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Sure, this trip is all about seeing beautiful sights, to a certain extent it is about meeting new people but it is above all else about food. How important it is to get as much into me as humanly possible and that is harder than you may think. I have successfully managed my very first banana, but much gagging involved on both occasions and just not for me. Lentils too, although I find these easier. I have just boshed a sachet. If you add tuna and tomatoes and think of Bitcoin pumping whilst eating, then I can manage quite a few before I start to gag. Each mouthful is doing me the world of good, that I know. I do wonder about the amount of fibre I am getting and will ask at the next pharmacy if they sell it in capsules. I am all about apples and would like to try pears, but they are always so hard. I mean physically not retching-wise. So today I started off on the actual EV6 route. Thanks to my recce yesterday, it was a smooth start to the day. God, it felt amazing and within a minute, I had seen 6 people just like me, with big panniers on their bikes. Followed the river Doubs for pretty much 100KM. For the first couple of hours, I listened to Evita in its entirety, amazing that I can still remember Every. Single. Word. God, I loved that musical so much. Still do. So happy I decided to keep the wireless speaker after all, it is a total boon. I flew down the route and all working brilliantly, I even wondered if I should try and do the whole thing until Mulhouse, but that would be pushing it. Problem when I got to Voujeaucourt, just outside of Montbeliard as the heavens opened. The whole sky just went black and the forecast said it would last all evening and it certainly felt like it. I stopped under a bridge for 20 mins, tried to get a room nearby on Airbnb but no response, so I cancelled. I looked at hotel rooms, but I have been spending so much on them recently, so I decided to suck it up and make the 25-minute journey to a campsite. I waited for a bit of a break and just cycled for dear life. I arrived and I was so wet and put my tent up in record time and hid my bike somewhere dry. Of course, I should have just waited for it to abate and it has now. I really must remember not to panic, be patient and just wait these downpours out. I am really tired, made a quick cup of hot soup and then boshed down the lentils. Now that I am inching ever closer to Switzerland, I am thinking about dropping by to see a dear friend that I haven't seen for a while now who lives in Zug, the Capital of Cryptocurrency near Zurich. Not sure how long it will take so going to hang off contacting her just yet as I don't want to feel pressured to be anywhere for a specific time. I am loving the freedom that this trip brings.

My accommodation for the night was the appealingly named Zenitude Hotel. However it turned out to be a strange old place and is comfortable enough but has a sanitised feel to it. Student accommodation with no architectural merit whatsoever. Getting here was difficult with its new looking industrial looking buildings arranged along half constructed parallel inclines with pharma sounding signs and the occasional tram. Eerily quiet. It was a sunny Saturday morning, however, and I had a To Do list. First thing was the Post Office for, what I hoped, would be my 3rd and last time, it really was expensive sending all my additional stuff back home but it felt amazing. This time I have decided to send my cleated cycle shoes back and just use my one pair of lightweight trainers for everything. Also back were my elasticated waistband comfortable jersey shorts. My legs have been so ravaged by mosquitos that I only ever wear my long trousers in the evenings nowadays. At least I have now become an expert at the clunky Bureau de Poste computerised system and even managed to help another befuddled customer with its bewilderingly clunky interface and non sensical instructions whilst wistfully remembering the good old days Before Brexit when none of this bureaucracy was required. It felt so good to whittle everything down to the basics and if I had invested in the super thin lightweight mattress and sleeping bag, I would be on a par with both Alan and Michal and their expertly, tightly packed panniers. I then found a cycle shop and decided to replace my front tyre with a Schwalbe and be done with it. The owner reckoned I didn’t need to, but I could see signs of wear and for the sake of a few quid, don’t fancy being in the middle of some Bulgarian mountain range in a month or so wishing I had done so earlier in my trip whilst trying to replace a knackered tyre. Chores done; I had fancied taking time to see the sights of Besançon as well as work out my route out of there tomorrow morning. The roads were weirdly complicated around my locale, in fact the whole area just felt a bit grim. I kept getting lost and at one time ended up on the beginning of a motorway which wasn’t great when having to reverse back. It is another historic town, the French capital of watchmakers and rather randomly, a specialist producer of automatic ticketing machines for car parking, and airports. It has a ton of students and is a centre for all things micro technical. The centre is small and pleasant with the river Doubs meandering around it in a horseshoe shape and the mighty citadel at close to 400m high atop Mont Saint-Étienne. If I had been staying for longer it would be worth a visit, but it was mid afternoon by the time I had found the main historic part of the city and to be honest, I just fancied wombling around and doing the café terrace thing instead with my EV6 guidebook in hand, working out this next exciting part of my périple. This whole first part of the trip has been very much a solitary experience, navigating my own route using google maps for pretty much everything. I didn’t see any other cycle tourists for the entire past couple of weeks and expected this would change as soon as I hit the EuroVelo route and I was pumped for that. To be honest, I didn’t really enjoy Besançon. I think that this was largely coloured by the weird place I was staying, which was kind of techie but empty on the outskirts of the town itself. I had chosen it in a rush the day before when it looked like there would be torrential rain and indeed, I was sheltering from a downpour in a shop doorway at the time and tired after taking a completely unnecessary detour up a steep hill with major traffic, and by that I mean lorries thundering past. Often places are all about a state of mind and from the minute I arrived in between downpours along with trips to the soulless nearby supermarkets in a large shopping mall, I just wasn’t feeling it at all. Given the network of busy main roads that I never seemed to fully break out of, I was glad that I had identified my route out of there tomorrow as I was planning on a long cycle to the border down of Mulhouse and didn’t want to get lost again in the complicated road system. I wasn’t too worried about taking main roads as it would be a Sunday morning. So, back to the flat, another dinner of brown rice and tuna with a couple of tins of beer and bed.

What an amazing day of cycling. Knocked off 110Km, may be the lighter load now that I have sent off more stuff to A. I was full of energy, could have been the lentils and grapes etc as well. Weather was perfect, cloudy with bursts of sunshine. Had the music on full blast and as I flew through hay fields, three incredibly bouncy deer bopped around and stared at me from a great distance. Unending fields and unbroken countryside with so much space. As ever, I followed my old friend the Canal Entre Champagne and Bourgogne in sections and stopped and actually witnessed a barge at a lock with a Renault car hanging precariously off the back. A short distance outside of Langres I passed through Chassigny, a typically small, shut, unexciting town except for the fact that a Martian meteorite landed here back in 1815. A short while after that, another village of Montigny Mornay Villeneuve with its statue to remember local citizens who died in WWI Views were scenic and lovely and I quickly got to my destination of Gray and decided to push on the extra 55K to Besancon. Get it out the way, I just want to get on the Eurovelo route and change my front tyre for a Schwalbe if possible. The road to enter Besancon was awful and I just kept my head down. I missed a vital turning, meaning that I had to climb a huge hill in heavy traffic, only to come back down it again. As I correctly approached Besançon, the heavens opened although I managed to shelter whist they did so. I looked at the forecast and it was so shit, I decided to just book a hotel room nearby. It was a weird place, on the outskirts of town in amongst a bunch of medical facilities and a hospital. But it was clean, had a kitchenette and I was so knackered, that I lay down on the bed, and decided to book another day. I figured I wanted to check out the bike shop and get a new front tyre, also send off my cleat shoes and a guidebook to A. Even lighter on my bike now! Found a supermarket, bought beers and sat in all night. I knew I would be knackered, but glad I made it here as this is on the EV6 route. I have begun to realise the importance of food. I can no longer be bothered with creating nice new things. I just need fuel and lots of it. I am spending a lot on the stuff. In fact, I have spent about £900 so far and I haven't even been to Switzerland yet! The room is nice enough, with a view out over some big hills which reminds me of the Avila mountains in Caracas. I emailed an old friend who lived somewhere in Switzerland to say that I would be possibly be passing near to her place and I could drop by to say Hi if she was in town. Not entirely sure where she lives but it would be lovely to see her again.

I have decided to stay for the day, taking the time to sort out my tyre and Post Office visit rather than rush for no reason. The town looked pleasant when coming in last night and the view from my tent is lovely, looking out over the various surrounding valleys including a clump of trees called Forks Hill or something like that. You can see the whopping white statue from miles away, which is Virgin Mary sitting on top of a neo gothic chapel built to remember how Langres didn't surrender to the Prussians in 1870. As usual, the campsite is stuffed full of people from the Netherlands who are all overnighting on the way to the south of France. It is on the expensive side at 15€ but has lovely showers and facilities run by a very nice guy. An elderly couple with a delightful tiny caravan that looks so well loved have taken a spot next to mine. It makes such a huge contrast to the super swanky RVs that make up the usual kinds of vehicle I have become accustomed to seeing. They have been making the same journey in this caravan for the past 40 years and have a well practised routine. Big smiley faces, kind eyes, generosity of spirit and a rather fetching collection of artificial flowers gave me a lovely warm fuzzy feeling as I set off for the town centre. Wow, Langres is a nice city, Roman in origin and high on the top of a hill with massive ramparts circling it entirely, which you can walk along. The streets have a super nice feel to them, the equivalent to a medieval market town in the UK and I notice that it is indeed twinned with Beaconsfield. Makes a change from the uninspiring small towns and villages that I have been passing through up until now, although Reims looked pretty swanky and I liked Laon. I dropped off my package and carried onto the Intersport, a short distance out of town. They didn't have Schwalbe, but they did have Michelin and multi packs of short white socks, handy as I have been squashing mosquitoes with my rank current ones so time for the bin. Feeling relieved, I made my way back to the campsite via Leclerc for more packets of lentils and other high fibre goodness which I am not enjoying having to consume. Cycling home with a full load and two baguettes wasn't easy but great to get here and have my ham/cheese/tomato sandwich and such a relief to finally get a decent replacement tyre on there. Relieved to see that no broken spokes either.... After a very satisfying lunch back to Chez James (my tent) which was aided enormously with a half-bottle of chilled white something or other, I decided to head back and pick up a postcard or two. Remember them? My mate Alex in London loves to receive these and I have been very lax is posting these off to him. I was also in need of some practical supplies, including a loo roll although the campsites so far have been pretty good at supplying these. As I walked past a resto, I heard the unmistakable sound of the English Language that sounded actually English being spoken by two lycra clad cyclists. Turns out they were a couple, Caroline and Jan from Ireland and Belgium respectively, so half way there, kind of. They actually lived in France somewhere and were on a short jaunt around the area. They invited me to join them which I willingly did, there is always room for more food when you are completing a périple. It was amazing to chat with actual people over actual food in an actual restaurant for an hour or so. They were keen cyclists and I could see a glint in their eye when I talked about my journey, but they were young professionals. Caroline had the same accent as some of my Irish family, which made me feel good. She was a bit confused at first as her eyes flickered over my top, complete with Slovenian flag on the left arm which dated from a rowing training camp a couple of years back at the gorgeous Lake Bled. Packing this top along with another plain black wicking top and my trusty black fleece had proved inspired. I just didn’t fancy the idea of spending 3 months wearing your traditional lycra cycling tops, those ones with the pockets at the back for handy things like bananas and pumps. There is only so much lycra a man can wear every single day and seeing as padded shorts are a must, anything to avoid those MAMIL defining tops was welcome. I had actually spent a small fortune on merino wool tops as well but had sent them home. They are excellent, even if it sounds mad to be wearing wool as a cycle top, although I just felt more comfortable in my tried and trusted t-shirts and fleece that had accompanied me during my Camino trip the year before. This evening was a magical moment. I took the bike for a spin around the ramparts and the sunset was astounding. Everyone was out, younger kids playing, older kids hanging out, couples, families – everyone smiling, and I remember a small house I had seen earlier that day with a garden that looked v stylish. As I walked past again, two guys there just having dinner and must have been loving the view. God loves the Gays. That night I got a message from my sister-in-law, who has started following me on Polar Steps. She asked the question whether I felt lonely or alone. As I lay back in my tent, watching the very last vestiges of daylight disappear from my open flysheet-with-a-view, I can honestly say I felt neither. For the first time I can remember in ages, I felt deeply, spiritually content.

God, I was really looking forward to today. Now the weather has cooled, everything is so much more pleasant and I am loving the solitude of this canal, although I tend to leave it from time to time for a bit of variety. I imagine it was quite a feat of engineering at the time of its construction and presume the area must have been pretty prosperous to have it built in the first place. I had also slept super well and opened up the flysheet for sunrise and just lay there, listening to the torrent of water as it thundered over the weir. Rain was on its way, however, so I packed up in record time, which has become a lot easier now. I have a routine and can knock it off in an hour or so. A few false starts as I tried to anticipate the rain, but it did give me time to look around the lavoir again, interested to see that it was still being used by the locals to fill huge buckets which I trust was could hardly be for drinking if the accompanying explanation were correct; the water still continued to be transported via lead pipes from its source over 2KM away. I closed my eyes and could hear the women gossiping as they went about went about their washing over 150 years ago. I was really in the mood for a frothy coffee and the town of Chaumont was only an hour or so away, so I decided to just crack on. The rain couldn’t make up its mind and I wasn’t going to faff around anymore. I set off down the Canal, which was no longer silky smooth and then I both heard and felt that familiar sound of a flat tyre. Just what I needed, halfway down a long stretch of route with no shelter, a flat tyre and finally the rain had decided to start. Of course. Once I had the wheel off, I realise that the rim of my back tyre was in shreds and once I had put a new inner tube on and replaced the tyre, the inner tube was poking out the sides. Reminded me of a hernia diagram. Didn’t look good, so I decided to get back onto the main road and find a bike shop in Chaumont asap, which would hopefully sell Schwalbe tyres. Then the heavens truly opened and I took shelter in a rickety old barn, the smell of hay making me think of growing up in the Leicestershire countryside. Touch and go but I found a bike shop with minutes to spare before it closed for lunch, of course. I got a couple of spare inner tubes but the shop was small and didn’t have Schwalbe. The guy suggested I try Intersport nearby, and down an almost vertical hill, which means I have to come back up it at some point, I presumed. I hurled myself into the store and noticed another MAMIL (Middle Aged Man in Lycra) chatting with the Sales assistant, who said that they didn’t due to production delays across France, they didn’t have any Schwalbe or Michelin tyres in stock and doubted I would find them anywhere. Coming out of the store, I got chatting to MAMIL, who was an Irish guy Micheal who had the most neatly packed bike I had ever seen, certainly compared to my overloaded monster truck of panniers, saddle bags and handlebar bags. Unbelievably he too was going to Istanbul. I mean, now mad is that. The only two English speakers I have met during my two weeks on the road are both middle aged men cycling to Istanbul. Unlike Alan, he didn’t hold back when casting his expert eye over my load and he kinda pissed me off to be honest. Yes, I realise there is more items that I can get rid of, but hey I am new to this and you live and learn. I decided to just let him blow off about his own prowess and waved him a cheery goodbye. But his comments did register, I still had too much stuff and I did start thinking about budget. Both Alan and he were both experienced cyclists and they tended only to camp if they needed to. I thought about the price of campsites compared to the price of a cheap room and wondered how much the difference would be. Although the good thing about the campsites is that you do get to chat to other people and this ride was proving quite a solitary experience so far. Which is cool, I have no problems with my own company and indeed, it is a good thing to sit with yourself, but still this was food for thought. Generally I am feeling pretty low after my unsuccessful trip to Intersport. The next big town is Langres which name was familiar to me from the creamy cheese. A quick search on Google told me that it was a beautiful medieval town as well as cheese producer and had another large Intersport and other sport shops. I figured I could take another day off, find a replacement tyre and a post office and unburden myself of more unnecessary items. Given the precarious nature of my back tyre, I didn’t want to chance any off road, but taking the hugely busy N road was maybe not my best move ever. The trucks were thundering past me at speed with little room for me to take cover. I was aware that I would be big trouble if I had another blow out with my flimsy shredded tyre and I wished I had at least gone and bought a better, cheaper version at Chaumont rather than risk the horrendous, polluted, noisy and unpleasant motorway with absolutely nowhere to go should I have another puncture and risk being mown down by those trucks. The town of Langres was high on a plateau which looks great when you are in auto powered transport, but not when on a precarious bike. The final approach up the hill involved a really steep U bend and I was totally knackered, fraught with the stress of the past hours cycle up the autoroute. I didn’t feel I had enough juice in my battery to negotiate the bend safely and decided to bear right and see if I could somehow walk and push my bike up what looked like a promising unpaved track. Working on adrenaline, I ended up walking through what appeared to be someone’s back garden and was thankful for the cheery wave and smile from a woman who had a very proprietorial look about her. God it was good to arrive at the top and carry on towards my campsite for the night, which was located by the ramparts of the city. The final route was fabulous, another old medieval town of strategic importance with a lovely vibe to it. I selected a spot right next to an old tower that formed part of the fortifications with an amazing view, although not particularly sheltered. Definitely all guide ropes being employed tonight, borrowing a huge mallet from a young couple who were just brimming with excitement and looking very loved up. I felt a pang of loneliness and a whiff of lost opportunity. Didn’t last long, I was battered. I had an uninspiring dinner of something healthy no doubt and snuggled up in my sleeping bag, leaving the flysheet open to enjoy an unexpectedly pretty sunset. Honestly not sure of my plans for tomorrow, but would work that out in the morning.

Wow, an amazing day. Still buoyed up by seeing my bestie yesterday and coupled with this smooth ride along a deserted canal after with no vehicular traffic was sensational. So pleased I had packed my wireless speaker, a last-minute addition. I eventually found a way of lodging it in position for maximum volume and cranked up some bangers including Flashdance, What A Feeling which totally encapsulated my mood. Strongly suspect that this may become the soundtrack to my adventure and tried to see if I could take a video of me cycling whist it was playing, sadly not. Not only has there been no vehicular traffic, but I also haven’t seen any boats along the entire length of this canal so far either, which is getting on for 100Km now if you include the past couple of days too. Surprising, then, to see the water was pretty clear and not particularly fast flowing either, with a lot of carp swimming about. I pushed on through the small but massively floral town of Froncles to the tiny village of Vouécourt that mainly consisted of a church, bridge and a 150-year-old public lavoir or washhouse. It was a bit cloudy but that didn’t detract from the overall prettiness of the place. The churches over here, at least the older gothic ones dating from around 1400s, have distinctive conical hat shaped spires and along with the kick ass floral displays put on both by the local authorities and augmented in splendour by the private residents in any number of boxes, barrows, barrel and other assorted receptacles, have become a defining feature of my trip through France thus far. Sadly the villages always seem so empty, devoid of people and everything seems to be permanently shut. As one local explained to me, the younger demographic no longer what to live in such a rural backwater, leaving only the oldies behind. I wouldn’t blame them. I also think that English villages are also much prettier, more architectural detail and interesting on the whole. I pitched my tent in a beautiful spot overlooking the fast-flowing weir of the river Marne with the bridge behind it. A lot of flood warning notices all over the place, but I took my chances and perched right by the river’s edge, the noise of the running water too hypnotic to ignore. The campsite was full of people from the Netherlands with some very fancy looking RVs and camper vans, which was par for the course. It’s a very Dutch thing to do, apparently – to drive down in your RV to the south of France and stay for August. I did meet a couple of cycle tourists who were pleasant enough but only as long as the one-way conversation was them telling me where they were going, how far, how long it would take and where they have already come from. I can’t remember what they said now, but it wasn’t earth shattering. I’m still pretty sure that they never asked me once about my périple. I still had bags of energy as the ride had been so easy and for the large part, very smooth although the canal path did sometimes get a bit bumpy in parts. Given that there was nothing open in the village, including even the church, I cycled the 6KM back to Froncles and picked up supplies, including loads of cold beers which I didn’t imagine I would drink, but I didn’t want to run out and it was too far to return from my campsite if I did so. My diet is healthy, lots of apples, satsumas and grapes as well as couscous, pasta, tuna and tomatoes. It's about all I ever eat, having tried lentils but I find them repellent. To be honest, I am not enjoying the cooking part too much, its all so fiddly, limiting and actually expensive when you are on your own. The last thing that I want to do when I arrive somewhere is spend time chopping, slicing and dicing after I have cycled, got lost, found my campsite and put up my tent. Am going to have to rethink the food part of this whole thing because it is not bringing me much joy. I really need those damned front panniers which would give me more room to store supplies. I have also identified another batch of items I can send home as well, so will look out for a post office along the way. That should help.

Awesome day. Little did I expect to end it having met up with one of oldest friends as well as making a brand new one. Setting off from the campsite was a delight, again taking the canal which turned out to be very much a constant for the next few days. It was the Canal entre Champagne et Bourgogne and I was going to end up cycling much of its 225KM to Besançon. No real plans as to where I was going to end up for the night, but google maps lists all campsites in the area so now I just keep going until I see how the day is panning out, how the weather is behaving and take it from there. That in itself is a definition of paradise, right there. With every day I am becoming less burdened with worries and thoughts which previously would have occupied so much of my time. I have been on the road getting on for a couple of weeks and it’s all fine. I am settling into a rhythm and nailed the whole sleeping in a tent thing. Last night was the best night sleep so far, much better than the apartment and being under canvas definitely suits me. The weather was great too and just when things couldn’t get any better, I get a WhatsApp message from Vicky & Ted who are travelling back from St Tropez. Turns out they are only a couple of hours or so away from me and a couple of messages later, we had arranged to meet at the nearby town of Sint Dizier. How completely and utterly cool was that! I changed course on the google and before I knew it, I was flying along in the middle of acres and acres of sunflowers. Stunning, even if the route just took me to the middle of a field at the end. That was the problem with Google maps, I found. They were not always that reliable when it came to plotting routes, but no worries, I had time get lost and doing so surrounded by sunflowers was not such a bad place for that to happen. I found my way out and into the throbbing metropolis at the heart of Saint Dizier. As I waited for Vicky & Ted to turn up on the terrace of the Brasserie Du Commerce facing out onto a rather ornate statue which screamed French Nationality and with fighter planes from a nearby military base roaring overhead, I noticed another guy with panniers and the look of a man on a mission too. We got chatting and turns out he is English, lives in Portugal and is going to Istanbul too. What are the chances. Turns out he had been checking me and my bike out too, thinking I was French or Dutch and when I said I was also off to Istanbul, he thought I was taking the piss. We all ended up having a fab lunch, due more to the company than the average food it has to be said, but hard to find anywhere actually open on a Monday around these parts. In fact, one thing I have noticed is that everything in the villages thus far seems to be shut at just the time you want it to be open and on Monday, nothing seems to be open at all. Not sure if this is a great feature of French life or a massive drawback, it is great for quality of life I guess but darned annoying. After Vicky and Ted left, Alan and I stayed on and we had a couple more beers. No way I was going to cycle any further today so I got a room at the same hotel as Alan and we shot off across town to find it, me leading the way and getting lost using Google Maps and Alan sorting us out using Kamoot. I had already downloaded the Kamoot app but not the additional world map add on, which at £30 he reckoned indispensable. He was right. The hotel was as dingy as to be expected for the amount I paid, although the restaurant was excellent. The owner was from Turkey and impressed that we were off to Istanbul, offering us a drink whilst we waited for the chef to turn up. In addition to us, there were a couple of locals at the hotel bar, one of whom was perched at the end of the counter and had a distinct look of Jabba the Hutt about him. A bit greasy, sweaty hands and not someone I would like to get on the wrong side of, although he was pleasant enough with us. Alan was a cracking chap that had clearly enjoyed the rollercoaster that life brings and now in his early 70s, was impressively fit and on his third or fourth international cycle trip. He was a great listener with a tremendous outlook on life and people. Overwhelmingly positive and terrifically experienced, he was another one of those guys that didn’t offload all of his knowledge in any bragging sort of way and knew that the best way to learn is to make your own mistakes. He never spent more than £75 on his bike, just buying a second hand one at his departure point and leaving it at his final destination. His panniers were impressively small, preferring to stay in budget accommodation, hostel or using an organisation called Warm Showers which is a free worldwide hospitality exchange for touring cyclists. It sounded a great service and made a note to check it out. For emergencies he carried a bivvy bag which is a bit like a body bag, but he only ever used it 3 or 4 times in a trip and exclusively only wild camping. I realised that I still had too much stuff with me and resolved to see what I should be getting rid of. Awesome guy, interesting and great company. However we were taking different routes and I wanted to take my time and Alan was more focussed on getting to Istanbul. We swapped numbers and continued to keep in contact for the remainder of our respective trips, mine longer than his.

The Airbnb experience was not great. The apartment was tiny, not helped that I stored bike in the kitchen area of course. On top of which I didn’t sleep well and I was glad to leave, although it took me ages to actually get out of the place. My departure was even louder than my arrival, clattering and crashing up and down the stairs, across the yard and negotiating the ill fitting jammed front door several times. Broke a couple of wine glasses on the way too, just to add that into the mix. Curtains in a lower apartment twitched and I could tell that the neighbours were not happy which, at 6.30 on a Sunday morning, I can’t say I blame them. Reims was looking fine in the early morning sunshine though, its Cathedral truly magnificent. The city had a prosperous feel to it and always nice to see a few fucked up revellers returning home from a banging night out. Made me feel a bit homesick for my beloved Portobello, in fact. Long queues at the boulangerie and cash points aplenty. I had been overthinking the route last night, concerned that I may miss a turn which was surprisingly not very well marked and which meant I could have ended up on the main N44 autoroute if I didn’t pay attention which, whilst not illegal, was not ideal. As ever the roads were impossibly straight and rolled off into the distance, a luxury we do not have in the UK due to lack of space. It did involve one unpaved track but the run into Vitry-le-François on the D2 was lovely and the final stretch to the campsite was on a beautifully paved canal. One major miscalculation was food. I had thought that by the time I arrived in the town of Vitry-le-François, I would be able to find something to eat but I hadn’t figured on it being a Sunday and absolutely everything was shut. The only venue that was open was a McDonalds and it was rammed to the rafters. How crap is that, starving in a country of epicurean delights and all I had to assuage my hunger was a Big Mac Meal. Given the crowds in the restaurant, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the bike unattended for long so I sat outside waiting for my order to get ‘prepared’ but by the time it was ready, the doors had been locked due to the large numbers and Covid restrictions, so I couldn’t get back in to pick up the meal. When I finally did, the mushy mess was lukewarm and I huddled outside under some pitiful awning under the watchful gaze of the other diners as it poured again. Not the greatest moment of the trip so far. My campsite for the night was superb with a friendly, organic kind of vibe. The owners had the most enormous greenhouse area growing a huge collection of massive cucumbers, tomatoes, courgettes, runner beans, peas and much more. There was also a large area with several exotic looking varieties of chicken all clucking around like they are supposed to do. Church bells started ringing and I was really looking forward to a massive cock-a-doodle-do session tomorrow morning. I found a great shady spot, set up camp and lay down on the mattress, looking up at the leaves and sky above. I was relived to see there didn’t appear to be any lake or pond nearby. My legs were in pieces from mosquito bites gathered over the previous few days. It had been perfect conditions for them with boiling weather and large areas of still water in most of the places I stayed. In addition, I had made the classic schoolboy error of scratching them and they were red raw. Although I had been liberally dousing both my legs and indeed any exposed skin areas with a multiplicity of mosquito repellent sprays, nothing seemed to do the trick. I became fascinated with the life cycle of this deadly and vicious creatures which kills over a million people a year and watched as one landed on me and started probing around in search of my exotic English blood, and what I found out was that this probe is made up of 6 individual needles which have all evolved to saw, drill and hold open skin so that chemicals to numb and make blood flow easier can be injected and allow for maximum vampire action. On one occasion, I squashed one that was on my skin and a load of blood splattered out, which I for politeness’s sake, I hoped was at least mine and not someone else’s. I couldn’t work out how I was getting bitten so much and then I realised that there was a hole in the inner tent and in addition to their drilling, they could navigate their way around and find it. You have to admire them. I needed to charge my tech, so made my way over to a communal area which had an assortment of plugs. Whilst there, I got chatting with a terrific guy called Manu, which I guess was short for Emmanuel. He was the size of a tank, smoked incessantly and had made his way through half a bottle of red by the time I met him. He was a keen cyclist and truly defied any preconceptions of what could ever be described as athletic. He just didn’t give a toss as he confidently told me of his various trips over the years and I was riveted. How on earth did he possibly do it, indeed perhaps he didn’t. But he was very convincing, keen to share his vittles’ and I was happy to accept.

Not the best night sleep, my mind whirring away thinking about rain, had I calculated my timings to make it to Reims in time for to avoid the deluge? Then moving onto my sleeping bag, was it too thick and bulky (yes, btw), should I find a post office, send it home, find an Intersport to buy another lighter, more modern one and if so, what would be the right thickness. How to find the Intersport, what was the most efficient way of timing, post office first or Intersport. An express train of overthinking that gathered speed as the night wore on. As usual, morning brings clarity – no rush so best just leave it for the moment. Why can’t I ever just do that at 3.00am in the morning instead of wearing myself out all night, FFS! The road to Reims was ramrod straight. On and on and on it went, fading away into the distance; 50KM with barely a kink for the entire way. On the one hand monotonous, but on the other, cooler conditions made it perfect cycling weather. Endless flat fields, the odd tank monument and Reims Cathedral in the distance. To keep myself occupied I fixed my eye on clumps of trees, buildings, anything in the distance and guessed how far away it was and how long it would take to reach it, including the Cathedral itself until I realised it was a only massive grain silo by the time I pulled up next to it. I was feeling good and I knew I had a real bed waiting for me at the other end. I also say my first field of sunflowers which always make me feel amazing. Given the perfect cycling conditions, I arrived easily within a couple of hours. The neighbourhood had a rather odd feel to it. Friendly enough, the owner of the local bar was effusive and welcoming when I explained that I was staying nearby. But as I sat outside cradling my shandy, I noted that most of the people in the streets appeared dishevelled but not quite homeless. A couple of arty types, but mainly a feeling of down-at-heel. The apartment was OK-ish. Located up three flights of a dingy staircase on the far side of a bare internal courtyard in which every sound was amplified as I negotiated my various bags, sacks and ultimately bike across and upstairs. The owner had said it would be OK to leave the bike in the courtyard, but there was nothing to lock it too and given that it was open to the elements and a deluge was fast approaching, I wanted to keep the bike as safe and dry as possible. When the most important thing in the world to you right now is your bike, you want to keep it as well looked after as possible. The place was small but the washing machine worked fine and it was so great to load it up and set it off. The living area was up an internal staircase which didn’t look like it would pass any Health & Safety standards. The sleeping area was nice enough and would do for the night, but for one night only. I am far too big to live in such cramped conditions for anytime longer than that. I popped out to the corner shop to get some bread and cheese whilst I waited for the washing to finish, planning to go out into Reims for a look later on. And then the rain came. The noise was deafening as it thundered down into the open courtyard and it felt fantastic to know that I was warm and dry inside. I had timed everything perfectly and loving every second, leaving all my windows open to make the most of the sound. This rain continued on and off for several hours as I listened to the Liza Tarbuck show on my wireless speaker, calling home to speak to family and friends from the comfort of my immovable home. I did think about cycling into the centre later that evening but decided to continue making the most of my abode and also planning my exit route for tomorrow, which looked rather complicated if I wanted to avoid the major N44 and unpaved tracks.

This trip is all about visiting new places and after a week traversing the flat plains of Picardy and low lying Hauts de France (why is it that this lowest lying of French regions is referred to as Haut, or High, in the first place?), I was ready for some time off and the rather stunning medieval city of Laon seemed to be the perfect place to do it. All I knew about the place was that it had a phenomenal Gothic cathedral and that it was twinned with the city of Winchester here in the UK. The Cathedral had certainly looked hugely impressive, its silhouette atop the crowded mountain becoming ever more apparent as I cycled down the ramrod straight section of the D1044 leading towards it the day before. My spirit of adventure was strong as I woke up, excited to both to discover what this city had to offer and not have to wear lycra for a whole day. On a practical note, I had also separated out several items that I could send back home and was happy that I would have more space in my panniers and less weight to carry. The campsite was at the bottom of the very steep hill and I was gratified to cycle up it quite easily; I must be getting fitter. On the way up, I mistook the St Martin’s Church for the Cathedral as I continued to follow a maze of narrow cobbled one-way streets until I came across one with hundreds of coloured balloons suspended high along its length, illuminated by the bright early morning sunshine. It seemed like the perfect place for breakfast as I waited for the Post Office to open and happy that I have remembered so much of my French as I chatted with the waiter. Very much feeling the effects of leaving the EU when I finally got to posting my stuff home. Horrendously expensive and requiring a lot of paperwork; at least 5 separate forms. Then up to check out the Cathedral, which was gobsmackingly impressive. A huge west frontage with soaring towers and three deeply recessed entrance portals surmounted with statues of oxen, a tribute to the animals that provided so much labour during the construction of the church. As I entered, my eyes were immediately drawn upwards to the vaulted ceiling and at the far end, as light poured in through a rose window with three lancet windows below, the sound of gentle choral music filled the space. I always love that about French Gothic, the emphasis on height as though the higher it went, the closer to God you were. After that, I went for a ramble along the ramparts and drank in the panoramic views over the surrounding countryside, feeling rather chuffed as I looked out over the route that I had cycled. I tried to imagine what it was like back in the day, as visitors entered the city through the stately gateways that still stood powerfully to attention, a reminder of the economic and strategic importance of this noble city. I stopped off for lunch at a Le Bistrot de la Paix for a very satisfying beef bourguignon, fries and cheeky glass of Provençal red. Not normally a fan of red wine at lunch, but when in France and all that. Such a nice change from having to eat my own food, although no denying it would have been nice to have someone to eat with. No change from the relentless heat, but the forecast was set to change later than night with huge thunderstorms on their way. Buoyed up by my rather fabulous day thus far, I decided that it was time to splash a bit more cash and find some accommodation for tomorrow night that didn’t involve canvas, especially given the torrential amounts of rain that would surely follow the past week of stonking sunshine. I cycled past a McDonalds which advertised free WiFi and decided to check out some Airbnb lodging / budget hotels. Good call, great air con as well as WiFi and plenty of time to work out where I would aim for and enjoy some static civilisation which I figured would be at Reims which was only 50KM away. But the weather looked like it was going to be wet and if there is one thing that brings no joy, it is cycling in the rain. I settled on a studio flat with a washing machine, booked and felt very pleased with myself. Then back to the campsite where I made peace with the neighbours that had been so angry the day before, had a nap and went down to meet Michel. I wasn’t sure what to expect, if we were going to hit some of the local bars or what. As it turned out, he was on duty at reception so beers on the patio outside it was. He was a lovely guy, held down about 3 different jobs and had a big house in a village a few KMs away. It was so great to chat with someone, get a bit drunk and no denying, I was impressed that my French was good enough to keep chatting for a couple of hours or so. I even acted as interpreter for some holidaymakers that arrived in their rather sexy camper van. As I went up to bed later on, there was an awesome light show with spectacular lightening in the distance lighting up an expansive sky with sharp silhouettes of trees in the foreground. In anticipation, I moved the bike into the public shower block to keep it dry, tied down all the guide ropes I could find and sat inside waiting for the heavens to unleash. I was beyond excited waiting for the rain to hit as the thunder got louder and louder with each passing minute. I was texting Vicky who was now down in the South of France on her hols, describing the approaching tumultuous downpour as the first heavy splodges of rain started hitting the flysheet. We both love the elemental nature of life and, like me, Vicky is never happier than being out in biblical weather conditions that savage and beat the living crap out of you. It makes you feel so bloody alive. I would work out what to do with the sopping wet aftermath the next day, but for now it was time to lie back and enjoy. Except nothing happened. Nada. The storm seemed to take another direction and after those initial slaps of raindrops, receded completely. I felt a bit cheated, if truth be told. Although on the plus side, everything was dry the next morning except for the usual condensation on the inside of the flysheet, of course.

Lots of other residents of the campsite / trailer park were emerging at the same early hour as me but whilst I was off on my trip, they were all off to work wearing a wide variety of high vis outfits. I was so pleased to be on the road and away from the place. Looking back, my less than joyous sojourn there was coloured by the heat and fruitless search for front panniers. In order to try for more space, I tried out yet another packing routine. This time I put all my food at the bottom of my roll bag and shoved everything on top. It helped, a bit but made the overall packing a mess. Fact is, whatever way I tried to pack, I just didn’t have any room and needed to offload some items. As it was now a full week since I left, I decided to head towards the city of Laon which had a magnificent looking Cathedral and take the next day off. It would give me a chance to find a post office as well and send some unnecessary items back home. I went around in circles trying to get find the D57, at one point passing over a canal that led me into a road that was submerged in water. A couple of farmers in waders told me that it was OK to pass, but they had a mischievous look in their eyes as they assured me the ford wasn’t too deep and I decided against attempting to cross. A couple of hours later, I found myself at the village of Couvron-et-Aumencourt which had an artisanal boulangerie where I bought a delicious organic, no sugar, croissant & pain-au-chocolat made with local flour, served by a buxom wench with, what I could tell, was a killer smile behind the mask. I sat in a small park opposite and just felt good. As ever, the sun was rising and I begun to wonder when will the heat ever end? Although one thing that I am learning so far on this trip, acceptance. Normally I would be getting irritated by this non-stop blast furnace, but there is nothing I can do about it except just get up whilst it is dark and keep going for as long as it is possible. Sure, it means not a huge number of KMs per day, but then there is no rush is there. I also find the long stretches in frankly rather uninspiring landscape means I have time to think and ruminate on life in general. Like many people, I have a robust catalogue of negative experiences upon which to draw, and anger is such a delicious pleasure. It is so easy to tap into, requiring little to no effort. But it is draining, unproductive, destructive and ultimately leaves you feeling knackered. I have realised that as soon as I start inadvertently dipping into that catalogue, I shout out loudly to no one in particular ‘Negative Thoughts, Banish Them’ (I know, sounds dumb but it works) and then I refocus on what is around. The more I do this, the longer the stretch before my mind eventually wanders back to that catalogue, whereby I rinse and repeat my shouty command. I’m happy about that. I arrived at the campsite La Chenaie which had a pool and lots of shady pitches. Felt great to book in for a couple of nights, cracked my tent up in record breaking time and then set off to the local carrefour to get some lunch supplies. I felt very French as I cycled back with my baguettes crammed into the cargo net. I really went to town with the lunch, including a bottle of gorgeous chilled white Bordeaux. Felt its effects and had a long and rather too loud 'phone conversation with my friend Ingrid, so much so that one of my neighbours came over to tell me off afterwards. Went for a quick swim then back for an afternoon nap, followed by a cycle around the local area and a gorgeous sunset at the nearby pond. Mosquitos. Got chatting with one Michel, one of the guys that ran the site and arranged to meet up tomorrow for a couple of local beers. Slept well and dreamt of panniers with space and a cool breeze. Oh yes, life is good.

I have been on the road for only a few days, but already I can sense there will probably be good and bad days. And then there will be just average days, like today. Cycling on generally poor quality roads through endless fields of potatoes and assorted cereals does lose its charm pretty quickly although it does give me plenty of time to think about items that I can offload as I am increasingly concerned about the weight of everything in my back panniers. And at 98K, I am not exactly a petite slip of a thing either. In fact I think a lot about mechanical issues at the moment and it won’t be long until some of my spokes start giving way. Punctures I am more familiar with, although not too much as I have Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyres which are indestructible. But still, finding smooth roads was key to an enjoyable trip and so far, every day brought with it sections of unpaved torture. Can’t say the villages were up to much either; charmless, functional and largely uninhabited. At least I could count on a boulangerie, even if the croissants were unexceptional and nothing compared to the well cooked Pret a Manger versions back home. One good thing about taking D roads were the supermarkets and out of town stores dotted along them. The main ones were Auchan, Leclerc and Intermarché but I was always at my happiest in a Super U, or even better an Hyper U. At the beginning I was wary of leaving my fully laden bike unattended and always locked the frame. But as time went by, I didn’t even bother doing that and just did my best to park out of sight of the main road. Sure, an opportunistic thief could just ride off, but not at speed. There was an outside possibility of someone with an empty van quickly loading it up but then there is also the chance that absolutely anything bad could happen to me at some point, so best just suck it up and deal with that unlikely event when it happens. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about some of the Eastern European countries mind you; they were an unknown to me and a lack of knowledge or understanding is the principal reason for fear and suspicion in everything, right? Heatwave was still in full force and today was the hottest so far. I limped into my campsite after only a measly 75KM, at 2.00PM when the sun was at its hottest. Two things immediately struck me once I had negotiated the the longest ever shitty driveway; the swimming pool and Celine, the manager. The swimming pool, albeit very small had its obvious charm given the sweltering conditions. Celine, due to the most incredible set of maloccluded teeth I have ever seen. They were hypnotic, chaotic and I did wonder if God had perhaps provided her with an extra set but then decided to push them all together up front in the manner of the Hardy Tree at St Pancras Old Church. She was animated and lovely though and was the first person thus far to request my Covid Pass before registration. She explained that without it, she would be fined, go out of business as well as any other number of disastrous events. It was hard to keep up with her and not keep being drawn back to stare at her gnashers. One of the worst things about cycle touring in the boiling heat is that when you do finally arrive at your campsite, that is just the beginning and not the end. You still have to put the damn thing up and then you have to cook your own food. I chose my spot, as always with shade in mind and where the sun would move throughout the afternoon to ensure the maximum amount of it. I didn't notice any other tents at all, just loads of mobile homes, caravans, glamping style cabins and permanent bungalows all situated around what looked like a suspiciously stagnant looking pond which of course meant mosquitos. Great. The facilities were mediocre at best and although the residents seemed polite enough, there was a lot of curtain twitching as I unpacked and set up my tented home. Word had got around that I was cycling to Istanbul and I was an object of curiosity and amusement. No worries, there was still the pool so I took my swimming trunks and decided to lay out, bring my laptop, wait for the bar to open and treat myself to a chilled beer. Within seconds I was flat out under the umbrella and awoke a short time later to find myself surrounded by small kids and their mothers whilst behind them, in the bar area, a load of unsmiling and unhealthy men were just staring at me. It just didn’t feel right, in any way. It hadn’t helped that I had misunderstood the bar manager when he asked what I wanted and I loftily instructed him to bring over the delicious beverage poolside. He stared blankly at me and shouted at me to 'get over here' in no uncertain terms when he returned with my beer in plastic glasses. I think I even heard the word 'connard' in there somewhere. I drank my beer and left. I have decided that I need front panniers. I had decided against them on the advice of Barry and blogs that I had read never mentioned them, but now I figured they would be better for weight distribution and give me some much-needed space. When fully laden, there was little additional room for groceries along the way and it was a constant struggle to squeeze in supplies as I went. I asked the guys in the bar if they knew of a bike shop in the area, and they suggested Decathalon which was only a short ride away. Was that a 'tête de con' I heard being muttered as I walked away? Turns out to be a 10-mile round trip through the town of Saint Quentin, a soulless place that formed an integral part of the Hindenburg Line during World War I, and had not fared well as a result. At first I had considered stopping off for a cheeky beer, unaccustomed as I was to seeing large towns en route but given my day and that I just wanted to get my panniers and then home again, I decided against it. Once I made it to Decathalon, I realised that its not the panniers that are the problem, it’s the front supports that are the issue. They didn't hold any in stock and were not sure that my bike could accommodate them anyway. I was exasperated and even give Balfes a call to check that I am not being fobbed off by some sales guy who can’t be bothered. Turns out it was a great call, Balfe’s couldn’t really assist but after talking me through the various options including me sending a picture to them at the store to see if my bike was able to even support them, the sales guy started asking me about my trip. It was the first English person I had spoken to since Ed on the ferry over here and of course I said I was having a good time. Which of course, I had been and talking about it to this stranger on the end of the 'phone really perked me up. On the way home, I stopped off at a Burger King and had 2 whopper with cheese. Love how there is no limit to what you can eat when cycle touring. That night I slept really well, amused to listen to my neighbours who clearly knew each other, getting absolutely hammered and joking about me before I nodded off. Either they didn't think I understood or were too smashed to care, but it was then I realised that I was not so much in a campsite as a trailer park. There's a first for everything.