster catchers and called into Sogndal to stock up on supplies. It would be 8pm by the time I set off, but with calm weather forecast I was happy to arrive a bit late and sleep in the next day.

    The route followed the banks of several large lakes. The second lake at Hafslo was a picturesque setting, where rolling fields sat below modest-sized hills covered in trees, it was like cycling through my beloved Tulliemet in Perthshire, Scotland.

    A calm evening in Hafslo

    The town of Veitastrond sits at the far end of the third lake, a vast reservoir, where you pass through several tunnels along the way*. There is only one road in and out of Veitastrond, with a gate on the town entrance: when the weather conditions are too dangerous they lock the gate and the townsfolk are cut off from the rest of Norway. Interestingly I cycled past a group of around 20 people gathered on a Friday night working together to construct a kids play ground; perhaps their isolation fosters a sense of community. Or maybe someone was paying them, I honestly have no idea, but it was an unusual sight.

    *Cycling the tunnels of Norway*

    Norway is bloody steep. When building a road that can present somewhat of a challenge, so Norway has drilled hundreds of road tunnels to provide direct routes between valleys and through steep buttresses of rock. However, you can’t cycle through all of them – so it’s worth checking Cycle Tourer UK’s helpful online guide to see what you’re in for and the possible alternatives for non cyclist-friendly tunnels.

    The first tunnel I encountered was on my way to Hardangerfjord. At 1.3km long, the first half was eerily silent, then I heard a distant low pitched rumble – was it an avalanche outside? Is the tunnel collapsing? A Balrog on the loose? The rumble grew louder and louder, resonating through the void as if I were cycling into a giant concrete horn. Eventually three old fashioned Triumph motorcycles came into view and thundered past on their merrily way. Everything feels more intense in a tunnel, so you need to brace yourself – but most are quite short, and every now and then you get to push a big button to engage the ‘Cyclist in tunnel’ warning lights.

    The trykk is to push it then check the lights actually turned on (…sometimes the button is a bit stiff)

    Beyond Veitastrond the road kicks upwards and the surface shifts from asphalt to gravel, passing through a self-service toll booth to pay for upkeep of the privately maintained road that leads up to the car park. There’s a DNT tourist hut where you can stay if you don’t mind splashing the cash, but also plenty of space for campervans too. Being on a bicycle I wanted to get a bit away from the car park if possible, so I headed to the western valley through a small farmstead.

    Usually when you encounter sheep on the hill they keep their distance. It was around midnight so I was trying to tread as quietly as possible as I made my way between the farm buildings, but the sheep must have thought I was treating them to a midnight snack and began to follow me like I was a shepherd, baaing and neck bells ringing as they went. Not ideal, but I was soon past and onto the relative peace of a bouldery river bed.

    I knew it would be a pain to try and do everything with the bike loaded up, so I did another foot scouting mission and found a candidate flat spot before shifting everything across. It was tiring but in perfect conditions, and from what I could make out of my surroundings in the evening twilight I knew it would be worth it.

    It is hard to find adequate words to describe my experience camping below the Langedalsbreen glacier. With my tent camouflaged in the middle of a boulder field, I would lay in my sleeping bag with the door open and gaze up at the mesmerising complex of ice above, spilling over the edge of the mountain and splitting to leave wrinkle lines of deep crevasses. Like gazing into the campfire it was another of nature’s TV channels, and hard to look away.

    Let’s finish this section with a few photos, including from a five-hour trek up to see Austerdalsbreen glacier in the valley around the corner from where I camped. See if you can spot the tent in the first photo..

    Summer sun in the Sunnmøre Alps

    A Norwegian man once told me to be careful going to the toilet when it’s sunny and warm in Norway, because by the time you come out, summer might just be over.

    There was a solid block of three properly warm and sunny days on the forecast (25°C), which sounded like the perfect opportunity to wash my clothes at a campsite and lounge around in the sun whilst they dry. The difficulty was that – due to afformentioned restrictions on cycling through major tunnels – I was now marooned in Sogndal.

    The ideal route out would be along highway 5 up to Skei. After getting up early and failing to get on the coach (they don’t officially allow bicycles, leaving you at the mercy of the driver) I found the local bus to be more accommodating. Without a bicycle rack though you have to flip the bike on its side and slide it into the hold, placing panniers around in a bid to stop it sliding all over and getting damaged.

    After making it to Skei I had a Motorgrill style service station breakfast and made my way along dramatic Glencoe-esque valleys and through a few medium sized towns where I could stock up on supplies, including a pair of swimming goggles..

    There were a few more road tunnels, most of them having an old road along the side that remains open to cyclists and pedestrians. Weirdly, although Breimsfjell tunnel is marked as safe to pass through in the online guide it seemed to have an old road, so I opted for that over the c.850m long tunnel. But there was a reason this was not marked as a viable alternative: the road has been decimated by a rock fall. Why they didn’t at least have a small sign to inform people of this considerable hazard that lay ahead I’m not quite sure, but maybe that’s just the Brit in me.

    You shall not pass!

    As night approached I was making my way along a gravel track into a deserted ski resort. There were hundreds of chalets dotted around, most of them surely empty, and I wondered who I could ask to spend the night in one with an off-season discount. The ground wasn’t ideal for camping with too much long vegetation, so I plodded on hoping for something better, at one point nervously passing a small herd of cows who had refused to budge from the road upon my arrival.

    In the corner of my eye I spotted a wooden construction along an adjacent path towards the hills. Although it was enclosed on all four sides, I think what drew my eye was it appeared to have a chimney. It was clear from how the door opened and locked that it was empty, so I lifted the large wooden latch and took a peek inside. There was a portable fire pit and a large central table, with wooden bench seating around the perimeter furnished with animal skin rugs, and candle holders hung around in all shapes and sizes. The sign in Norwegian on the front confirmed it was available for anyone to use so long as you tidy up after yourself. Definitely the cosiest shelter so far, and I gave the place a much needed sweep as thanks.

    The hut had an integrated chimney in the ceiling for the fire, but I was happy to stick with candles

    The next day the cows I had passed previously made another appearance during breakfast, but were well out of the way by the time I set off. The target destination was a campsite in Urke.

    This really is an attractive part of Norway and one that I was completely unaware of. Indeed many of the Norwegians I met in Urke campsite were visiting for the first time and were equally impressed; although the mountains are not Norway’s highest, they are steep and dramatic, and with the onset of warm weather the spring flowers were in full bloom and everything was glowing under strong sunlight.

    Lupins and the distinctly jagged peaks of Slogen

    Urke was a perfect mini-holiday from the tour. I did all my washing, didn’t do any cycling, and even managed to use my swimming goggles during a dip in the fjord. If you want to try this at the same time of year I recommend doing very little swimming and just floating on the warmer surface layer – without wasting oxygen on swimming you get a longer look underwater with each breath. There are all sorts of seaweeds, shells, small fish, even the odd jelly fish. If only it wasn’t like swimming in liquid ice as soon as you dip 15cm below the surface.

    Laundry day at Urke

    Urke would be my final days in the high mountains of Norway. They had been the highlight of my trip so far, but came at the expense of being away from the coast and maybe riding for a few more days amongst friends. But I wasn’t far from the open seas again now: tomorrow I would finally get back on my original route, at the cruise ship hotspot of Ålesund.

    ————————

    PHOTOGRAPHY: Bergen to Urke

  • 9. Norway I: wild camping 101 in the valleys of Hardangerfjord

    9. Norway I: wild camping 101 in the valleys of Hardangerfjord

    Let’s get this straight, Norway is the main reason I have come to Scandinavia. Although intrigued by what Denmark, Sweden and Finland would be like, I’ve had a clear vision of Norway in my mind’s eye ever since laying eyes on the glossy, colour-saturated images of Lakes & Mountains package holiday brochures as a child. I don’t quite know why we even had those brochures in the house – package holidays weren’t really our family’s thing – but something about the snow capped mountains towering above cyan blue fjords really struck a chord with me, it looked straight from the fantasy realm.

    Forgive me for breaking the fourth wall for a moment. I’m writing this blog entry whilst still in Norway, which is a bit of a novelty for me since I’ve always moved to the next country by the time I get around to writing about somewhere. But Norway is long, hilly, with the only long straight roads being tunnels that you’re not allowed to cycle through, so it takes time to get across. It is also stunning, with plenty of opportunities to divert from your original plans.

    So make yourself comfortable on the nearest damp rock, fill up a paper bag with your favourite pic n’ mix, and pour yourself a £10 beverage –  this is where the real adventure begins.

    The start point at Voss station

    Boggy Beginnings

    With the evening meal taken care of all I had to do was find somewhere to pitch the tent. It was around 6pm, which at this latitude meant around 4.5 hours until sunset.

    One of the appeals of Norway to outdoor lovers is the Allemannsretten, or right to roam. A bit like in Scotland, you can pitch a tent for a night or two in open countryside so long as you follow a few basic rules, such as to keep 150m away from houses and avoid camping on ‘cultivated land’.

    I didn’t have to cycle very long to realise the dilemma. Norway is about as un-flat as a country can get, covered in high mountains and forest: the sparse areas of low-lying flat land are a precious commodity and the natural place to put settlements and farms. But low-lying flat land is perfect for camping, so the challenge would be to find suitably flat spots within reach of the road without coming into conflict with residents or farmers…easy peasy!

    My opening strategy was to get off the main road and follow the river upstream to get away from Voss. It was forecast to lash it down at any moment, but the rain gods showed restraint with only a few light showers as I slowly eased my way up the valley. And I do mean slowly: within minutes I was on the steepest roads seen since the Peak District, in my lowest gear performing the how-slow-can-you-go balancing act.

    Looking around I wasn’t exactly inundated with potential camp spots, and started to wonder at what point to just park the bike and continue the search on foot in the woods. After around an hour of riding I noticed a shelf of uncultivated ground above a farm field surrounded by woodland, a good 250m away from the nearest farmhouse. It felt instinctively good, albeit with the minor drawback of being a good 40m above the road up a heavily overgrown farm track. I dismounted, readied myself, and began to push the bike (panniers and all) uphill.

    Swapping asphalt for long grass near Reppen

    It was slow going, and a little bit sloppy in places, but the ground eventually evened to something that approximated flat ground. It was without doubt a bog (which is why it sat outside of the farm field boundary), but there were one or two relatively dry islands of ground sitting above the waterlogged trenches, upon which I pitched my first ever wild camp.

    Into the wild – my first pitch in Norway

    It felt satisfying to finally get a wild camp under my belt aged 38, but there were some definite downsides to the spot. The access wasn’t ideal but I can live with that, it was the complete soaking of my shoes and socks that really lingered. I might chalk down bogs as ‘possible, but best avoided‘.

    To the Fjord

    The next morning was brighter, and without a checkout time hanging over me I started the day with a short stroll to the nearby open-air museum at Nesheimstunet. It is the site of an old village where they have preserved the buildings in their original state, some of which date back to the 1600s, plus it’s free to get in (so don’t wander up the neighbours driveway looking for reception, like I did).

    What struck me was the enormous roof slates the Norwegians used to use. Sure it would be bad news to get hit on the noggin by a stray modern roof slate, but these monsters would slice you down the middle like an apple. Most of the buildings themselves are made from wood, along with pretty much every day-to-day object inside. There is no shortage of wood in Norway and the Norwegians seem to make use of it wherever they can.

    The preserved village at Nesheimstunet

    I packed up and set off back towards Voss, taking in a brief detour to the impressive Tvindefossen waterfall where they charge only £1.10 for the toilet, that’s a 25% Oslo discount! But if you’re a real waterfall lover and bargain hunter you should consider holding it in until Skjervsfossen just off highway 13, they don’t charge a penny for the loos and it’s a better waterfall. You’re welcome.

    Looking down from above Skjervsfossen waterfall

    If you look at the picture above you will see a road at the bottom. This is the same road I was on and would therefore need to lose quite a bit of altitude between here and there, by descending a series of hairpin bends. I tend to ride the tight corners quite slow, but my word the bike wants to move going down the steep sections…release the brakes for a few seconds and it’s like riding The Ultimate rollercoaster at Lightwater Valley (RIP), the acceleration and momentum is immense. Having already seen and heard the waterfall, I would soon be riding straight through it as clouds of misty spray drifted away from the foot of the falls across the bridge. Quite the sensory experience.

    My plan was to go through the city of Bergen at some point, so it would make sense to approach it from the south before continuing north on my original coastal route. Voss is actually north east of Bergen, so I would have to go down to come up. Come to think of it, this would be a lot easier to visualise with a map:

    I got off the train at Vossevangen, aka Voss. X marks camping spot no. 1 (credit: Google Maps)

    As you can hopefully see by the red line on the map, I was now heading towards a narrow stretch of water and the village of Granvin. With no intention of stopping I was set to pass straight through and see where I ended up in an hour or so, but my eye was drawn to an impressive timber yard at the mouth of the river. The yard was equipped with wat appeared to be loading docks, there was a mild scent of salty-fishiness in the air, and the shoreline boulders were covered with dark seaweed – I had found my first fjord.

    What also caught my eye was a small wooden construction next to a few picnic benches, intended presumably for family BBQs and such like. Amazingly it had electricity sockets where I could charge my phone, but the location wasn’t suitable for camping being in direct view of some very well kept looking houses. The map showed a small road on the east bank of the fjord which was effectively a dead end – leading to only a few houses before disappearing into nature – which sounded like perfect camp spot hunting grounds.

    The road quickly degraded to gravel, making movement slow; to my right were steep drops onto large seaweeded boulders, to my left 45° slopes covered in dense pine forest – not exactly ideal camping terrain. I briefly notched down a grassy passing place as a ‘maybe’, but soon scribbled it out when it occurred to me that my tent is actually quite well camouflaged: wild camping is challenging enough without people inadvertently driving through your tent as they politely wave through an oncoming vehicle.

    I came across a slight narrowing of the fjord where the protruding land looked less steep and bouldery. The peninsula extended a few hundred metres away from the road so I hopped off the bike to review the area on foot. Certainly too awkward to ride or push the bike fully-loaded, it would require several back-and-forth trips with the panniers, but I had found a spot.

    Morning sun on the Granvin fjord

    This was quite a step up from camp 1. Although my feet still got a bit wet from all the traipsing back and forth it felt worth it this time, especially in the dry and sunny morning weather. I sat down on the least damp rock available and began to make coffee.

    SPLOSH.

    That was odd. There had been the occasional fish jumping out of the water since my arrival, but they were only tiddlers and didn’t make much of a splash.

    SPLOSH…”Squeak! Squeak!”

    Clearly a mammal was on the scene, my mind began to leap to conclusions as to what it might be. Was it a seal? Nope, too small. A beaver? Too agile. It was a couple of otters out on their morning fishing expedition, ducking and diving right out of the water as they went: I managed to scramble together a short video. My assumption was they were sea otters but apparently you don’t get those in Norway, so they must have been the regular variety. The biggest wildlife moment of the trip so far; everything was coming together.

    Is that you, Nessie? An otter on its morning swim

    Crossing Hardangerfjord

    After leaving the camp spot I called back in at the BBQ shack to charge my phone whilst I crunch through a bit of ‘tour admin’ in the morning sun. It can become a bit of an obsession keeping your devices charged, always on the lookout for a socket or usb port; cafés and pubs are usually pretty good, but transport hub waiting rooms are always worth a try if you want to keep costs down.

    My plan was to keep heading south west, but rather than stick to the main road I wanted to seek more more peaceful surroundings by crossing the mighty Hardanger Fjord onto the wild looking Folgefonna peninsula.

    I knew there was an hourly ferry from Kvanndal to Utne, I just couldn’t work out the price for me and the bike. Norway has an incredible network of ferries going back and forth across the fjords throughout the day. They are effectively part of the road network and without them a 10 minute ferry trip could soon turn into a four hour circumnavigation of the fjord. I eventually twigged they use number plates to charge for crossing – and without such labels pedestrians and cyclists ride for free. Each crossing is like a mini cruise of the fjords…and another opportunity to charge your phone!

    One good thing about heavy bikes is they are less likely to tip over at sea

    Safely across the water I began to make my way anti-clockwise around the peninsula. The glaciers and deep wilderness were much further inland; I was riding through rolling hills of apple orchards where farmers drove up and down the narrow rows of coppiced trees in tiny tractors, spraying the leaves with a fine mist in the afternoon sun as they went.

    Orchards along the south banks of Hardangerfjord

    Realising I was running low on carbohydrates for my evening meal, I stopped at an unstaffed roadside kiosk with an honesty box, the kind that would sell jam or maybe free-range eggs in the British countryside. I managed to get a packet of flatbrød (flatbread), which is less of a pita and more of a cardboard poppadom: crispy yes, flavoursome…not so much. The carton of cloudy apple juice fresh from the orchards more than made up for it, even if it did look like I was bottling my own wee.

    The Forest

    The road kicked up into a long climb around the shoulder of a steep column of rock by the shore. Leaving behind the orchards I was riding into a coniferous forest.

    To begin with it seemed like a regular plantation of commercial spruce, but there were patches of less densely packed Scots pine trees with their characteristic orangey-red bark. I could sense a camping opportunity, but it would need another reccy on foot before I haul the bike into the woods.

    The Scots pine provided beautiful surroundings, but they were growing on quite boggy and uneven ground, heavily vegetated by bilberry and heather plants. It’s the kind of terrain you could camp on if you had to, but not if you can help it. I wandered further up the forestry track and saw a small path leading into the spruce.

    Green, green, brown, green

    The breeze completely disappeared as soon as I entered the wood, leaving an eerie silence other than the faint trickle of a small stream. There were no animals or birds to be been, and the entire forest floor was carpeted in a thick shagpile of moss and lichen. Between the sunlight and the shadows it seemed that every shade of green in nature’s palette was on display.

    After a bit of back and forth I managed to squeeze the tent in one of the bigger gaps between the trees, although one of them did prevent me from pegging down a door properly.

    Like a glove – the pic looks worse than it was, but it did require caution to avoid ripping the tent

    It was one of the scarier camp spots to begin with, probably too many Grimm fairy tales burnt into my childhood memory, but once I’d satisfied myself there were no wolves or bears preparing an ambush it was really quite a good spot. The moss carpet provided soft cushioning for sleep, there was shelter from the elements, and it was peaceful. Except the forest was not completely bereft of animal life – as word got out of my presence, the local midge population descended for a celebratory feast. It was the first battle of an ongoing war, and that evening the midges came out victorious.

    Despite the midges I could see myself camping in woods again, especially if I had a bit more fly protection. The next morning I packed up and headed for the ferry crossing at Jondal, passing through more stunning natural pine forest along the way. There were definitely some better camping spots, but that’s the game you play – do you take the spot in front of you, or risk pushing on and not finding a better one? The right answer will depend on your energy levels and willingness to accept you may just have to turn around and cycle back up that big hill to the place you saw earlier…are you feeling lucky?

    Scots pine (Pinus sylvestris) trees along the Folgefonna peninsula

    The Beach

    Having crossed back to the northern bank of Hardangerfjord at Tørvikbygd I continued to straddle the water’s edge heading south west. The weather had brought plenty of sunshine but it was still unsettled, with sudden but fleeting outbreaks of light rain.

    The ferry crossing was a perfect opportunity to scout potential camp spots using Google Maps’ aerial photography layer, and I had noticed a cluster of small beaches on the east side of a peninsula near the town of Mundheim. One of the beaches came briefly into view on a descent and it looked perfect: away from houses and overlooking a small uninhabited island around 100m offshore.

    All I had to do was get to it. The map showed a small road leading more or less right up to the beach, so I turned off the main road and went to scope it out. The small road was more of a track, with its entrance behind a closed gate in the middle of a farmyard. Beside the entrance was a triangular road sign warning drivers of frogs, which gave me confidence it was indeed a public road, but before I could get close a farmer popped out from behind a parked tractor.

    “Hi! The road, is it a public road?”

    He seemed puzzled by the question, like there was an obvious reason people would not want to venture down there. Or maybe he misunderstood and my lazy reliance on everyone speaking good English might not extend to farmers, but I needn’t have worried.

    “I have a few sheep in this field, but there is another way to the fjord”.

    He recommended I go further along the road and turn down a different farm track, maybe one that belonged to a neighbouring farmer whom he didn’t much like. Either way I ended up on a less defined track heading towards the same beach, but away from the sheep on the other side of a small lake. The aerial footage map suggested there was a route on this side too, but it looked a bit overgrown.

    The evening was still young and my energy levels high, so I decided to go for it. After stashing the bike and panniers behind a hillock out of view from passing vehicles, I threw on some trousers and a jacket to keep the ticks away and hoofed it to the beach. It was a long walk over variable terrain, including some narrow overgrown paths, but doable with multiple trips. The bike and two panniers would remain where I arrived, so I only had to carry four bags in two trips.

    If you’ve ever been fortunate enough to have seen The World’s Strongest Man on TV you probably remember the Farmer’s Walk event, where contestants lift a ridiculously heavy weight in each hand and see how far they can walk in the allotted timeframe. The mechanics at play are pretty much the same here, except the weight I’m lifting is around 3% of the 160kg they have in each hand. But I had to walk along uneven paths obscured by bracken, pass through farm gates with unfathomable latches, and traverse swamps by treading on tufts of cotton grass between shoe drenching pools of stagnant water – they walk in a straight line on flat ground, the pansies!

    With everything moved to just over the half-way point the heavens opened and it began to pour. I picked up the panniers and cowered on a slope under the canopy of a tree.

    “Really? Seriously!?”

    Having passed the point of no return I sat out the downpour and finished the job with soggy feet after trudging through the final section of long grass to the beach itself.

    One of the small beaches at Flatesvik

    It may not have been the Costa del Sol, but it felt a genuine achievement just getting to the place. The fjord was remarkably still, with just the smallest of waves lapping against the dark grey sand. I found a flat area of dry sand at the back of the beach and pitched the tent, making use of washed up fishing rope to help anchor everything down where the pegs were not biting securely.

    With the tent set up I could finally relax…and then it dawned on me: fjords are tidal – could I be rudely awoken by a flood during the night? My gut instinct was that the dry shelf of sand was just above high water, but gut instinct is no substitute for hard data.

    The Norwegian Mapping Authority Kartverket produce tide tables across Norway, where you can use the current position from your phone to get a local reading. I started crunching numbers based on the tidal effect alone, which seemed ok, but then I noticed the actual water level forecast which also takes into account other factors such as weather. It was too close to call, especially with the error bars on their forecast, and a guaranteed way to not sleep a wink. I had to move the tent.

    Rather than completely deconstruct the tent I opted to save time and effort by unpegging the corners to carry it up the adjacent grassy bank to a small plateau The plan was almost scuppered by a flurry of wind that whipped in from the fjord, and I jumped into the tent as a human anchor before it took off like Mary Poppins.

    The morning after the night before

    I thought about getting up at 4am to check if the high tide would have flooded my tent or not, but what would be the point? The right decision prevailed, even if it was a mega-palaver. You could argue the right decision would have been to not camp somewhere with such a grotesquely long and difficult approach from the road – but if you never push the envelope you’ll never know how much is too much: and that my friends, was too much. Did I mention I got eaten alive by midges, again!?

    Night Rider

    Following yesterday’s exertions I decided a long lie in was in order, especially with the rain not forecast to clear until around 11am. I lazed about nibbling on high calorie snacks and doing a bit of writing until the sun was out and my tent could properly dry. By the time I had executed the pannier shuttle in reverse it was 6pm, not exactly the 10am daily start I had coded into my spreadsheet when planning the tour.

    Although it was late in the day I felt remarkably refreshed after my lie-in, so with 5 hours of daylight still remaining and an evening of perfect conditions forecast, I just wanted to ride and see where I ended up.

    The wind had all but fizzled out and the evening sun lit up the forest covered mountains on the opposite side of the fjord. I wound along undulating roads past haymaking farmers and pristine white wooden churches. The road crossed a steep gorge onto the island of Tysnesøy where the bridge had a separate cycle path, allowing me to safely hop off the bike and look down into the chasm of blue fjord below. Where were all the fish? It seemed bereft of life other than the solitary seagull floating aimlessly along with the gentle tide. To be fair fjords do contain fish, they just tend to hang out near the bottom and edges where all the food is, but there is something eerie about the emptiness of that deep blue water.

    A seagull contemplating the inconsequentiality of its existence, maybe

    On Tysnesøy I turned off the main road to a small country lane meandering uphill beside a reservoir. The evening moved into dusk and although the sunlight had waned it was still light enough to see my surroundings. There were no houses along this part of the island and no traffic at this time of day; nowhere on my trip had I felt this remote and isolated.

    The waterfall at Hovlandsnuten

    I buttoned up my jacket to insulate myself for a potentially chilly descent and soon enough arrived back in civilisation in the villages along the south-east coast of the island. It was getting late now, and although I could have kept going through the short night and into dawn I kept half an eye on the side of the road for potential camping spots.

    Suddenly my Danish experience kicked in and my eye was drawn to a stone shelter set back about 20m from the main road: the sturdy bench was wide enough to lie down on and the south facing aspect had warmed the rocks to toasty temperature. Yes it was a hybrid between a post box and a bus stop, but it was an extremely well built and cosy one, perfect for catching a few hours of light sleep before the morning commuters turn up, and with a fraction of the faff of the tent.

    Dawn of a new day – 04:56 on Tysnesøy

    It may not have been a full night’s sleep, but after a big bowl of musli coated in raspberry squirty jam and a coffee at 6am, I was recovered and ready to push on to Bergen.

    My route required catching a ferry from Våge to Halhjem. With not so many hours of sleep in the bag the ferry was an opportunity to rest my eyes, so as soon as I arrived in Halhjem I hopped on the next ferry to Sandvik – a relatively long journey at 45mins – then got off, had a coffee, and caught the next straight back to Halhjem. If the ferries were super busy with passengers I would not take the piss like this, but when they are practically empty and you need a bit of time out of the elements or some charge in the phone, cruising the ferries is a great option.

    The road to Bergen was well cycle-pathed but long, passing through endless sprawling towns and villages along the way. I stopped for lunch in the town of Osøyro and spotted what looked like a bike repair shop advertising 10Kr (75p) coffee…a bargain in any European country!

    I’d been having issues with the spade connector of my SON dynamo rear light, which kept quietly popping out when I rode over large bumps in the road. After explaining my predicament a man promptly appeared from the back and began to examine the light, giving the connector a light pinch with some pliers before reattaching it. To my confusion he wouldn’t accept any money, so I stayed for a coffee and a chat – Livskvalitet Ski & Sykkelverksted is a local authority funded enterprise that gives adults struggling with drug addiction in the town a chance to get into a drug free environment, learn some new skills and interact with the community – so if you’re passing by on your own cycle tour why not pop by for a 10Kr coffee, they might even fix your bike. Tak!

    As I made my way through the confusing multi-storey mishmash of cycle paths and roads that led into the centre of Bergen, the heavens opened and the heaviest of rain began to pour. Fortunately I had managed to link up with a fellow Brit on WarmShowers, Rob, who had kindly offered to put me up for the night. After five nights of wild camping bootcamp, it was exactly what I needed.

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    PHOTOGRAPHY: Voss to Bergen

  • 8. Copenhagen, Oslo and the joys of public transport with a touring bike

    8. Copenhagen, Oslo and the joys of public transport with a touring bike

    The challenge that lay before me now was no longer one of physical endurance, but of logistics. My goal was to get to the west coast of Norway and begin riding again through the fjords, but having turned east to head further into Denmark I was diverted from my original plan to take the ferry from Hirtshals to Stavanger. I needed another way.

    With my train ticket for the first leg already purchased – Nyborg to Copenhagen – I needed to work out the most hassle-free option to get up to Norway without paying through the nose.

    Turns out the ferry prices are little spicy from Copenhagen compared to Hirtshals, so they got ditched first. The train is cheap-ish if you get an advance ticket, but frustratingly there were no direct trains to Oslo, and I had no appetite for making a connection, so they joined the ferry on the scrap heap. The Flixbus will take you from Copenhagen to Oslo in one go and is the cheapest fare, but also has the disadvantage of being a bus. Flixbus is a bit like Megabus in the UK, cheap and cheerful, except they do usually come equipped with a bicycle rack on the back which is a big plus: no need to dismantle your bike to make it fit in the luggage hold (praying it comes out again undamaged). So Flixbus it would be.

    Bizarrely I almost abandoned Flixbus altogether after ballsing up the booking process and falsely believing there were no bike slots left. But I was mistaken, there was actually one left – a nine hour Sunday night bus from Copenhagen to Oslo via Gothenburg, departing at 23:50.

    With the most complicated international leg sorted, I could focus on the immediate task of catching my intercity Danish train from Nyborg to Copenhagen, where I would enjoy a few days of rest. The station wasn’t far from my shelter, so without a tent to pack away for once I had a bit of spare time on my hands, enough to treat the bike to a much needed deep clean.

    People often ask me “What will you do with all your spare time?”, and I did wonder this myself before starting the trip; for a while I genuinely contemplated bringing a laptop to produce music along the way. I suppose if I wasn’t blogging there would be a bit more free time, but there’s something satisfying about trying to capture the experience in some way, shape or form, and for me it is the blog. So I’ve come to appreciate those peaceful interludes between the travel, daily chores and blog writing: you can pick up a less pressing matter like bicycle beautification, or simply sit on your bum and do nothing. No stocktake of the pannier pantry or planning where to go and how to get there, just empty your mind, and do nothing.

    Taking it slow at breakfast, with a gaggle of onlookers

    How to board a train: the stressful way

    I got to Nyborg railway station with plenty of time to spare, so I took the opportunity to have a quick google about taking your bicycle on trains in Denmark. I came across this useful summary on cycletourer.co.uk, which to my horror warned me of the obscenely high triple-step between carriage floor and the platform edge on intercity DSB trains. I know the bike can tackle two steps fully loaded, but three would almost certainly be too steep, too awkward – I would have to remove the panniers and bring everything onboard in two trips.

    Poised on the platform ready to pick up my bike as soon as the train doors opened, my heartbeat began to accelerate with anticipation. The train arrived and passengers began to pour out of the doors and into my way. Swimming against the current I poked the front wheel between busy looking Danes and got to the door where I picked up the bike and carried it up the three stairs. Now onboard I began to scan the carriage for my reserved spot, only to discover that DSB have a system of sharing the bicycle storage with fold down chairs where people without seat reservations can sit down if the space is free. A girl in her early teens was sat in my spot – headphones in, eyes glued to the infinite deck of TikToks and Instagram reels in front of her – but this was not the time to play train manager, so I dumped the bike in a corner and got off to collect my panniers.

    “PEEEEEEP!”

    That was not the sound I wanted to hear. My assortment of bags was piled in a heap around 10 metres from the train door, so a 20 metre round, and the conductor had just blown her whistle. I knew it would be physically impossible to collect all bags and make it on in time, so I grabbed two and ran for the door. Two ladies on the platform were alert to my dilemma and heroically grabbed the remaining bags.

    Now you’re not supposed to obstruct closing train doors, partly because you could get trapped if the sensors fail but mainly because if everyone did this all the time the trains would be even later than they already are, but with few cards left to play I lunged forward with my rack pack to try and jam the rapidly closing door in the hope it would reopen and buy me some time at the expense of every one else’s. It was futile, the door closed. There was only one thing left to do:

    “MY BIKE IS ON THE TRAIN!!!”

    The conductor responded in Danish which one of my new found fairy godmothers translated:

    “She’s holding the train, go to her door, GO!”

    The ordeal was over as quickly as it started, and the conductor barely acknowledged the drama. Maybe it was a daily occurrence.

    There were two main lessons learned. One is that there is always a potential complexity in placing the bicycle into its designated spot on the carriage, faff that is best dealt with once the train is moving. Much better to dump your bags onboard first then immediately get off and grab the bike – you can fine tune what goes where once everything is on board.

    The second lesson is that generally speaking, people are quite kind and willing to help those in need. The two women who came to the rescue in my hour of need would almost certainly have been just as willing to help if I had approached them before the train arrived and asked if they could help carry on a few bags for me. If you think you can’t do something on your own, recruit your passenger assist in advance, or you might just end up waving goodbye to half your belongings.

    Copenhagen

    Getting off the train at Copenhagen Central station went a bit more smoothly, I’m glad to say. Although I was keen to have a look around the rain was quite heavy and I wanted to get settled at my campsite 8km north of the city centre.

    I’ve never camped so close to a major city before and wondered if I would feel secure leaving gear in the tent whilst out and about. As it happens the site was that of a defensive fort from the early 20th century – surrounded by a moat with monitored entrances. Quite unusual, and hard to imagine a more secure setup, putting my mind at ease.

    Anti bike-thief artillery at Charlottenlund Fort Camping

    Copenhagen is clean, has top notch cycling infrastructure, and the parts I visited felt safe even at night. There are some quite unusual areas too, such as the ‘Meat Packing District’ (once filled with abattoirs and meat processors, now filled with artsy looking businesses, bars and restaurants) and Freetown Christiana (an ex military base turned commune, which I only saw the fringes of unfortunately). It can be really pricey though; I tend to use cappuccinos as my international cost-of-living benchmark and they rarely came in south of £5 a pop in Copenhagen.

    A generously wide one-way cycle path in central Copenhagen

    I won’t go into great detail of all the touristy things I got up to in my downtime, so have a few photos instead:

    Tivoli – a relatively un-tacky amusement park, slap bang in the centre. Looks its best after dark
    The Amager Bakke energy-from-waste facility. Note the terrifyingly tall climbing wall on the side, and…
    … there’s a dry ski slope on the roof. Just watch out for the air ducts where you might get a heady waft of residual municipal waste
    The bay at Charlottenlund, our plunge pool for a Sunday evening ‘saunagus’ session – think ‘guided meditation in a sauna’, turned up a notch by pouring fragrant oil infused water onto the coals

    Any city that can turn the municipal residual waste treatment facility into a popular tourist attraction must have something going for it, even if it did cost $670m to build. Having worked in the waste industry I can confirm that’s quite pricey, even more than a cappuccino.

    Bus to Oslo

    The scheduled 23:50 Flixbus departure gave me plenty of time in the day to gee myself up for the 9-hour journey. At least the boarding was pain-free, just flash your ticket and one of the drivers takes your bike and secures it to the rack. Just remember to take off your water bottles to avoid unwanted ejections onto a motorway.

    The main challenge was hand luggage. I walked on with my big rear rack bag and handlebar bag, neither of which could fit in the paper-thin overhead shelf. The smaller bag just about squeezed under the chair, but the bigger one could fit nowhere except the empty seat next to me – I held my breath and prayed that nobody would sit there whilst the coach slowly filled up: they didn’t. Looking back I don’t know why I didn’t just ask the driver to pop it in the hold, oh well.

    The journey was peaceful enough, but sleep was difficult especially at stops, and being trapped in a chair didn’t help. The chairs recline a little but it doesn’t get much more comfortable. I arrived bleary eyed at Oslo bus station just after 9am, and headed straight for my hostel.

    Oslo

    I had two nights booked at the Bunks at Rode hostel, a few tram stops out from the city centre. Oslo is pretty small by European capital standards, but it also tends to be raining, so I found the trams to be quite handy.

    In true Norwegian fashion the city sits at the top of a fjord and the harbour serves as the focal point of the city. There does seem to be a lot of construction and renovation work going on at the moment, and a lot of buildings look very 1980s in style, presumably relics from the oil boom that has continued to benefit Norwegian public finances so well.

    Not always raining – a view of the harbour from Oslo Central Station

    Interestingly the cappuccinos were coming in less than in Copenhagen (c.£4), but this is where the coffee-centric inflation index falls over, because make no mistake: Oslo eats your money. On two different occasions I was caught short and had to use public toilets where I was duly charged 20 Kr. That’s £1.50, for a wee! The standard price of a 0.5 litre beer is 110 Kr which works out at  around £9 a pint, and even a small can of non alcoholic lager is over £5…looks like I’ll be keeping away from the pubs, which is a shame because they are good for writing in.

    Although still feeling lightly toasted from sleep deprivation I scooped myself up to have a look around the National Museum of Norway on the afternoon of my arrival. Feeling more refreshed, the next day took a tram west to Frogner Park where the bronze statues of Gustav Vigeland shun the great and the good to instead depict quite ordinary looking folk having a good time frolicking in the nude. There’s a Munch museum too, but I settled for the single room dedicated to his work in the national museum (which has the original ‘Scream’).

    Happy families – a mural in Grunerløkka
    A young Edvard Munch (self-portrait)
    Enjoying a brief spell of sunshine in Frogner Park

    The mountain train

    I had been aware of the railway between Oslo and Bergen before this cycle tour. Between Norway’s capital and second city lies some pretty substantial mountains, and whilst there are many tunnels through the steeper sections the tracks still rise to a dizzying altitude.

    I booked the late morning train plus a reservation for my bike. Unlike in Nyborg the train would be starting in Oslo, which I hoped would buy me some more time to get on and off. Either way I was stood at the platform ready to pick up all six panniers in one fell swoop and swiftly return for my bike.

    I needn’t have worried. Not only was there plenty of time to board in Oslo but it seemed to be similarly generous at other stations along the way, with passengers often hopping off for a quick vape safe in the knowledge they had time to play with. The bike racks were vertical and there were a lot of them, with a stack of shelves in the bicycle storage car ideally placed to put your panniers. By far the best bicycle-on-train experience I’ve had on an intercity line, top marks!

    Extra storage in the bike storage carriage – saves lugging your panniers through the train to your seat

    The train seems to start climbing as soon as you leave Oslo, and it’s not long before you’re chugging along through deep forests and along the shores of glistening lakes. Around 3 hours in we rose above the snowline and the driver mentioned a glacier was visible on our left, before stopping at the snow covered station of Finse at over 1,200m; this really is quite something, I bet Michael Portillo would love this…oh, he did (UK only, I’m afraid).

    A typical view along the Oslo-Bergen line

    My ticket did not reach as far as Bergen though, I wanted to get off earlier and ride through some of the mountains before encountering yet another city. After discounting the stops at seriously high altitude I opted for the small town of Voss, of which I knew basically nothing.

    Having descended into Voss on Ascension Day – a public holiday in Norway – every shop was closed except a small kiosk, where I stocked up on overpriced snacks and bought a copy of the local rag to see what was going down in greater Bergen.

    It was overcast, a bit cold, and I was surrounded by mountains on all sides. I’d spotted on the map a campsite just down the road, but this is Norway, and for the first time on my trip it was now completely legal to wild camp. The tour was about to get turned up a notch.

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    PHOTOGRAPHY: Copenhagen and Oslo

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    BONUS CHAPTER

    I was going to include the section below in the Danish shelter post, but it got the chop to reduce word count, so I’ll just drop this here for an added bit of Viking goodness.

    The Vikings of Ribe

    If you went to school in northern England anywhere near York, you might remember that school trip to the multi-sensory experience that is Jorvik Viking Centre. You climb into a repurposed rollercoaster carriage and meander your way back in time through various aspects of Viking life, with robotic Viking mannequins occasionally turning their head or lifting an arm. It’s good!

    The Danish town of Ribe has its own Viking centre, but this one is outdoors. They have painstakingly rebuilt an entire Viking village using traditional materials and methods, and for a few months a year they have a team of experimental archaeologists living on-site as Vikings. I’m guessing they are allowed to go to the 21st century hospital if there is an accident in the wood whittling workshop, but they really do bring the place to life. I got chatting to a couple of women sat beside the large window of the main lodging, a dog was snoozing beneath the table and the open hearth was filling the room with the sort of heady aroma you might expect when your fireplace doesn’t have a chimney.

    The reconstructed 9th century Angsar’s church

    Next to the church is a pool where they have decked out a wooden jetty, where even the ‘nails’ holding the thing together have been carved out of wood. It looks like the sort of thing you don’t let museum visitors walk on top of, but this is a hands on sort of place so you have free roam.

    An ideal perch for the pied wagtails & swallows amongst us

    Whilst I was enlightening myself about the daily lives of Ribe’s viking ancestors my powerbank was being steadily charged up by one of the E-bike charging stations installed in the car park, I just plug it in, pop the charger in my lockable handlebar bag and everything is secure…quite a neat little setup if you plan to stop for a few hours.

    Runic artwork as it may have looked back in the day
  • 7. Helter Shelter: ditching the tent for Denmark’s wooden camping sheds

    7. Helter Shelter: ditching the tent for Denmark’s wooden camping sheds

    Fair warning: this blog post is a bit longer than the others, and I expect longer than any future blog post I will publish on this trip.

    —————–

    Have a search for “shelter” on Google Maps in your local area. If you live in the UK or USA, the results will generally yield temporary accommodation provided by local authorities, charities and religious groups in the support of the homeless. Run the same search in Denmark and the results will look a little different – smaller, more wooden, usually in the middle of nowhere – like sheds in a field.

    I heard about Denmark’s network of shelters online a few years ago and was intrigued by the concept. My memory was that they are small wooden buildings where you can rock-up and sleep for the night free of charge, a bit like a bothy in Scotland, although I’d never met anyone who had stayed in one until my hostel buddy in Bremen gave them a solid thumbs up. Despite the recommendation I still had lingering reservations about one side of my sleeping quarters being wide open to the wind, insects, and early morning dog walkers – nonetheless, I decided a key mission for Denmark was to give the shelters a proper go.

    The first steps into Scandi

    As I was packing up my tent at the forest Trekkingplätze, the morning serenity was punctured upon arrival of several groups of tweens who had been staying at the nearby forestry school. All quite civilised and well behaved when their teacher was around keeping tabs on proceedings, but when a group returned unaccompanied the dynamic soon changed – within minutes one of the boys chucked a girl’s sandal into the pond which promptly sank to the bottom; without hesitation the girl struck back, swiftly grabbing the boy’s recently removed t-shirt and lobs it into the water. After a heated exchange the boy took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers and waded into the pond to seek out the submerged garments.

    As the only adult in attendance and feeling increasingly like Victor Meldrew, I wondered where you draw the line and intervene in the antics of youth. Nothing wrong with a bit of goofing around, and the kids who were at each other’s necks one minute seemed to be sitting and chatting the next. I concluded as long as nobody is actively throwing punches or trying to drown each other, then it gets a pass from me.

    A dragon fly enjoying the last moments of morning peace

    After a swift getaway from the Lord of the Flies I was at the border and across into Denmark in less than 30 minutes. Needing to pick up a few groceries I headed for the nearest decent sized town, Tønder.

    Within seconds of crossing the river at Tønder  you are into the old town centre. Not dramatically different to Germany on first impression, but the buildings seemed to be more colourful with a different architectural twist, and the public artwork (like the lotus flower fountain in the river) had a distinctive style that did not feel German to me.

    A shiny new BMW Isetta in Tønder, which seems to belong to the local dentist (credit to Dan, my go to microcar expert!)

    Whilst dragging out a cappuccino in a local café I downloaded the ‘Shelter’ app that my roommate had recommended back in Bremen. The app has an interactive map with each shelter marked with an orange pin. When you first log in, the map is quite zoomed out, and the entire country of Denmark is a sea of orange – there really are a lot of these things about. I zoomed in to the area north of Tønder and began to rummage through my options.

    My first misconception was that all shelters are free and allocated on a ‘first come, first serve‘ basis – some of them are like this, but well over half can be booked in advance, and most do cost money. But with the going rate coming in at £3.30 a night I wasn’t going to grumble, and I liked the idea of guaranteeing a spot, so I booked one around 10km away along a gravel track not far from the sea.

    Shelter No.1 – the friendly neighbours

    The two shelters at Emmerlev

    I arrived to find one of the shelters occupied by a couple who were clearly on a cycle tour of their own, only they were bravely doing it on a tandem! The shelters themselves were fairly big and chunky by design, and you could easily get four adults in there, more if you like to be cosy.

    One nice feature about the Emmerlev shelters is you can spin them around to face away from the wind, although a light breeze did still make its way through between the boards underneath from time to time. They had your basic amenities of drinking water and a composting toilet, plus a firepit with wood that could be purchased using your phone.

    But what defined this shelter was the fact I had neighbours, Maarten and Willemijn from the Netherlands. We got talking and soon realised the three of us were sheltering for the first time, which broke the ice. Their planned destination was Europe’s most northern tip – the Nordkapp – well within the arctic circle, which explained the cosy looking sleeping bags laid out in their shelter which I was feeling a little jealous of.

    My neighbours had a bit more touring experience compared to me and were kind enough to share some of their wisdom – I especially liked the elasticated netting with hooked edges they use on top of their rack bag: you can quickly stuff a jacket underneath the net without the rigmarole of unstrapping, opening, closing, and re-strapping your rack bag – a massive time saver! They also gave me some advice on my wobbly front panniers, which I had failed to secure properly to the rack.

    Sunset at Emmerlev

    The sun lowered itself into another spectacular retreat and we settled down into our respective shelters. The floor was coated in a layer of wind-blown soil dust, so I laid down the groundsheet of my tent to protect the airbed, sleeping bag and inflatable pillow. It was certainly a strange feeling to be exposed to the elements on one side; although the walls of a tent are paper-thin it’s amazing how secure and protected you feel once curled up inside. I was chatting with Maarten the next morning and he felt like the shelter sleep was lighter than in a tent, but yet he said he felt remarkably refreshed. It was similar for me: although you wake up in the night more often, there’s something about opening your eyes after a cycle of REM – that moment when you piece reality back together from the confusing kaleidoscope of a night of dreams – and seeing dawn unfold in front of you, that just makes you feel, good.

    The view from my shelter at 05:48 – lovely and all, but I still went back to sleep

    It was very much a positive first-time shelter experience, and it gave me confidence to try out a few more as I made my way across Denmark. The question now was, which way should I go?

    After chatting with Maarten and Willemijn about how they like to tour I realised the importance of keeping things flexible and making sure to do things I enjoy, and I was becoming curious to see a bit more of Denmark than just the western region of Jutland. That was the moment I made the first major divergence from my original route – instead of straddling the west coast of Jutland and taking a ferry to Norway from the northern port of Hirtshals, I would now head east to Copenhagen, via the island of Fyn. I could figure out how to get from Copenhagen to Norway another day.

    Getting a wash

    As I set off on my slightly more loosey goosey way, there was a feeling that had been creeping over me that was now becoming hard to ignore; I was starting to get a bit manky.

    My last proper shower was four days prior and the weather had been warm and sweaty, I needed that refreshing feeling of water against my skin, even if it wasn’t as luxurious as a warm shower. I checked the Shelter app for any nearby with a shower, but no luck. Instead I booked a woodland shelter located a little further north towards the historic town of Ribe, and decided to spend my afternoon exploring the island of Rømø…maybe there would be a shower there?

    You can get to Rømø from the mainland by travelling along the Rømødæmningen, or Rømø dam, a 9km raised embankment not unlike the one I rode across in the Netherlands, except this time against a disgusting headwind. The road was dead straight and the speed slow. After a while my eyes began to play tricks on me, it was as if the world around me was being slowly ejected from a small dot in the centre of the horizon, like some kind of inexplicable Danish black hole. The more I stared into the dot the more my sense of perspective distorted, I was losing all sense of depth perception – the scene in front of me was reduced to a flat canvas of straight lines radiating from the black hole. I was like a hamster in a wheel, getting nowhere.

    Stare at the centre for long enough and the mind plays tricks – no blinking, that’s cheating!

    There are lots of little tactics you can employ to stop yourself going insane on a bicycle, or at least delay the onset. On this occasion I tuned into the fact there was a finite number of pylons between me and the shore: each tower passed was a moment to be celebrated – “ONE PYLON CLOSER!”. The aim is to take the seemingly colossal task that lies before you and break it into bitesize chunks, and it works both in the saddle as well as off the bike (e.g. you might be better off thinking about the tour and what lies ahead in sections, rather than in totality).

    After a brief wander around the tourist shops and cafes of Lakolk I decided to go and check out the massive beach that dominates the western shore of Rømø. And massive it is. I’ve not come across many beaches where the public are allowed to drive on, but here it was allowed, so the shifting landscape was littered with the oversized campervans of people who wanted a nice view of the sea without the long walk. I actually managed to ride my bike for a while where the sand had been compacted, before eventually succumbing to the lack of friction and pushing it to a solitary wooden post a stone’s throw from the water’s edge.

    I’m not sure of the exact moment I decided to hurl myself into the sea. I looked around and couldn’t help but notice not a single other person was bathing, even though it was a sunny day. Finally I saw a chap head out into the waves for a session of kite surfing, which was all the encouragement I needed.

    Beaches and bicycles, not natural bedfellows

    The water was shallow and the waves quite gentle, so shallow it wasn’t really possible to swim without walking right out to sea (which I didn’t fancy), so I gracefully squatted down and let the sea water do its thing. I don’t know how often you jump in the sea, but I honestly couldn’t believe how soft my skin felt afterwards, and the perennial patch of dry skin above my left eyelid seemed to dissolve in the brine. It might not have been a warm shower but the manky feeling was gone.

    Shelter no.2 – the woods

    I knew the shelter I would be staying at that evening did not have electricity (most don’t), so I swung by Cafe Retro in the nearby village of Brøns to charge my phone and concede defeat to the world’s largest bowl of chips.

    The shelter was one of three nestled in a patch of woodland on the eastern edge of Brøns. The other two were unoccupied leaving the whole site to myself, including full reign of the firepit. The shelter was a bit more solid than at Emmerlev, and although there was no way of turning it around it didn’t really matter amongst the wind-shielding trees, and besides the evening was still, dry and peaceful. It also had a lower roof, so vigilance required to avoid a head whacking.

    My freshly swept shelter at Brøns

    I spotted a large sweeping brush so decided to give mine a spring clean before unloading my gear. It felt a bit more homely after a good sweep, topped off by lighting a few of the candles that had been left in the corner. It might sound sketchy lighting candles in your combustible wooden shed bed, but the real fire risk is from the firepit to the surrounding woodland.

    The shelter owners had provided a pile of firewood in the corner of the site, and there was plenty of kindling around, so after checking the local fire brigade website for any local warnings (or bans) I lit a small campfire with a primitive device fashioned out of two sticks my lighter.

    Fireside at Brøns shelter

    You definitely need a bit of extra vigilance with fires in the woods, mainly to keep an eye on the wind, make sure the fire doesn’t get too big or start belching out hot embers, and to put it out before you go to bed. If you do hear a big pop and see a hot ember shoot out, make sure it hasn’t gone rogue in starting a little fire of its own.

    It felt like a milestone to get my first fire going. The warmth, the soft crackles, the trance inducing flames, even the smell is appealing (even if it does linger on you for days). I don’t plan to have a lot of them, so I want to savour the ones I do.

    Fire roasted pepper – just scrape off the charcoal and you’ve got a tasty snack

    Shelter No.3 – the Shire

    After a night camping next to a field of red deer in someone’s back garden (…with permission) and a morning spent mooching around the clean but unremarkable city of Esbjerg, I began to head east into the heart of Jutland.

    It felt good to be going a different compass direction for a change, yet not so good on the legs as I was now ploughing directly into another headwind. Touring bikes are a bit like boats when it comes to wind, you will glide along effortlessly when the wind is in your sails, but when it’s against you the going gets real tough real quick, and you just have to accept it will take a lot longer to progress now.

    There were slightly less shelter options inland compared to the coast, but I managed to secure a booking at a remote looking standalone shelter around 15km south of the city of Legoland Billund. As I moved deeper into the country the farmland began to give way to pine forest plantations, and I had took a short break to climb a bizarre looking viewing platform. You don’t really get these things in the UK, and especially not ones with a wooden prism at the top with ladders inviting you to climb up to several small viewing portholes. Sound dangerous? It was, a bit.

    A canopy peep hole – just watch that 12ft drop on your left from the ladder you’ve just ascended

    The asphalt roads gave way to gravel, which slowed me down further. It really did feel like I was beginning to stray from civilisation, at least as much as you can in a small country like Denmark. I reached the dead end road leading to my accommodation and by chance met the owner and his son in a car on their way out for the evening.

    “The farmer will be spreading tonight. Spreading er, how you say…”

    “Shit?”

    “Yes! But you know, animal shit. You get used to it quite quick. He does it once a year and there’s no stopping him, I’m sorry!”

    I did think he could maybe have mentioned this detail in our email exchange, he had no financial incentive not to: the shelter was provided free of charge. I wished them well on their way to wherever they were escaping the evening’s muck spreading and located a somewhat shaky looking shelter standing precariously close to the edge of a field.

    The view from Vejs Ende shelter

    The shelter was built on top of an old trailer, with the entrance suspended a good two feet from the ground with no steps. There was a large nail protruding from the wooden beam overhanging the entrance, and potential splinters lurked everywhere. However, this was one the best evenings I’ve had enjoying the outdoors that I can remember.

    There was something about the remote location, along with perfect weather conditions and having plenty of food and drink. The inclusion of a little seating area within the shelter was a nice touch, and there was even a metal stove that I didn’t dare to use. It was shabby, but it had charm and the location to compensate. Just please don’t rent this shelter if you use a wheelchair for heaven’s sake. And thank you Mr Farmer man for not spreading the field directly next to me, whether this was an act of mercy or otherwise.

    Shelter No.4 – Going upmarket

    I continued my journey east aiming for the narrow strait of water separating Jutland and the island of Fyn, known as the Little Belt. With the weekend upon me all the good shelters had been booked up – you have to get in early if you want a weekend slot at the popular shelters – so I pitched up at a ‘primitive campsite’ near the Old Little Belt Bridge, which turned out to be a field with instructions on where to find the nearest public bogs.

    The next morning I crossed the bridge and headed south east along the coast towards the town of Assens. There seemed to be a lot of shelters in this area and with it now being Sunday I could pick whichever one I fancied. I  opted for the Aborg Mark shelter site that offered a lot in the way of amenities, maybe I could wash my clothes in an actual washing machine?

    The two-storey beehive style shelter at Aborg Mark

    Just look at that thing: it has multiple doors into various compartments, adjustable air vents, porthole windows, and the bottom sleeping compartment has a sliding internal door to separate you from the non-closeable aperture which is just out of shot in the photo, so you are fully cocooned from the elements.

    The site is a real 5* experience as far as shelters go. There is a central heated communal area with kitchen, toilets, a shower, power sockets, washing machine and a selection of long life groceries, all payable through the honesty box. I did have to pay the two person minimum rate for my beehive shelter (not uncommon) but still only around £6.50 a night. I do understand the 2-person minimum charge, but I feel like it could be waived or partly refunded if there are other empty shelters that night.

    This would be my recovery shelter. I spent two nights here and made friends with a nice chap called Lars who was on a bit of a cycle tour of his own around Fyn. I even managed to do a bit of cooking on the firepit (with variable degrees of finesse and success, much to Lars’ amusement), and took a sunny afternoon to relax in the empty pool & jacuzzi of a nearby campsite. Less success on the clothes washing front though; someone had carelessly left inside a couple of wet tea towels, which had since bloomed into little mold garden.

    One of my more successful efforts on the firepit

    No.5 – The shelter that wasn’t

    It was quite a challenge to drag myself away from Aborg Mark, but with the weather still feeling more like summer than spring I decided to change my plan of visiting the city of Odense and instead take a ferry to the smaller island of Ærø, around 10 miles from the port of Faaborg.

    Fresh spring growth on the southern shores of Fyn

    Suspecting the island would be a sleepy sort of place I stocked up on gifflar cinnamon rolls along with more nutritional food at Netto before boarding the ferry for the hour long journey to Ærø.

    My target destination was a free to use shelter located in woodland not far from an inland lake at the north west end of the island. It didn’t take long to cycle to the woodland edge, all I had to do was find the shelter. That’s where my plans began to slowly unravel.

    All shelters on the Shelter app are marked with grid coordinates which you can open in Google Maps. I rode the bike along an increasingly overgrown forest track, ducking and diving between the branches and brambles, but the path did not lead to the shelter site – I needed to get about 50m off the path towards the lake, but it was through dense deciduous woodland.

    After scanning the woods for an obvious way in I settled for the path of least resistance and began to heave and manoeuvre the fully loaded bike over the forest detritus. Movement was slow and dead wood cracked under my wheels, I just hoped the tyres would remain unpenetrated.

    “This must be the place” – satnav issues in the woods beside Vitsø Nor

    Eventually I ditched the bike against a tree and got myself to the exact geo location on foot – nothing. Not a shelter to be seen, or even any sign there ever was one. I don’t know if it was my GPS signal, an erroneous coordinate, or maybe the local Ærønians have installed a hidden series of webcams in the trees to amuse themselves as they watch off-islanders flounder around the dense undergrowth in search of a shelter that never was. I don’t know, but I do know it was a pain in the arse.

    Fortunately I had a plan B around 8km up the road, another primitive campsite, and this one even had its own compost toilet and a tap…what luxury! The wind picked up and cloud set in with the arrival of a new weather system: it would be the last day of this miraculous heatwave that blessed the start of my tour.

    Shelter No.6 – The end of the road

    After escaping Ærø on a ferry to the port of Svendborg I now had two options: island hop to my way east and approach Copenhagen from the south, or make my way north and get a train across the Great Belt Bridge linking Fyn and Zealand (which is closed to cyclists). I’d had my fill of island hopping by this point, so began to cycle my way north to the city of Nyborg.

    After discovering I would have to pay £20 just to see the famous Egeskov Slot (a moated castle), I set my GPS to call by the less famous Damestenen – a glacial ‘erratic’ plucked from the bedrock in Sweden and dumped by the melting ice in what is now a Danish field. In fairness the local tourist board hasn’t tried to oversell it by claiming it looks like something it doesn’t, but it is just a rock.

    “It’s a rock”, but not Frog Rock

    I rolled up to my final shelter on the outskirts of Nyborg, unpacked my sleeping gear and spent the evening sheltering from the wind in a different sort of construction: the local café bar. It was quite windy and the shelter, although with plentiful character and in a great spot overlooking a lake, was not exactly the most windproof. It reminded me of the 1930s wooden garage that has survived almost a century of Scottish winters beside the cottage where our family holidays up in Perthshire.

    Pizzas not included – the shelter at Dyrehavehuse nature campsite

    That evening I booked a train ticket for 1pm the next day. The train would not only carry me across the Great Belt Bridge, but take me all the way to Copenhagen, drawing to an end Phase 1 of my European tour. The plan was to take a bit of R&R  in Copenhagen before extracting myself – and all my kit – to Norway, somehow.

    ————–

    PHOTOGRAPHY: The Shelters of Denmark

    STRAVA: rides from the 13th 21st of May

  • 6. Hamburgers and Holsteins in Northern Germany

    6. Hamburgers and Holsteins in Northern Germany

    After medicating myself with an early night I woke from my long sleep with the usual tent dilemma: being warm, comfortable, and busting for a wee. I’m more of a night owl than a morning lark so having such a forceful alarm clock is actually quite handy. I thought the trip might re-tune my circadian rhythm and I would rise with the sun like a medieval farm labourer, but apparently not yet.

    As soon as I sat upright it was clear my back pain had much improved and I would be able to carry on towards Hamburg. I cooked up an extra large bowl of porridge and offered a few oats to my new neighbour the mallard duck, who had been justifying my anatidaephobia as he sat and watched me eat breakfast. The oats were enthusiastically received.

    I googled it and yes, you can feed ducks oats – just don’t cook them first (the oats or the duck)

    The Worpswede campsite was remarkably empty and I hadn’t seen a single staff member since my arrival. It would have been quite easy to just leave and save a few euros, but this is Germany – where following the rules and making money are part of the national DNA – so I wandered further in to try and locate a reception.

    As I carefully leaned my bike against a wall I was greeted by the campsite owner. There was a warmth to his character and he quickly expressed an interest in my trip, boasting of his passion for the British countryside. When the conversation turned to my sore back he suddenly disappeared behind the counter and returned with a tube of ‘Voltaren’ pain killing gel, insisting that I take it with me free of charge. I don’t really know how effective the Voltaren was, but the gesture lifted me for the rest of the day; I realised the importance of communicating with people I meet along the way, and the power they can have to change a situation with their knowledge, resources, and little acts of kindness.

    To the owner of Worpswede campsite; danke schön for the Voltaren!

    With my new lease of life I began to cycle my way north-east through the flat pastoral landscape of fields separated only by the occasional patch of woodland. Curiously, one of the larger villages I passed through was equipped with a vending machine stocked with trays of eggs – those on higher shelves in the machine were cheaper than their lower counterparts. I like to think a German chicken farmer has sat down and developed a pricing formula that accounts for the probability of eggs breaking when dispensed from different levels of the machine, I wouldn’t put it past them.

    You could save €0.80 by going for the eggs on row 3, but are you feeling lucky?

    Over time the open fields of grass and cereals were interspersed with dense orchards, sleepy farmyards were replaced by industrial estates, and the once occasional traffic was becoming more of a constant. Hamburg was approaching, but there was still a significant barrier between us: the river Elbe.

    Hamburg

    The cycle path was becoming busier and I tucked in behind a group of commuters heading in the right direction. After around 20 minutes our little peleton arrived at the airport ferry crossing – a small jetty floating on the south banks of the Elbe.

    As we waited for our ferry there was another boat making its way downstream towards the North Sea, a colossal 125,000 tonne cruise ship from German operator AIDA. Looking like a skyscraper that had been toppled by a giant toddler and scribbled on with a crayon, even the locals seemed bemused at the ridiculous spectacle that was floating along in front of us.

    Give us a kiss – less than half of the flagship AIDAprima

    The hostel I was staying in was in the northern part of St Pauli district and not far from the lively Schanze area, basecamp for the regional hipster population. The heavily graffitied buildings are not in a state of abandonment, they are full of life and activity. The streets are dotted with countless ‘kiosk’ shops – each a slightly different hybrid of newsagent, off-licence, post office and café – and the countless bars and restaurants seem to effortlessly draw in the punters even on a Tuesday night. It seems there is no shortage of money changing hands in Hamburg.

    Hamburgers enjoy the Friday evening sunshine on a St Pauli street corner

    I wanted to stay for a bit longer in Hamburg to explore and catch up on travel admin, but with only one night booked and a lack of beds I had to move hostels. The new one was nearby and turned out to be more of a ‘proper’ backpackers hostel, with key ingredients including a big common area with free tea & coffee on tap, and sociable members of staff including the very down to earth Irishman who shared my name. The hostel functioned partly as a little haven for the city’s English speakers, some of whom were studying in Hamburg but just liked to swing by for the good vibes and a break from the Germanic world.

    As a sort of ice-breaker for guests the hostel put on a weekly open mic night, where if you’re lucky you might hear Martin the compere play something from his wide busking repertoire, and if you’re unlucky you might hear Martin The Cycling Brit butchering Johnny Flynn’s theme tune to The Detectorists – the problem with forgetting both the lyrics and chords to a song is that, well, there’s not much left to perform at that point. We decided the best course of action was to try another song, so I went for The Divine Comedy’s My Lovely Horse which I knew Irish Martin would join in with, which thankfully went a bit more like it did in Ted and Dougal’s dreams than their performance at the Irish Eurovision qualifiers. I declined the free beer offered to open mic participants though, I’ll grab one when I do that Johnny Flynn song justice.

    I would spend four nights in Hamburg in the end, with an extra day to have a look around the Harbour festival with my new hostel friends from India and Pakistan, who calmly elevated themselves above the aggression of their country’s governments only hours after missiles had been fired in the ongoing Kashmir conflict.

    Although I didn’t quite get around to all of the tasks on my travel admin list, after much research & confusion I did eventually manage to send a package home – partly to send birthday goodies for Mum, but also to return a few stowaways that had snuck into my panniers. Yep, I cycled from Amsterdam to Hamburg carrying a 60W power supply for a Wahoo Kickr turbo trainer, i.e. an exercise bike. If there is one thing you don’t need on a cycle tour, it’s an exercise bike, so you probably don’t need the power supply for one either.

    Episode 1 in the mini-series of ridiculous things I brought with me on tour: a turbo trainer power supply

    I did find time to get out of the hostel and explore the city to be a bit of a tourist. The ominous concrete bunker – built by forced labourers under instruction of the Nazis – might be the most solid looking building I’ve ever seen, and clearly strong enough for them to stick a multi-storey hotel on top and cover the roof in trees & shrubs.

    Flak Tower IV, with the new hotel & gardens on top – the perfect Bond villain mansion

    Sadly the Church of St Nicholas did not survive the allied bombing raids quite so unscathed, the ruins of which remain as a memorial. I’ve seen the ruins of countless monasteries torn down at the behest of everyone’s favourite fat-man Henry VIII, but there’s something quite unsettling about the church of St Nicholas, probably the fact the enormous spire is still intact; you can see the soire from miles around, it’s only when you get close it becomes obvious the rest is missing. Apparently it was destroyed by a fire in the 19th century too, so they might struggle to get building insurance after rebuild no. 3.

    Remains of the Church of St. Nicholas, with its working glockenspiel bells

    Finally I couldn’t leave without sticking my head in the cunningly named Miniatur Wunderland (not ‘The Model Railway Museum‘, which might somewhat narrow the demographic appeal). It’s quite easy to imagine how dull a badly executed version of this museum would be to your average city tourist, but kudos to them – they have put together a small army of craftsmen & women in the workshops to create this little parallel universe spread across several floors of an old warehouse by the docks. Everything comes to life too thanks to thousands of hidden electric motors, circuits and LEDs, all overseen by a slightly overkill control room that seems to be modelled on NASA’s Houston.

    A riverside exhibit from Miniatur Wunderland – recognise anything?

    After making my way through the miniature exhibits – each showing a different geographical area and various human & economic activities – I sat down for a coffee in the cafeteria and got talking to an English couple from York who were in Hamburg for the weekend. The topic turned to the museum and how long we had been inside – they’d been told by a friend back home that it would take three days to see everything properly.

    “Three days in here, can you imagine?!”, the wife exasperated.

    I took a sip of my rapidly cooling cappuccino and looked at the husband. It seemed like he might be on the verge of launching a defence of their friend’s position – maybe with a monologue about the time needed to truly appreciate good craftsmanship – but he thought better of it. They had negotiated to spend 5 hours max. He finished his slice of cake and headed upstairs to checkout the Italian Alps on level 3, she ordered another cup of tea.

    My time in Hamburg was coming to an end. I had met a variety of interesting people at the hostel, from both Germany and beyond, and felt that despite the short time we had spent together we became friends. Before my departure I grabbed lunch with a German man of a similar age who was in the process of renovating a boat; it sounded like a long and complex project, but one I could understand. We were both finding meaning and satisfaction in our own journeys.

    From campingplätze to trekkingplätze

    It felt good to be out in the countryside again. The sun was still beaming in the unseasonably warm spring heatwave that had started on day 3 back in Horn and continued ever since.

    I was now heading north towards Denmark through Germany’s most northern state: Schleswig-Holstein. The area is famous for its classic black & white Holstein Fresian dairy cows, which you see all over Shropshire and pretty much everywhere else that produces milk on an industrial scale.

    A couple of Holstein Fresians – the most popular way to convert grass into milk (and methane)

    I had a rummage on Google Maps and picked out a small campsite in the hamlet of Hodorf not far from the city of Itzehoe, about 50km away, so not too arduous for my first day back on the road. As I slowly emerged out of the suburbs and into the countryside the first sense I had of being in a new region was the number of wind turbines, they were multiplying! There was no shortage of turbines in other parts of Germany, but here they seemed to be sprouting up from every direction.

    A handful of the hundreds of wind turbines in Schleswig-Holstein

    I was greeted at the campsite gate by the owners, who were in the midst of a struggle with a newly purchased hosepipe. It was designed for a yacht and so was super light weight, but you have to fully unwind the pipe for water to flow…not ideal. There’s usually a compromise with ultra-light gear, as well as the price.

    The owners were a sociable couple and made me feel extremely welcome, recommending I watch the sunset up on the dike with the rare absence of wind, so I did. As the sun approached the horizon it melted through shades of orange to red, and the sound of birdsong and insects filled the perfectly still evening…then a sheep started to use my foot to scratch the itch on its head, rude!

    Here comes trouble. The cat knew to keep its distance from this lot

    The next morning I got back onto my pre-planned GPS route and continued the journey north, stopping in the picturesque coastal town of Husum to wander haplessly in search of a public loo and seek out a German B&Q to pick some gas for my stove.

    Not long after leaving Husum I found myself on some of the longest and straightest cycle paths I have ever bore witness to, and with the sea & mudflats on one side and a tree-less grassy embankment on the other, it was barely obvious that any progress was being made at all. But with a sympathetic tailwind the progress was good. I treated myself with a food product sold to me as ‘Fish & Chips’, and immediately regretted it.

    I’m sorry Germany, but this is not Fish & Chips. Come on, salad dressing!?

    One difference about this final section of touring before entering Denmark was the nature of my camping spots. Until now I have always stayed in ‘proper’ campsites that are run as businesses and always have the basic facilities: a shower, toilet, wash basin etc. But when scanning the map for places to stay I noticed a new word popping up, Trekkingplätze. They seem to be a northern Germany phenomena and are provided specifically for people travelling by foot or bicycle. You can only spend one night at a time, but they are free!

    This trekkingplätze came with its own cosy little cabin, perfect for blog writing

    Maybe I just got lucky and picked a couple of good ones – and everything seems better in good weather of course – but the two I stayed in at the end of my journey through Germany were bloody great. The first even had a shower (albeit cold and in full view of any passers by) and the kind lady whose garden it sits in came and dropped off a thermos of coffee before leaving for work, bless her. The second was nestled away in a woodland glade and had its own private island. Yep, an island with a picnic bench that you can row a boat to, which in early May is basically one big dragonfly orgy.

    Setting sail for breakfast – the boat could probably do with a lick of paint to be fair

    The trekkingplätze were a glimpse into how you can trade in a bit of convenience (and cleanliness) for a massive accomodation cost saving, tactics I will surely need to survive mega-pricey Scandinavia without falling into destitution. A timely lesson, I was mow only 10km from the Danish border.

    ——-

    PHOTOGRAPHY: Schleswig-Holstein

    STRAVA: rides between 6th and 13th of May

  • Update: 21st May 2025

    Hello everyone (or should I say ‘Hej’? One of two three-letter Danish words I can just about use in a conversation without the recipient looking confused at best, and occasionally in actual pain).

    This post is not an official ‘episode’ of the blog but more of a general update and a bit of housekeeping.

    I am currently in the Danish city of Nyborg and have booked a train to Copenhagen for tomorrow afternoon, where I will hopefully remain for a little while so I can catch up on the blog writing and plan how I haul everything to Norway for the next phase of the tour.

    In the meantime, I noticed that I forgot to add links to photo albums on my last two blog posts, sorry about that. I have added these now, as well as a new ‘Photo Gallery‘ page which has links to all of the Google Photo albums that accompany each blog post, including a variety of bonus pics in the ‘Preparations’ album from the months preceding my departure from Shrewsbury.

    I hope that you are keeping well and enjoying the blog. I genuinely enjoy writing it, and it’s a good excuse to extract myself from the day-to-day of touring – namely planning, packing, pedaling, and unpacking – to plonk myself in a cosy coffee shop or bar to do a bit of writing.

    All the best,
    Martin

  • 5. Campsites & city lights in Lower Saxony & Bremen

    5. Campsites & city lights in Lower Saxony & Bremen

    I crossed the Dutch border and entered the German state of Lower Saxony on the 30th of April. Why Lower Saxony is higher up than Saxony on the map I’m not sure, maybe they were rebelling against the ‘north bias’ emerging in 16th century European cartography – preferring to see the world from south-up – but I doubt it.

    I was a little anxious about leaving behind the gold-standard Dutch cycling infrastructure and stepping into unknown German territory, but Deutsche Infrastruktur is generally pretty good and that extends to cycling. The majority of roads have a separate cycle path, but sometimes they are a little narrow and often shared with pedestrians, so you do have to be vigilant.

    The sun was continuing to beat down and I made the rookie mistake of running out of water, so I kept my eyes out for a church with a graveyard. This is a top tip by the way if you’re ever running low, but you need one where the residents are fresh enough to be remembered by the living; nobody waters the flowers anymore at the weathered headstone of Hans Schmidt, B.1725 D.1802 (RIP). They say you die twice: once when you croak, and again when the last person who remembers you croaks – if your chosen graveyard is full of people from the latter then don’t bank on there being a tap for the mourners.

    A handy church graveyard tap, with its own pitched roof

    Die Campingplätze

    Fully watered but now running dangerously low on food, I tracked down an Edeka supermarket in the appropriately named town of Weener. Edeka is basically the Tesco of Germany, more choice than Lidl & Aldi and just about cheap enough to not turn your nose. I stocked up on groceries and made the inaugural use of my oversized bottle cages, which are the perfect size for a 1.5 litre bottle of pop…once finished you can either buy more pop or keep the bottle for extra water capacity.

    There’s a campsite located on the outskirts of Weener, just beside the river Ems (which was hiding behind a dyke, as they all are in this region). Campingplatz Weener is a very German campsite, filled principally with static caravans owned by Germans, some of which looked like they had been there since the late 1970s, with little attempt made to scrape off the decades of moss and algal growth since their arrival.

    The man on reception scribbled directions to the tent area on a paper map that appeared to be a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. After some squinting and a few wrong turns I was greeted by my fellow campers: a friendly Dutch couple who were on a week-long trip, and a local man who had come out on his bike for a few days around the May Day bank holiday. I wondered if people who camp in tents and travel by car avoid Weener for some reason.

    After almost ruining my evening meal by adding Bergkäse ‘mountain cheese’ that was way too strong for my delicate English palette, I handed the rest of the pack to my hardened cheese-eating Dutch neighbours. The Campingplatz Weener campers were all beginning to settle down for the evening.

    Macaroni cheese with currywurst sauce and German sausage – the trick is to choose a cheese that you actually like the taste of

    At around 9:30pm, as the attractive dome shaped street lamps began to glow around the campsite, a new cyclist parked up at the edge of the grass and began to inspect the area for an optimum location for his tent, commentating a relentless stream of German as he did so. He was a stocky sort of fellow, around middle age with long wispy hair emanating from the patches where it still held on.

    Until this moment I had thought of my own touring setup as being very much at the heavy end of the spectrum. Although the bike he rode in on was not itself too out of the ordinary – it had relatively small wheels with orange reflectors attached to every spoke, and an extra-wide seat upholstered with the sort of fluffy fabric you expect to find on a plush rug at Dunelm – it was the fact being towed along behind was a seriously hefty trailer. Most of the trailer’s contents were obscured by a blue tarp, but strapped on top was the silhouette of a large, oddly shaped object that was difficult to make out in the evening twilight: it looked like another bicycle, but surely nobody would tour with a spare bike? This man would, and does!

    Our new camping neighbour unloaded his trailer, erected a solidly 5-man tent with high ceilings, and parked his main bicycle in the tent’s lobby. I have at times felt a bit eccentric in the planning and execution of this trip, but there are always bigger fish out there, and there is some comfort in that. From now on whenever I feel weighed down by the gravity of my luggage, I shall imagine if I were dragging along this touring setup, and feel the kilogrammes float away.

    Campingplatz Weener had not only been quirky but it was quite cheap at €15 for two nights, half the price of the Dutch sites I had been staying in. The record for cheapest accommodation of the trip was to be short held however, with the title taken by Auecamp the very next day at a bargain busting €4, trustingly paid for via an honesty box. Despite being in the heart of Wildehauser Geest nature reserve, Aucamp is within earshot of Autobahn No. 1, so it would not be the quietest of night’s sleep. Another problem with cheap accommodation is feeling like you’ve now got spare budget to burn, which in this instance went into the onsite bar’s cash register.

    Das autobahn, slicing through das nature reserve

    Now call me easily pleased, but you do start to appreciate good facilities when skipping from one place to another on tour. At Auecamp it was the immaculately clean, warm and well stocked toilet / shower cubes dotted around the site and required no token to operate – just step in, lock the door and it’s yours. After tiptoeing between patches of mud in the cold, dank men’s shower block at Weener, stepping into my own private shower booth was veering on decadence. I do not intend for this blog to be a running commentary on the good, the bad, and the ugly toilets of continental Europe, but these ones really did leave an impression! Maybe I am easily pleased.

    The toilet / shower cube at Auecamp

    Into the city

    You spend a lot of time in the countryside on a cycle tour. Birdsong rings out from swaying trees, crops carpet the neverending patchwork of fields, and the sort of drama you might typically encounter is a farmer struggling to round up his more uncooperative livestock. It really is quite a peaceful place and you soon become accustomed to the gentle pace of country life.

    So when I rolled into the city of Bremen and was met by hundreds of pro-Palestinian protesters marching through the main square, with a pro-Israeli counter-demonstration lingering on the periphery – everyone carefully watched over by armed German police – it was quite the sensory overload.

    A jolt back to reality – both protests went by peacefully

    I had booked into my first hostel of the trip, two nights in the Meininger around 200m from the train station. It was one of those hostels that is essentially a hotel in every regard other than the fact you share a room, in my case with three other people. The facilities are great but there are  limited opportunities to mingle with other travellers besides your roommates. Fortunately I was sharing with a fellow cyclist from Poland who had also not eaten yet, so we ventured into downtown Saturday night Bremen to replenish ourselves.

    Cities may be chaotic and stressful, but they also have stuff going on. Take an evening walk into the centre of a provincial market town and you will be lucky to find a bar with a jukebox. In Bremen we wandered into the cathedral at 8:30pm and caught a live performance of some seriously experimental electronic music as part of the Lang Nacht der Musik event. Amid the soft overhead lighting and soaring gothic stonework, high frequency crackles & pops fizzed out over harsh mid-range synths, with the occasional deep bassline swooping out across the pews from a surprisingly small PA system. The performance wasn’t structured like classical music, it was closer to a Jackson Pollock painted in sound. You don’t get that in the countryside.

    Not your typical venue for a gig

    After our burritos we took the scenic route back to the hostel, taking in the handful of older buildings of Bremen that survived the allies’ WW2 bombing campaign. German city centres are lined with the glass and steel panels of generic modern buildings and you can’t help but wonder how they might differ today if some of those bombs were saved for military targets.

    By Sunday morning Rafa and my two other roommates had moved on, so I had the place to myself, quite a rare treat in a hostel. I took the day to relax and do a bit of blog writing before heading for Hamburg in the morning.

    I think it was when manoeuvring the fully loaded bike around the awkward hotel corridors that I noticed all was not right with my body. My lower back muscles had become tense, and certain actions – like lifting my leg over the frame to get onto the bike – resulted in acute pain. I rode out of Bremen hoping the pain would soon subside but it did not. I had to rest, so I headed for a small town called Worpswede which a man had recommended to me as a place to visit in the elevator as I returned from breakfast.

    Worp speed ahead

    Worpswede is not far from Bremen, but it seemed to take a lifetime to get there. I knew there were painkillers in my first aid kit but I couldn’t be bothered with the palaver of stopping to retrieve them, so I bit the bullet rode on.

    If you had to pluck a small town out of thin air as a place to kill some time whilst feeling sorry for yourself, I can highly recommend Worpswede. It is a small town whose trajectory was forever changed by the arrival of artists in the 19th century. There are statues and public art pieces everywhere you look, and many of the houses are washed in colourful paint. I read a short history of the Worpswede artist colony and they remind me a little of the British Pre-Raphaelites: shunned by the mainstream art world, they decided to go their own way, with things getting a little bit incestuous amongst the small social circle of country-dwelling artists.

    After taking some down time to eat cake and rest my aching muscles in a deckchair I had commandeered outside the Tourist Information centre, I necked a couple of Ibuprofen and hauled my arse back up to try and find some culture in this quite unusual place.

    Either the statue was carved that way on purpose, or there was only enough bronze for 1 out 5 appendages

    It was a Monday afternoon and the main art gallery was closed, so I decided to seek out an oddly shaped building I had spotted on a display board in Tourist Information – the Käseglocke.

    The Käseglocke – an ideal Mystery House on Escape to the Country

    The Käseglocke, which translates to ‘cheese dome’, was built in the 1920s as the eccentric home for one of Worpswede’s resident artists. Apparently it wasn’t long before he opened up the quirky building for guided tours and that tradition continues to this day. There’s a wide variety of colourful ceramics, anti-ergonomic furniture (which you are allowed to sit in), and bizarre fixtures on displays, including a large stove built in the ‘Impressionist’ style. I can see why Impressionism took off more with oil paint than it did with stove manufacturing, but I like the idea.

    The stove – a bit like when Homer Simpson built a spice rack, but more solid

    Above the stove was a Kaffeeschacht: a Wallace & Gromit-esque hole in the ceiling to the master bedroom for the rapid retrieval of a freshly boiled pot of coffee. It really is a fun little building, filled with objects that give you a flavour of the unconventional artists who have lived in Worpswede over the years. It is set within some old growth woodland too for that extra fairytale vibe, and if you’re lucky some local ladies might turn up with a couple of donkeys in tow for a chat with the museum keeper.

    See if you can spot the farm animal in the bottom ceramic

    Although it had been a challenging day with the onset of back pain I felt lucky to have spent it in somewhere like Worpswede. I headed to a riverside campsite to pitch my tent for an early night to maximise my recovery, the plan was to see how I felt in the morning and decide if I would carry on to Hamburg.

    At the campsite I was greeted by two ducks: they had clearly been fed many times before by campers and hoped I might throw something tasty in their direction. But in my mind they saw a weary traveller who’d had a hard day and could do with some company, and that’s the version of reality I embraced.

    Ducks are pretty useless at constructing tents, but they make for good moral support

    PHOTOGRAPHY: Bremen & Lower Saxony

    Strava: rides between 2nd & 5th of May

  • 4. Polder Dash: the Netherlands’ manmade and natural wonders

    4. Polder Dash: the Netherlands’ manmade and natural wonders

    There will be no shortage of royal hangovers the morning after King’s Day, but the price of beer had done a good job in limiting my own consumption and I even managed to pack up and set off in good time. The plan was to try and join my pre-planned route in Flevoland, but to do this I would need to cross the body of water that separates Holland from the north-eastern Dutch provinces.

    Provinces of the Netherlands
    (credit: Wikipedia)

    I assumed this body of water was a large tidal bay crossed by a couple of impressively long road bridges. But the Dutch being Dutch, these roads are not bridges but dams: they form part of the Zuiderzee Works that have totally transformed this landscape over the 20th century. My crude understanding is the dam provides a barrier to protect the area from flooding by the North Sea, whilst also turning the bay into a freshwater lake that can be drained at low tide. This ability to drain water logged areas has given birth to significant areas of brand new land – so called ‘Polders’ – one of which is Flevoland where I was heading.

    The continued sunny weather brought the locals out to enjoy their favourite Sunday morning waterside activities along the winding cycle path that followed the shore of the Markermeer lake, which was now glistening in the midday sun. Odd to think that if the proposed Markerwaard polder had been built and the lake was fully reclaimed as originally planned, there would have been no waterside left for these people to enjoy. As it happens, the NIMBYs of Hoorn are a formidable bunch and the battle was won to protect their waterside amenities – the idea was scrapped in 2003 after a century in the planning system. Typically a sea view offers reliable protection against development encroaching your backyard…not in the Netherlands!

    Upon arrival at the entrance to the dam that splits the Markermeer and IJsselmeer I snook into a museum toilet to top up my water and caked myself in factor 50 suncream, there would be virtually no shade for the next 26km so the protection was needed. Except it wasn’t the sun that was about to subject me to torture but hoardes of midges, strung out in long black clouds along the waterside cycle path. My sunglasses protected from direct eyeballs strikes, but they seemed to ricochet their way in through the open sides. The hair on my arms and legs quickly became saturated with the corpses of fallen flies, which had either exploded on impact or dissolved in the toxic mass of hair, suncream and crystallised sweat salt.

    I tried ducking my head, weaving, and even swearing at them but it was futile, I needed a better strategy.  Not long after joining the cycle path I passed a man with a road bike who had stopped for a toilet break (no. 1); after battling through several kilometres of midge clouds the man caught up with me and overtook on the left hand side. This was my chance. I stamped on the pedals and managed to tuck in close behind the bigger man, whose large silhouette not only sheltered me from the plague of flies but also the mild-yet-irritating headwind that blew across the lake. The man glanced around to inspect the source of heavy breathing that was now following him – a sunbaked Brit covered in dead flies hauling a 46kg quite un-aerodynamic bicycle – and mercifully continued his 28km/h tempo which I could just about hold onto for a good chunk of the dam.

    Eventually the flat road briefly ramped up to a small gradient as we crossed a channel and my human shield pedalled away towards the horizon. Thankfully the flies had now largely dispersed, but there is still something quite soul destroying about cycling along a very long, straight, flat road – the scenery becomes static and unchanging, with only the occasional seabird breaking the monotony. People complain about riding up hills on bicycles, but at least your legs get a rest on the descent, endlessly flat roads can feel relentless – and there would be plenty more in this part of Europe.

    Victory – look carefully at my right eyebrow and you will see the bodies of several midges lost in the Great Houtribdijk Massacre

    Don’t tread on the tulips

    The thing about a dijk is they are necessarily quite tall structures, so I didn’t see much of Flevoland at first after joining the polder along the long straight road that runs along the lakeside. Upon crossing the Ketelbrug bridge I was finally on more conventional roads again, heading into the heart of (the slightly mushroom-shaped) Noordoostpolder.

    The odd field of tulips had appeared on previous days but these were under more overcast conditions. The fields beside me were suddenly beaming with saturated hues of red, yellow and white, like unmixed oil paint squeezed straight from the tube. By pure chance I had arrived more or less in peak tulip season. If you’re wondering what they do with millions of tulips upon harvest in late spring – although they may sell a few flowers they are mainly after the bulb. The flower head is removed and the plant diverts growth to the bulb instead, which is then dug up a few weeks later for sale or replanting.

    Most tulips have their own moat to keep invaders at bay

    The majority of tulip fields are protected from the public by an encircling ditch, but these particular fields – located along the signposted ‘tulpen route’ – had a small access bridge allowing for closer inspection. The farmer’s children were on duty to keep the tourists in check and bark instructions at those getting a little too close, led by the eldest boy who seemed to relish in this minor delegation of authority; I was sympathetic to the cause, but there was a mildly irritating style of execution, and I did wonder how easy it might be to pick up the little bureaucrat and hurl him into the nearby drainage channel (…don’t scrunch up your face, we’ve all met annoying kids before). But I was here to ride a bicycle not assault the local children, so onwards I went.

    It may look like I crossed into the demilitarised zone between tulips and plebs, but I was using the magic of camera zoom, honest!

    Into more natural surroundings

    I took a brief pit stop at the edge of a car park in the uninspiring town of Emmeloord to ponder where I would stay for the night. After a toss up between a pricey hostel and rustic campsite I opted for the better value camping option, located in the National Park Weerribben-Wieden.

    The natural habitat of this region is of course wetlands. The expansive, hedge-less agricultural fields were slowly replaced by water logged bogs, with many more woodland areas appearing along the roadside. After a few navigation blunders I found myself in the picture-postcard village of Kalenburg, with its idyllic modern looking houses lined up along the banks of a canal. Locals and tourists slowly chugged along in their pleasure boats, sipping wine in the evening sun and offering the occasional friendly wave, with some younger residents playing a game of ‘jump into the rubber dinghy’.

    The campsite was small but picturesque, occupied by only a few couples (and their dogs) in motor homes. The owner was nowhere to be seen, so I picked a spot and got setup for the evening. I knew the site would be rustic but I did find the lack of showers to be a bit annoying given my sweaty condition after 116km of pedalling in the sun. The solution was obvious, change into the pair of orange swimming shorts (with saguaro cactus motif) I had brought and cool off in the canal, which had an access ladder leading right onto the campsite grounds. As you probably guessed, the water was excruciatingly cold, so I took a moment to compose myself whilst grasping onto the ladder until the cold shock response fizzled out, then had the briefest of swims and extracted myself back onto dry land. It wasn’t until my evening after-dinner walk that I discovered the shower block, equipped with hot water on the opposite side of the reception building.

    The dining experience when camping is greatly enhanced by a bench, even a slightly scabby one

    I would normally have been ready for a lie down after a long day in the saddle and late dinner, but I was struck by the chorus of peculiar sounds emanating from all around me, growing louder as the sun retreated. There seemed to be more bird life in this national park than all the other regions I had passed through put together, in particular ducks and geese; there would barely be a second pass without a honk, shriek or caww ring out. The amphibians joined in too – I can’t tell you if they were frogs or toads because I didn’t see a single one, but I was a trapped audience in the relentless symphony of croaking.

    Dusk in the Weerribben-Wieden

    The windmill

    There’s no escaping them, the Dutch landscape is scattered with windmills. Well, not exactly: the majority nowadays are the familiar white turbines that generate electricity, but there are still plenty of old fashioned ones around that either mill grain or pump water, and they can be quite stunning.

    So when I cycled beside an ‘open’ sign pointing towards a textbook example, and time on my hands, I parked up the bike and headed in.

    Spot my bicycle for ‘Where’s Wally?’ points

    A Dutch ‘prijslijst’ of bready sounding products stapled onto the front door made me question whether it had been converted into a bakery, but it was soon clear the building had been restored into a living museum for public consumption. After climbing the steep stairs to level one I was met by a weather-beaten Dutchman of around 65 years, who had the rare distinction of speaking no English whatsoever, which as a fellow mono-linguist I respect greatly. He called up to his co-worker, a softly-spoken man of similar vintage with a short white beard, who climbed down a ladder from the second floor and I was treated to a personal tour of the mill. After talking through the history and inner workings, we headed out onto the sun-drenched balcony to release the brake – after a gentle nudge from his colleague the sails began to turn in the light breeze and the mill suddenly came to life.

    The brake cable is attached to that big wooden arm sticking out behind the sails

    A bit like when steam railways still provide passenger services on heritage lines operated by keen volunteers, the windmill was being put to work by grinding grain, mainly for animal feed these days. What was nice about the experience was not so much the windmill but the two chaps operating it – they understood every little piece of that mill and how to maintain it, which follows a design changed very little since the 1600s. It is easy to see how practical knowledge can be lost when people like this weld their last rivet or mill their final grain of wheat without an apprentice to keep it all going for the next generation.

    Pottering around inside a windmill felt like a fitting end to the Netherlands, but the time had come to move on and head for the border. Next up, Germany – a country that had barely registered in my mind when planning the trip.

    A happy Brit – but would Germany wipe away that smile?

    PHOTOGRAPHY: Flevoland & north east Netherlands

    STRAVA: rides between 27th and 30th of April

  • 3. Oranje Fever – a soft landing in the Netherlands

    3. Oranje Fever – a soft landing in the Netherlands

    My arrival at the family home was the perfect opportunity to revisit the contents of my panniers and offload the more ridiculous objects that I had dragged to the top of those steep Peak District climbs. So amongst other things, it was goodbye to the smart shoes, suit jacket and choral sheet music.

    After flicking through the ferry prices from Newcastle to Amsterdam I was disappointed to find no real bargain-basement option, like where you simply sit in a chair for the duration rather than get a bunk. The most cost effective option DFDS offer solo travellers is a private twin cabin, so I skimmed through prices on different days of the week and found the cheapest was Wednesday – perhaps a little early for most stag and hen dos.

    After a ‘last supper’ at the local Italian restaurant on a quiet post-bank holiday Tuesday evening, I re-packed the panniers with their now slightly leaner contents in preparation for the morning departure. My family seem satisfied I haven’t gone completely insane in stepping away from a sensible career to embark on such an endeavour, but probably wonder why anyone would voluntarily expose their arse to months in a bicycle saddle? After collecting an envelope of Euros from Ramsdens the final task on my list was ticked off; I stepped onto my (noticeably lighter) bike, said my goodbyes to the family and got the northbound local train from Billingham towards Newcastle.

    The sun setting on Billingham town centre

    I wanted to get off at Heworth on the south bank of the river Tyne, so I purchased a train ticket to further away Newcastle to save money (yes you read that correctly, our perverse train ticketing system is a nothing short of an incomprehensible mess at this point). Once off the train I began to cycle my way towards the ferry terminal, dodging endless fragments of broken bottles and dog shit strewn across the cycle paths. Not the most glamorous route perhaps, but it did include a tunnel under the river. You can even ride your bike along the dedicated cycling lane in the tunnel, which is quite a fun activity whilst you run catastrophic failure scenarios through your mind – if the whole thing suddenly collapsed and the Tyne started pouring in, would the water rush in from one end like a raging tsunami? Or would it be more of an implosion from every direction? It’s not a phobia, just morbid curiosity I think Dr. Anyway it was a very nice tunnel with colourful lights and mercifully no river water in sight.

    The Tyne-Tunnel’s technicolour elevator to Howdon

    After a short queue at the ferry terminal I boarded the ship’s hull and was directed to the bicycle storage area, where a crew member insisted I could not lock the bike (either to the railing or to itself) for our reasons of our good friend ‘health and safety’. I asked if the cars and lorries were also left unlocked for this reason, and it soon transpired that the underlying reason was nuisance caused by passengers abandoning locks (or entire bicycles) which then need to be angle grinded off. I satisfied myself that the risk of theft was genuinely minimal, then for the first time ever attempted to carry all six of my panniers & bags in one go: awkward, but doable!

    Farewell Brittania – the attractive Herd Groyne Lighthouse at Tynemouth

    The ferry is marketed as ‘Newcastle to Amsterdam’ but actually sails from North Shields to IJmuiden. The double capitalised ‘IJ’ confused me at first, until Wikipedia told me it is a digraph, which confused me further, so feel free to look it up for yourself, but I reckon it would probably be spelled Aimoden if it was a British town.

    After a gentle overnight crossing accompanied by a few pints of Guinness in the sparsely attended bar on deck 8, I emptied my pockets of soon to be useless sterling coins in exchange for an overpriced breakfast, peering out the window whilst our Dutch pilot manoeuvred the vessel through a worryingly tight gap between the river bank and a small (but heavily fortified) island.

    Fort IJmuiden, like Fort Boyard but with less Melinda Messenger

    The call for deck 4 screeched out across the ship’s PA system and I made my way to the cycle storage area where I was greeted by a handful of fellow cycle tourists loading up their bikes. After 10 minutes or so a crew member gave us the knod and we marched our bikes along a narrow gap between the rugged grooves of the ship’s steel floor until on dry land, then cycled the last 200m up to border control.

    “Passport please”, delivered from the usual stone like stare of a border force officer. “Where are you heading?”

    For some reason it had never occurred to me that I might actually be asked this basic question upon entry, I had been more concerned about the Schengen 90/180 rule upon re-entry and not getting tangled up in visa applications.

    “I’m heading to Denmark” blurted my instinctive  response, which is where I will cycle before getting another ferry to Norway. I didn’t want to get into the full convoluted plan, and he didn’t want to hear it, so he handed me my passport, wished me well on my trip and opened the gate. I was in Holland and Europe was my oyster.

    The Cycling Brit’s abroad – kudos to the woman cycling in a fedora

    Every journey starts with a first step

    After a careful exit from the busy port I found myself on the south bank of the north sea canal which runs through the centre of Amsterdam, around 35km to the east. Amsterdam is a great city and all, but I’ve been several times before and was not really in the mood to ride through such a busy urban area just yet, so I headed for what looked like a bridge on the map.

    Navigation

    A quick word on navigation: I have planned a route up to Scandinavia, down to Istanbul, and back through the Balkans and southern Europe. I will not necessarily always stick to the route – and I don’t currently have a route planned for east of Istanbul – but when I am on a route I can simply follow the GPS computer which will show me the way to go. Without a pre-planned route you are left to either follow your nose or rely on a map of some sort, Google Maps in my case. So when I say ‘the map’ I mean the map on my phone (rather than fighting with a badly folded 1:50,000 OS Landranger).

    As I pedalled further east along the heavily industrialised canal side there was a distinct lack of any form of bridge to cross. Upon closer inspection the bridge I was seeking was in fact a tunnel for the A22 dual carriageway – which to cycle through would be a trifecta of horrid, dangerous and illegal – but this being the Netherlands there was obviously a cycling friendly solution: a free ferry across the canal. I hopped on board alongside a small vehicle for sweeping street gutters and a couple of french cyclists touring with their border collie in tow (a piece of kit that didn’t make it onto the spreadsheet, not this time anyway).

    At this point it began to rain, so I largely abandoned the map and headed north following the cycle paths which complement pretty much every road above a certain size in the Netherlands. The Dutch have cycling tunnels buried under main roads, roundabouts where vehicles have to give way, and the vast majority of paths are in great condition even those in the middle of forests and crop fields. I promise I will stop gushing over Dutch cycling infrastructure, but it really is world class and helped to soften my landing on this trip in so many ways, especially whilst I reprogrammed my brain to ride on the opposite side of the road.

    After passing through a few smaller towns I arrived in the city of Alkmaar, famous for its cheese market. Well, not quite famous enough for me to have heard of said cheese market, but maybe I’m just out of the cheese market scene at this point in my life. I did once attend Tavistock cheese market in Devon with a friend who had worked in the local cheesemonger – I’m a complete lightweight when it comes to cheese, strong cheddar I can handle, but when it starts to smell of feet I struggle. In Tavistock I went for the ‘exposure therapy’ tactic and forced down samples of cheese on offer from every single market stall, hoping I would suddenly see the light and walk out a lover of stilton and Shropshire blue: I did not.

    Soggy plums on the streets of Alkmaar

    I paced up and down the facade of a Jumbo supermarket wondering where to lock my bike and which panniers to remove. A kind woman passing by noticed my conundrum and pointed towards a narrow alley marked by a yellow wooden archway and bicycle sculpture. It was a dedicated bicycle parking lot manned by an attendant, which although a little pricey at €5 was the perfect stress relieving solution in that moment.

    Before heading down the alleyway to park up to stock up on groceries, I caught the eye of a local chap of around 70 years age wearing a white nautical hat. He was excited to learn I was from the UK and curious about my about my trip. He soon established that I had absolutely no idea the country was set to celebrate Koningsdag (King’s Day) on Saturday, which by his description was quite a big deal in the Netherlands, where people take over the streets with flea markets, play music and have a drink (or ten). He recommended I get away from the rowdy and sometimes turning violent celebrations in Alkmaar and head east to the more relaxed town of Hoorn, which is exactly what I did.

    Alkmaar to Hoorn is quite a straight forward journey but in this instance mhampered by headwinds. I checked into Camping’t Venhop on the city outskirts, a campsite that resides in the armpit of a section of the A7 dual carriageway; not the quietest spot, but the bogs were clean and I had full use of my very own picnic bench right beside the tent, always useful for those travelling without a chair. I tried a special technique to pitch my tent in the rain without drenching the inside, which although a bit awkward was quite effective, then reached for a can of tuna with no ring pull.

    “Not to worry” I hushed to myself in an effort to stave off the urge to throw the can into the nearby canal, “I’ve definitely seen a YouTube video on this”. I reached for the old fashioned tin opener on my Swiss army knife and tried to recall each step of that video. Let’s just say I will be revisiting my technique in the future.

    Jagged metal, jagged metal…tasty fish!

    After a damp first day in Holland the rain clouds passed and the sun had begun to shine in Hoorn on Friday morning, so I seized the opportunity to leave the campsite and explore the town and pick up a few items. Hoorn was home to the chap who first sailed from Europe to the Pacific Ocean around Cape Horn at the southern tip of South America, and this proud maritime heritage is quite clear. The Dutch love a good boat and there is no shortage of them around Hoorn, including some beautifully carved wooden specimens.

    A local Hoornaar at the boat maintenance dock

    One thing you notice about the Netherlands is how precariously close to the waters edge their houses are often built, with much of the waterways subject to some degree of manmade control to avoid flooding. The Dutch have been manipulating this naturally water logged landscape for centuries and exporting their skills to similarly wet places ever since.

    Terraced houses along the Turhaven canal, Hoorn

    After a relaxed day pottering around Hoorn’s canals and small side streets I retired to Camping’t Venhop for a meal and evening walk around the campsite. A large area was dedicated to static caravans, where the size, shape and general condition of each caravan seemed to vary considerably from one plot to the next. I could feel a mild plume of envy rise inside of me as I peered into the window a well-lit living room with cosy soft furnishings and remembered how I hadn’t even brought a chair, “smug gits”.

    Springtime garden ornamentation, Camping’t Venhop style

    50 Shades of Orange: Koningsdag

    If the friendly man I had met on the street in Alkmaar had not explained to me about the upcoming King’s Day I would have spent Saturday morning packing up my tent and pressing on with the cycle tour. Instead, I lathered myself in suncream and headed into Hoorn for what according to the Google Translated regional news was to be the first warm & sunny Koningsdag for many years (if you forget about 2020, which most are happy to do so).

    The Brooks taking shelter in the shade

    As I cycled towards the centre I pondered where I might lock up the bike whilst I enjoy the festivities. A recurring problem I had encountered was the surprising lack of ‘railing style’ racks where the bike can be leaned against the railing and you lock your frame to it. The majority of Dutch bicycles come equipped with a heavy duty kick stand which allows you to roll up to your destination of choice, engage the kick stand, and lock the bicycle to itself (often with an integrated lock built around the back wheel), all without any need to hunt down a bicycle stand. When you do find a bike rack they tend to have a slot for your front wheel to slide into, which is great if you don’t have a front rack, so for me to use them usually required a bodge where I either leaned up against the end of a rack or hogged two spaces, sorry folks!

    There are three main themes to King’s Day in the Netherlands: flea markets, drinking, and orange.

    White elephants – this chap’s best seller seemed to be a bunch of vintage Dutch Tarzan posters

    At the flea markets, ordinary folk can throw down a tarp onto the street, lay out the various items that have been cluttering their house since the last King’s Day for sale, and command their tween children to stand there and deal with the punters whilst the parents kick back and drink beer in the shade – no permits required or VAT applicable, basically one big jumble sale in the street. From what I saw the best sellers were women’s and children’s clothing, but there was quite a variety of offerings, including those trying to make a quick buck with quite obviously bulk-bought new items, especially unopened packets of Pokémon cards.

    Drinks flowing at Roode Steen square

    In Hoorn, the drinking centres around several areas, each with a PA system and space for mingling, dancing, singing, and conga lines at its nucleus. I paid €3.50 for a 250ml plastic cup of ‘bier’ (plus €1 cup deposit), which would have been a bit pricey if the beer was good, but a down right rip off when you are paying equivalent to c.£7 a pint for what tasted like the shittest lager in Holland. No wonder the security chap checked my bag for smuggled alcohol.

    Regal energy: the Queen of Orange with her subjects

    The colour orange is inescapable. Bright orange , dark orange, neon orange, pastel orange. Orange clothes, orange jewelry, orange balloons, orange face paint, orange novelty crown hats – you name it, they will orangify it. Anything decorated with the Dutch flag is augmented by an extra stripe of orange to make up for the flag’s curious lack of this national colour.

    It had been a fun day, but I decided to pass on partying into the small hours to avoid feeling like crap on my planned morning departure. Although not before a brief dance with the Queen of Orange herself – nope not Beatrix, she abdicated in 2013 – but a woman who held the distinguished title of the most orange person at Hoorn King’s Day 2025. We made a good duo as the only orange on my being was a few accents on my shoes, with shoes her only non-orange garment in sight.

    Now it really was time for bed. The plan was to leave Holland in the morning and venture into the Netherland’s lesser known provinces.

    –

    PHOTOGRAPHY: Ferry & North Holland

    STRAVA: Day 1, Day 2, Day 3

  • 2. Testing the waters – a mini tour on home turf

    2. Testing the waters – a mini tour on home turf

    What happens with big plans like cycling tours is they evolve over time. There may be several iterations from the original day dream over a Sunday morning cappuccino, through to the final plan that is eventually implemented.

    My original plan for this trip was to meander my way from my adopted home of Shrewsbury down through the midlands, home counties, London(!), and Kent before arriving at Dover for the short hop by ferry across the channel to Calais. Once on mainland European soil I would head north east into Belgium and enter the Netherlands from its southern most province of Zeeland. However, when discussing these plans with various friends and colleagues I received several puzzled expressions as to why my plan was not to take the ferry from Newcastle to Amsterdam…this would reduce the distance to Norway (my first key destination) and allow for a detour to the family home in Teesside.

    So the plan was changed – after handing in the keys to my flat I would load up the bike and cycle my way from Shrewsbury to Newcastle ferry terminal, with a pit stop at home to disburden my panniers of their more bizarre extra baggage and refine the setup before setting off to Europe. I suspect this will not be the first change of plan on my journey.

    Day 1 – Escape from the Shire

    Picking up from my last blog post, with every pannier and luggage bag approaching the point of bursting, I officially set off from Shrewsbury town centre at around 16:45 on the 14th of April. Unless you’re a fan of stopping just as you’re getting started, putting up tents in the dark, or gnashing your teeth and riding on through the night, I would not recommend 16:45 as a departure time on a normal day’s cycle touring.

    So with time against me and darkness encroaching I wrestled control of the bike’s antler-esque handlebars and headed east for the delightfully named village of Upton Magna around 10km away.

    Undeniably my first impression was how immensely heavy the bike was compared to anything I have ridden before. I don’t know how it compares to other touring bike setups (I’ve  seen some real juggernauts in YouTube videos), but for me it was heavy. However, although the acceleration is slow, once you reach cruising speed the bike has so much momentum it seems to almost launch itself up the road’s smaller rises and undulations.

    The more worrisome handling quirk was a peculiar oscillation in the handlebars. The sensation was similar to the dreaded ‘speed wobble’, where the bike (either pedal or motorbike) begins to leer from side-to-side at a resonant frequency, which if not corrected can eventually eject the unlucky rider from the comfort of their seat. But this wobble was occurring at lower speeds. I assumed it was down to too much weight in the handlebar bag and carried on.

    Slow acceleration and wobbles put to one side, I was pretty satisfied with the bike and how it handled the weight. It can be a bit daunting when you first climb onto a fully loaded tourer, but as with most skills, with time it becomes second nature.

    The road network of north Shropshire has several smaller lanes where the tarmac gives way to more of a dirt road or gravel track. I don’t know if it was down to the unusually dry start to the year we’d had, but I managed to include a road on my route that morphed from gravel into pure sand. I can now confirm it is possible to pedal a fully loaded tourer through deep sand, but I do not recommend it at high speeds, mainly due to the front wheel having a mind of its own. I cut my losses, got off and pushed…I had already succumbed to pushing the damn thing (known as ‘hike-a-bike’ in the lingo) and I hadn’t even got out of Shropshire. I will need to up my game when it comes to the dirt roads of southern Europe.

    The pastoral sand dunes of North Shropshire

    With the light now fading and unwelcome arrival of rain, I fumbled my way around Google Maps and found a campsite near the Staffordshire border, around one hour’s cycle away. I arrived in darkness to signs suggesting the presence of a campsite but no obvious entrance or reception. It turns out this particular campsite falls into the category of “farmer’s revenue diversification”, aka a small field with the grass kept low, a single bog, shower, and a basin for washing pots – no frills. It also happened to sit adjacent to the west coast mainline railway line, frequented by both passenger and freight trains at a good 100mph+.

    Though basic, the campsite was fine for my needs, so I got to work on pitching my MSR Hubba Hubba NX 2-person tent outside for the first time (I did once put it up without pegs in the living room). At the time I would have paid good money to anyone with deity like powers to stop the rain from falling at that moment, and perhaps even bring back a few rays of sunlight, but sometimes a baptism of fire can strengthen the constitution, or at least set a bloody low baseline for your future camping endeavours. The inner tent got frustratingly wet during construction, a situation not helped by my immediate breaking of the cardinal rule by getting inside with my (soggy grass covered) cycling shoes on.

    Priorities: the dress shoes were still dry, but the tent floor not so much

    With the tent pitched I moved on to matters of an evening meal. It was now 10pm and I had been surviving thus far on a prematurely devoured Cadbury’s Easter egg (sorry Jesus) and a few remnant wine gums from a jumbo 350g box I had received as a birthday gift. Wine gums are my go-to sugary snack on the bike, preferably Maynard’s but I’ll give any version a try, however I now needed some proper food after such a hectic and tiresome day. So I conjured up a meal from the food I had salvaged from the clear out of my kitchen and squeezed into the panniers…two packs of dried egg noodles, one can of tuna chunks in water, and a good dollop of mayonnaise – I don’t know how that sounds to you, but I can tell you it was like manna from heaven, proper lush!

    Tuna, mayonnaise and noodles, you heard it here first

    Day 2 – These hills were made for walking

    After the chaos of day 1, the morning of day 2 was a welcome contrast. The rain had passed, and a gentle warmth began to fill the tent as the morning sunlight lit up its red and white angular walls. The trains continued to whoosh by, but they went unnoticed in the peace of that moment, and with the biggest admin hurdles now cleared I could focus on the bike touring and getting an oven-ready plan for Europe.

    The morning after the night before

    After a relaxed morning packing up the bike I set off and continued on my north-easterly trajectory towards the Peak District, trying my best to avoid the urban sprawl of Stoke-on-Trent. As a cyclist you find there some areas that just cannot be traversed without going along at least a few busy roads, this part of Staffordshire being one of them.

    If anyone knows what the hilltop crucifixes opposite the Powys Arms on the A520 are all about, let me know. No googling

    I would soon start ticking off ‘firsts’ along the way. My first stop at a shop might sound pathetically kindergarten, but the theft paranoia is real, especially when you have never left your new bike and panniers alone in the big wide world before. But guess what? I locked the bike, went into the shop, came back out and et voilà: it was still there, panniers and all. And if any prospective thieves are reading with a ruminating intent to steal from me – unless there is a high demand for unwashed underwear in your area – I don’t leave anything worth nicking on my bike, and if you pinch it anyway, I will find you and I will write about you.

    The flat plains of north Shropshire were fast becoming a distant memory as the inclines began to rise. I was entering the foothills of the Peaks, and had to face the reality that I was riding an extremely heavy bike. My touring bike is fitted with a mountain bike gearing system, including an invaluable third ‘granny gear’ on the front set of cogs which gives you the option of a nice easy gear to pedal on the steeper hills, at the cost of moving extremely slowly. The slower you ride a bike the more of a balancing act it becomes, so it is a skill to be honed over time. The best advice I can offer is to leave yourself a buffer zone from the edge to avoid striking your pedal against the kerb and/or getting too boxed in by passing vehicles, and if you ever feel the need to stop simply put your foot down onto the kerb/verge (rather than back into the road).

    Before long I was in the realm of hardy hill sheep with a fresh batch of spring lambs hopping around as if their legs contained actual springs, occasionally on the backs of their unamused looking mothers. I had entered the Peak District, and it was here I would face my first properly STEEP hill.

    Cast your mind back for a moment to trigonometry class and your protractor (that transparent semicircle of cheap plastic we all carried around in our pencil case), the difference between 6° and 12° doesn’t really look like much: these are the approximate angles of a 10% and 20% climb, and when tackling such inclines on a fully loaded touring bike it is the difference between a minor skirmish and nuclear war. I tried my best to ‘punch’ my way to the top of these climbs (in other words, pedal bloody hard to try and keep a good momentum) but it was just not possible for me to sustain this intensity to the top of the longer climbs. So I swallowed my pride, hopped off the saddle and succumbed to my second hike-a-bike of the trip so far.

    Summit at last – a typically moody outlook across the southern Peak District

    At around 6pm in dry conditions with plenty of sunlight ahead, I rolled into what I thought would be my chosen campsite for the night. Now I don’t know exactly what goes on at an ‘adults only’ campsite that would not occur at their family friendly counterparts, but as a man without children I am not against the idea of retaining a few safe spaces to escape the sights, sounds and occasionally smells of other people’s offspring (or perhaps even your own whilst the folks are on grandparent duties). However, I did find the prices at Longnor Wood adult only holiday park to be a bit on the spicy side for my taste, so I continued on to nearby Crowdecote which had the trifecta of a campsite with stunning views, a pub within walking distance, and the satisfying attribute of being just across the border into Derbyshire – a county transition always feels like good progress.

    Day 3 – To cycle, or not to cycle

    Clearly there will sometimes be days on a long cycle tour where, for some reason or another, you don’t do any cycling. Whether you are rained in, ill, travelling by other modes of transport, having fun doing other activities, writing blogs, the list goes on. The morning after my unexpectedly cold night camping in Crowdecote I was met with the arrival of considerable volumes of rain and, more concerningly, wind. Today there would be no cycling (well, at least no fully loaded cycle touring).

    The Mummy Returns – keeping warm and toasty on a chilly night in the Peaks

    The decision was made to camp an extra night, do a bit of shopping in nearby Buxton, and make the most of The Packhorse Inn’s cosy fireplace, where I soon noticed my fellow campsite neighbours had also taken refuge from the cold with a pie and a pint.

    The following day was a much calmer affair on the weather front, so I packed up my ever expanding collection of belongings and got back on the road. I now had some real world experience in riding the loaded bike and utilising the camping system, with some ideas for where improvements could be made (mainly around the reduction and rebalancing of luggage), so I decided to head for the nearby city of Sheffield and hop onto a train to expedite the remaining journey north.

    The notion was simple but the act was far from it; one does not simply ‘hop’ onto a British train with a fully loaded touring bike. The train operating company in this instance was CrossCountry Trains. The first hurdle is the famous gap between the train and the platform edge, which at some stations can be quite a chasm, before being met with a double-step up to the floor of the bicycle storage area. I actually had no idea if I would be physically capable of lifting the bike onto the train fully loaded, but the idea of removing panniers from my bike and loading everything in multiple trips amongst the bedlam of passengers coming and going was too much for my nervous system to handle at that point in time, so when the train doors opened and the crowds dispersed I raised the relatively lightweight front of the bike up both steps onto the train floor, planted my foot on the step and rolled the bike forward until the back wheel was touching the edge of the step…I took a deep breath and heaved both myself and the bike onto the train in a deadlift-like forward motion. This worked surprisingly well.

    On CrossCountry the bike storage is invariably a vertical rack, whereby the bike needs to be raised onto its back wheel then lifted onto a hook. Now call me a wuss, but this is at best an awkward manoeuvre with a regular unladen bicycle, and a fairly Herculean task with a fully loaded tourer. Now I’m quite partial to a spot of day dreaming, so whilst waiting for the 18:30 to York my imagination was conjuring up visions of an empty, easy to access spot where I could simply lean the bike and secure it with a strap. But fantasy and reality are rarely one and the same.

    In the stress of the moment of boarding the train I decided that attempting the ‘vertical bike’ manoeuvre was too difficult and explained to the guard I would happily move the bike before our stop at Doncaster to allow people to alight, to which he replied it was a health and safety requirement for the bike to be upright. Looking back I don’t know why I didn’t just deal with the faff and remove all my panniers, but instead my solution was to remove only the front two orange bags, flip the tourer on its hind legs, then wedge the whole thing into the compartment until it could be wedged no more. The train guard returned, raised a bemused eyebrow at the spectacle in front of him, and concluded the situation was now safe and healthy enough for the remainder of our journey.

    Not the natural orientation of any bicycle, unless you can do 90° wheelies

    I took a welcome break from camping at my generous aunt Margaret’s house in York, whereby I took the opportunity to rest, refuel and sort out a few admin tasks relating my phone’s roaming, latter turning out to be more of a pain in the arse than I could ever have imagined. The next day I took a train to Eaglescliffe and rode the final few kilometres to our family home.

    I expect to make various train journeys with my touring bike throughout the tour, whether these be a short hop under a mountain pass, or skipping an entire country when the clock starts running low on my 90 day Schengen area visa (sponsored by BREXIT means BREAKFAST), so it was good to get on the scoreboard during the UK mini tour, which was now complete.

    –

    PHOTOS: UK mini-tour

    STRAVA: Day 1, Day 2, Day 3