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This heatwave is hardcore, leaving only a small window of a opportunity before it starts becoming unbearable at around 10.00. Last night’s campsite was definitely the worst so far and I was glad to get away by 06.30. This time I am sticking only to the main D roads, which have little to no traffic on them, certainly nothing compared to London. So that’s France Velo Tourisme scrapped, nice idea but not for hardened cycle tourists. As I rode away, knackered from the lack of sleep the night before, I sent a video message to my friend Helen with whom I had walked some of the Camino de Santiago a couple of years ago. The early morning sunrise always remind me of that trek and I knew she would appreciate it too. My plan now was to hoof it down to Besançon ASAP and meet up with other cyclists; in the five days or so thus far, I had not seen let alone met one other cycle tourist. Using Google Maps, I headed down a road that started to follow a canal. Conscious of how that would most likely turn into an unpaved track, I retreated and headed straight for Arras. I was aware that I would be cycling through the battlefields of World War I, and indeed had already cycled through Dunkirk, Ypres and the Menin Gate on a previous trip. Still nothing prepares you for the emotional gut punch as increasing numbers of war graves appear en route, some big and some small but all of them immaculately manicured and impeccably maintained. The further I cycled on towards the town of Béthune, the more I absorbed the surrounding landscape and I began to imagine the horror it had witnessed during those dark years of World War I, the senseless loss of life, including soldiers some as young as 14 or 15 years of age. It was hard to equate the tranquil surroundings in which I found myself with the violent nightmare blackness of that war, in which mud and corpses became indistinguishable, merging to form a foul infested slurry of inhumanity. The drill like hammering of machine gun fire, the explosive crack of mud caked howitzers and field guns dispatching their explosive shells across a countryside denuded of any living thing. The conveyor belt mechanical grinding of the tanks' drivetrains and the pistol-whipping crack as gas shells sliced through the air, clouds of smoke, heavy with the suffocating, metallic, earthy smell of war. I began to see the shadowy forms of solders emerging from the middle distance, not unpleasant, not scary but present. A short distance south of the village of Souchez I came across a large and beautifully laid out cemetery with the rather odd sounding name of Cabaret Rouge which took its name from a small, red-bricked, red-tiled house of the same name which existed at the time. I got off my bike and entered via the imposing gateway and started walking amongst the graves with their neatly arranged headstones radiating out from a central point, consisting of a raised block of stone with the inscription ‘Their Name Liveth for Evermore’. Skylarks darted overhead and it was so quiet, I could hear the sound of blackbirds with their musical tchup tchup in the trees surrounding the cemetery. Over 7600 bodies are buried here, more than half of which were unknown. The headstones of these inscribed ‘A Soldier of the Great War’ and in smaller lettering along the bottom, ‘Known unto God’. I found that terrifically moving and sat there for quite some time reflecting on the atrocity of it all. There was a large contingent of Canadian Troops buried here and remains from one of the graves has been removed and placed at the foot of the National War Memorial in Ottawa. Time was pressing on and the sun was getting stronger by the minute. I decided to stay at a municipal campsite by the village of Plouvain and arrived there around midday. A marked change from last night with large pitches delineated by significant established hedges. I picked a shady spot, laid my flysheet out to dry which only took minutes, blew up my mattress, lay down and had the most powerful of power naps for half an hour. I was exhausted beyond belief. The campsite felt comfortable with a great manager / owner and a great atmosphere and for the first time in on this trip, I felt at home as soon as I arrived. Once the sun started dying down, I shot off to a local supermarket and bought ingredients for dinner which ended up being some combo of tuna, rice, couscous, tomatoes, onions, pasta, noodles and a bunch of fruit. I bought a Hello Kitty cool bag, but sadly could not find any cool beers to put in it, but the bag looks neat and just what every strapping 6’6” guy needs. After dinner I went for a spin on the bike around the lakes which surrounded the campsite. Unfortunately the super hot weather and combination of water meant for industrial quantities of mosquitos which no amount of repellent would deter. On the way home I noticed a group of young Germans who had taken the spot next to mine and I stopped off for a beer and a blackened barbecued sausage with them. Friends from Uni, they were travelling around France and were having a ball. I wonder if I will get to meet any English holidaymakers?

Today was a tough one, mainly because I spent hours in the searing heat, essentially going nowhere with my nerves frayed and absolutely shattered by the end of it all. But I did eat a whole banana, which is an actual first for me. Sounds unbelievable, but it is true. Packed up all my gear and on the road by 6.45, although it is still taking me a couple of hours and I am conscious of the noise that I make at such an early hour. I had preloaded the route from Calais to Besançon onto my Wahoo Sat Nav before I left, but it had never worked for the entirety of my journey thus far. However as I set off in the general direction of the medieval town of Ardres for breakfast & supplies, I heard the familiar high pitched beep as it sparked into life. Never had I been so happy to hear that sound and to see the familiar blue and green flashing lights dance along its top. The sunrise was magnificent and all was well with the world. Whilst I was happily careering along the D231 to Ardres, the Sat Nav directed me off onto a smaller and more picturesque route about 5 minutes away from the centre of town. I thought, why not; the weather was perfect, I was feeling good and I’m here to enjoy scenery and embrace nature in all its glorious forms and it would presumably bring me to Ardres eventually. Well that eventually took another hour and whilst it was nice to be in the countryside amongst fields of potatoes in bloom (which are rather lovely, in fact), the roads were largely unsurfaced, muddy in parts and with a lot of potholes which was not doing my bike and it's tyres any favours. On top of that the landscape was unremarkable, consisting largely of acres of flat fields; I could easily have been at home in the Leicestershire countryside or indeed any non-descript piece of arable farmland. Let me reiterate, one hour before I got back to Ardres, when I had originally only been less than 5 minutes away on the smooth D road, which had been completely empty of traffic. Still, some lovely flower arrangements on the way. No problem, just need to find a café and croissant, take time, chill – enjoy being in France and on my bike. Except there were no cafés in Ardres. I know this to be true because it is a small place and I looked. I stopped off by a school where kids were all piling in for the day and spoke to one of the teachers, asking where to find a supermarket. It felt great to use my French, which was all there in the back of my head like a loaded spring, just waiting for the opportunity to spring forth. Off to Auchan I went and stocked up on all sorts of good healthy and nutritious food. It was here that I would have been so happy to have my tiny teeny but hugely expandable rucksackini, as recommended by Barry. Except I couldn’t find it in my panniers and pretty sure that it had escaped from my handlebar bag whilst at the ferry when hunting around for my passport. Even more annoying as I do not have any spare room in my panniers to store so much as a slice of jambon or wafer-thin piece of comté. Thank goodness for my cargo net, without doubt one of the most useful, practical and indeed essential pieces of kit I had purchased. Yes, the top notch Ortleib panniers and handlebar bags, the frame bags, compression sacs, superb quality MSR tent and all of the other expensive kit I had purchased was invaluable, but oh that cargo net. It cost all of £6.99 and, consisted of a square mesh of elasticated high tenacity polypropylene twine with clips at each corner that fitted over the back of my panniers and dry bag but it was honestly one of the best things I have ever purchased. You could shove all manner of things in there and I never lost a single item once it had been lodged within its secure grasp. If there is one thing I will never forget, it was my cargo net. Of course, one way to get rid of some of the supplies was to eat them. I cycled back to where I remember a rather lovely tree lined road with benches, the kind of thing the French do really well. there was a cemetery on one side which was very peaceful as I sat down to gorge on fruit, carbs and chocolate. And it was here I decided to finally do it, to go ahead and eat an entire banana, from one end to the other. It’s not that I have never eaten banana and I don’t mind the taste. But it’s the consistency that makes me wretch. One stray slice in a trifle or fruit salad is manageable, but I have never made it through an entire one. However, I am a big boy now and I need to ensure I am eating the very best healthy diet I can on the road and let's face it, I am on my own and need to look after myself here. I decided to set up the camera to record my attempt, which made for very uncomfortable viewing and not to be shared, I think. I started off alright, the fist couple of mouthfuls aided in their mastication by thoughts of pretty, lovely things but ¾ the way down, there was no escaping that revolting mushy, gooey texture. I did finish it, but it wasn’t pretty and involved a lot of gagging. In fact, I was quite exhausted by the whole event which was positively emotional. I ‘phoned Augusto to celebrate this new but unrepeatable first. But I had had a good, healthy and hearty breakfast and so off I went, following the route on my Wahoo Sat Nav. All the way back to where I started my detour and for the next 2 hours, I followed the scenic route of rolling fields, pretty church spires, unpaved roads with gravel and mud, ascending and descending never-ending hills. On top of this the heat was becoming unbearable to nuclear roasting and I was getting through gallons of water and not a lot of corner shops or taps to refill from. At the top of one particularly arduous climb, I decided enough was enough so I found the nearest campsite on google and booked it. It took a further hour or so to get there using only main roads and I limped in to the main reception with moments to spare before the manager closed for lunch. I devoured two cans of ice-cold coke within seconds whilst he completed the paperwork and I asked him to add them to the bill. He didn’t accept cards but luckily, I had just about enough shrapnel to pay. He then gave me a token required to operate the showers, which I promptly dropped and couldn’t find in the sandy gravel, but after chatting a while and telling him about my journey thus far and where I intended travelling to, he not only replaced the token, but offered me the cokes and taught me a brand-new word, périple which roughly translates as a long and often difficult journey. It’s the small things that make all the difference when you are in shreds. The kindness of strangers continued once I had located the pitch for my tent. Once it was up, I lay down in the shadowless face-melting heat of the midday sun. Apart from the shower block, there was honestly nowhere for me to go to get any shade, but at least if I didn’t move, I could at least rest. The pitch to the right of me contained a camper van which was home to a couple of itinerant arborists. I am not sure where they were from in France and their accent was so strong that it was hard to make out a single word they said. At first they kept laughing at pretty much everything I said, but not in a good way. I couldn’t catch their names and really didn’t care either. But after disappearing inside their van for lunch, they came out with an electric floor fan which they tried to rig up to a nearby electric point so that I could at least get some breeze. Flex wasn’t long enough, but a much appreciated gesture nonetheless. Likewise the owner of a mobile home opposite me brought over a coffee, although a freezing cold jug of water with hundreds of ice cubes bobbing about and a slice of lemon floating in, would have been preferable. She told me to take a chair off her balcony so I at least had somewhere to sit whilst I left my power pack with her to fully charge. Turns out that she was retired and lived in Ardres during the winter and in her mobile home during the summer. Eventually the sun went down and I looked around. The campsite seemed like a bit of a dump, but the residents, and some of them seemed to be there for the long term, made up for the low quality facilities. Yes there was a lake, but I looked at the map and realised that I was only 46KM from last nights campsite. 46KM! I was shattered, battered and completely knackered from the longest and most pointless detour ever. Note to self from now on, keep to the main roads, avoid the lumpy bumpy scenic routes and always search out roads with decent road surfaces. I’ve a long way to go and I am sure I will see many wonderful things; I just don’t need to see all of them.

Today's goal - cross the Channel and hit foreign shores at last. Again, I wake up around 4.30AM and start thinking about getting up. One thing I am noticing is that although I am as dry as a bone in the tent, the condensation is intense and the inside of the flysheet is dripping wet. Still a long way to go in terms of establishing a morning routine, the shower block is still a long walk away and the grass outside is soaking from dew. Wet feet. I get chatting to a guy who asked me if I was going to see the golf, which was a bit random and maybe because I was wearing my cycle cap which looks golf-ish I guess. I tell him my plans for getting to France and he tells me there is some new Covid development along the lines of French not accepting people from UK or vice versa. I decide to ignore him and get down to the port; it's only 20 minutes away and I’ve come this far so I may as well get down and see if I can get a ticket. Great view of Dover Castle as I zoom down the empty Sunday morning streets to the terminal. Turns out there is no issue with the actual travel, but annoyingly I just went up to the first desk I saw, asked for the next ferry and bought my ticket. There was a four hour wait that I put down to it being a Sunday during a pandemic, which meant a reduced service. What I didn't clock is that each ferry operator had its own separate sales counter and I should have checked with the others before purchasing, and then I would have realised I could have taken an earlier ferry altogether. The price was higher than I had expected for a foot passenger as well, but I was just happy to know I had successfully passed all the various passport and immigration controls and wouldn’t have to return home after only two nights away. I sat outside the joyless Costa Coffee café and started chatting with a couple of leather clad motorcycle tourists from my home town of Leicester. I could tell they had a rich stream of travellers’ tales to tell me if I gave them half a chance but, unlike me, they had planned ahead and worked out how the ferry ticketing system worked and took off for an earlier ferry. Still, the sun was out, my factor 50 cream liberally applied and the blinding white of the chalk hills of Dover looked rather magnificent set against the deep blue cloudless sky. Life was good, even if it were taking place in a ferry car park for the next 3 and a half hours. As the magic hour to departure approached and after a lot of coffee and gallons of water (it was a really hot day), I stopped off for a final pre-embarkation loo stop. I noticed a guy looking lovingly at my loaded bike and asked if he would keep an eye out for a moment until I got back. His name was Ed and he was travelling with his very pregnant Nordic wife and super cute kid and it turns out that they were both seasoned cycle tourists. I mean hardcore, cycling all over Africa and South America - especially Columbia and always wild camping. He was genuinely happy when I told him this was my first ever trip and I chatted with him for pretty much the entire crossing, imparting his experience and expertise into my very willing ears. One of my concerns was that I would not be able to get into some countries due to Covid, but he dismissed them pretty outright. He made me feel invincible, with so much good advice and encouragement that I was super pumped by the time we got to Calais. Upon reflection, I realise that he was the first person to cast a critical eye over my loaded bike and realise I had too much stuff with me, but to his credit he didn’t say anything as he knew that I would figure it all out in my own time. As I cycled off the ferry into the maze of exit roads from the ferry terminal, I heard a horn honking from the cars that followed me and I knew it was Ed, giving me yet one more shot of optimism as I went on my merry way and thankful for my serendipitous failure to take that earlier crossing. But I made it and here I am, in Calais France. I am on my way and it feels good! I have decided to switch to KMs rather than miles now that I am on the continent, and I found a campsite about 16KM away. It took me a short while to get out of Calais which had that lost feeling you get at seaside towns, especially ports, on a Sunday afternoon. No one around and just a bit desolate even though it was sunny. The campsite was quite expensive and I pitched up beside the biggest camper van I had ever seen hosting all generations of a Belgian family on a trip to the south coast. It definitely had stairs inside it and was the size of a small apartment. I laid out my sopping flysheet to dry out the condensation and for the first time, feel the pressure of an audience watching me set it up. In fact, there were very few tents but a lot of camper vans and mobile homes I’m not quite sure if they thought I was a bit mad or were impressed I was taking on a 5000 KM solo cycle trip, but I was pleased to get it all up and head down to the onsite bar and restaurant. I had spent a fortune today but practically nothing over the previous couple of days, so I thought I would let someone else take the cooking strain. Couple of cool beers later, I received a text from my fab friend Vicky who was in St Tropez for a few days. I knew she'd love the idea of this trip and I was right. She's a soulmate, for sure. Great sense of satisfaction and validation today. I slept well that night.

First night in the tent and not the greatest night sleep ever, although not terrible either. Getting up and packing everything took a couple of hours, not helped by the fact the interior of my tent was an omnishambles and definitely a need for some sort of routine to be established. It also didn’t help that I was ravenous and there was no shop or facilities nearby for food, although Alex, one of the campsite owners, very kindly came over with a couple of hard-boiled eggs. Each one savoured as though it were an ortolan songbird itself. I was also offered a brew by the very gorgeous Christine, originally from Ilkley but who lived in Brixton with her energetic Jack Russell terrier, Jagger. She was an artist, looked extremely distinctive with a whiff of an eighties wedge haircut and was blessed with a honeyed authentic and friendly tone when she spoke. She explained that she rented out her flat to Air Bnb most weekends during summer and stayed at various campsites dotted around the vicinity, which helped with her rent, gave the chance to be out of the city with Jagger and to meet people. She also advised me that as it was high season, the weekend and perfect weather, most campsites would be fully booked up so it was worth it to ring ahead and book a space at a campsite, even if just a single pitch such as myself. Which turned out to be a great bit of advice. I had already decided that after the long 60 miles yesterday I would not make the trip to Dover, take a ferry and find a campsite in France all in one go today and anyway my PCR test, mercifully negative, was valid for a further 48 hours so all good. Besides, it was looking out to be a stunner of a day, sunshine all the way and nothing beats the English countryside at its finest, especially when in the middle of Kent, The Garden of England with its beautiful villages, Tudor timbered thatched cottages, oast houses, picturesque churches with lynchgates, fields of wheat and hops, apple orchards and windy country lanes. Bucolic bliss. I made a few calls to various campsites, left messages and set off in the direction of Canterbury and food. Slightly alarmed as a couple of sites rang back to say they were full, but I was sure there would be somewhere with a space for one person and if not, there was always wild camping although I wanted to ease myself into that one. Then I got a call from a from Hawthorn Farm, about 30 miles away and more importantly, only 4 miles from the port of Dover. I had to be there by 5.15 though, which shouldn’t be an issue although everything seems to take longer than I expect when you are loaded down with panniers full of stuff. The bumpy roads and my concern about getting a puncture, and more importantly the time it would take to change the inner tube, didn’t help either. I was so happy to get to Canterbury, which I knew well from my tour guiding work. Straight to Morrisons supermarket, slight concern as I had to leave my panniers on my bike whilst I went in for supplies. But given they were pretty cumbersome and the car park at Canterbury didn’t look too much like a major crime spot, I didn’t worry too much. With the help of a sales assistant, I found these great packets of flavoured rice which looked super easy to cook. I had started to become aware of possible chafing in my nether regions and chanced my luck that they sold chamois cream. When I asked the sales girl, she brought me to the car maintenance section and I declined to explain further the kind of chamois product I was looking for and why. Somehow, she didn’t look like she was ready for that kind of a conversation early on a Sunday morning. I arrived at Hawthorn Farm around half four. It was vast, sprawling fields with all manner of caravans, mobile homes, tents of all shapes and sizes and all of humankind there. I went for a spot at the furthest end of the furthest field in the shade. I got the tent up pretty sharpish and chucked everything inside, grabbed my toiletries stuff and went off for a shower. It took me about 5 minutes to get to the nearest shower block and on my way back, a smallish group of friends had returned and cranked up the drum and bass so the tuneless aberration that passes for music jarred at my senses. Grim. Still, at least I was clean, refreshed and nobody had nicked anything whilst I was in the shower. Result. I cycled down to the campsite shop where they sold ice cold beer. In the queue was an older guy in full unforgiving lycra that was telling anyone in molecular detail who would listen about how he had cycled 40 miles that day. I kept quiet and cycled back to my tent. Music still blaring, but decided it was mind over matter and anyway, I live just by Portobello Road in London and am used to noise. Those beers were amazing, although it made it quite hard to focus on making a huge meal of rice, onion and tuna. Evening was a bit muddled, formless as I am tired and the magnitude of this endeavour begins to hit me. One day at a time, that's how I need to tackle it. I am worried about so much, what to do if my bike breaks, whether I can do this. But I think I just need to get to France and just start cycling and it will get better. One thing to get right, to avoid my usual negative thought patterns and reverting to getting angry about everything. Reread an article about a woman who did the same trip and how all her worries left her as she progressed though the journey. I wonder if it will be the same for me. I had read it before, but now I noticed she was promoting a book she had written about the experience. Thankfully the music switched off as darkness fell and one thing I have noticed; campsites, so far at least, have nice people with good intentions.

AND I’M OFF!!! Wow, I have never felt so pumped to finally get on the road. And what a day to set off on my awfully big adventure. Big bright blue cloudless skies, a perfect London summer’s morning. So happy that some of my neighbours got up to wave me off, quite a big ask given that I left around 7.00AM, but it gave me even more of a boost, as if I wasn’t excited enough. What kinds of things await me? Who will I meet? What adventures will occur and what memories will I create? I intend to enjoy every single second of this wonderful journey, embrace the good, the bad and whatever lies in between. When you type London into Google Maps, the pin drops directly onto the statue of Charles I in Trafalgar Square. This is the dead centre of London, the point at which all distances to and from the capital are measured from and that seemed to me to be a pretty good place to start my trip. Likewise, Hagia Sofia, the famed mosque in Istanbul that served as a centre of religious, political, and artistic life for the Byzantine world and often described as the 8th wonder of the world similarly seemed like a pretty good place to finish. Ah, Istanbul. Constantinople. It all sounds so completely exotic, romantic, historic, mysterious and downright thrilling. I hope I do actually make it there and that nothing too 'Covidy' stops me. Augusto came with me down to Trafalgar Square where we had a Pret a Manger breakfast of coffee and croissants and I pinched fistfuls of salt and pepper sachets which I figured would be useful for cooking. Given the amount I have spent at Pret over the years, I figured it would be OK. Took some great photos as well, my plan is to take exactly the same shot outside Hagia Sofia, same pose, same clothes but probably carrying a few less kilos and maybe not with quite such an alabaster skin tone. Bit of a shaky start from home, as it was the first time I had tried cycling with fully loaded panniers, but it was OK and felt confident I would get the hang of it soon. One thing I hadn’t figured on was that my Wahoo holder didn’t fit on the handlebar with the bag hanging off the front. The place I had tried putting it kept interfering with my gears and by the time I got to Trafalgar Square, it was obvious I had to take it off. I tried putting it in the clear plastic section of my upper frame bag, but it kept sliding around and impossible to use as a sat nav. I just kept put it into the front side pocket of my upper frame bag within easy reach to remove and refer to, and thought I would figure something out later. One final photo, a final goodbye to Augusto and off I went down Northumberland Avenue to the Thames and then east towards Kent. It felt a significant moment, not least as it would be the longest that I had been apart from Augusto for over 25 years. However the significance of the moment was punctured when I got as far as Blackfriars Bridge, about 8 minutes away, and realised I had forgotten to press start on the Wahoo so I had to turn back to Trafalgar Square and start again. Ooops. By the time I had reached Deptford, I was noticing some derailleur issues. I had serviced my bike at Balfe’s a couple of weeks before my fateful decision to take this trip and perhaps I should have made a final check before setting off as I had gone on some rides with my cycle group that had involved some heavy gear changing and muddy paths in the time preceding this departure. I found a couple of bike shops; the first guys solution was to add WD40 to everything which was not ideal. The second guy fiddled about and seemed to do the trick. The journey out of London was as awful as expected. I had opted for a scenic route via the Rainham marshes which had that rotten egg smell you get from seaweed, not unpleasant and I suspect more pungent than normal due to the heat of the afternoon. My Wahoo was bringing me to all sorts of odd paths, including crossing a golf course (the players were all very cheery as I walked my bike along, looking utterly incongruous), having to haul my bike over stiles which involved me removing my bags and then putting them all back again – very tiresome. I got quite lost at one point and asked a passer by for some directions. She was keen to help, but her suggestion would have meant an impossible walk up the side of a field which, as far as I could make out, would take me miles in the opposite direction to where I intended. I politely said that might prove difficult, following it up with an explanation that I had to take care of my bike as I was setting off for Istanbul, and waited a little too smugly for an expected suitable approval type response from her. Her response was a motivational speech along the lines of ‘if you can do it, anyone can do it’ but delivered in the flattest, monotonic, expressionless way that it really made me chuckle. She was such a lovely lady, well-intentioned but completely unconvincing as an inspirational coach. I was heading for Painters Farm Campsite near Faversham, which normally should only take 5 hours or so but given my various issues, was taking much longer and I was conscious of it getting quite late. In the end, I just took the A2 which got me there in super quick time and I set about putting up my tent. Pleased to say it took only a few minutes and the owners were impressed at my quest. Unfortunately, I had neglected to make a booking for the local pub, and try as hard as I may, I couldn’t get a space. I was ravenous, but had to make do with pot noodle which I had packed as an emergency backup. But I had made it in one tired, exhausted piece. My tent was up and even though I was hungry, I was still happy and loving that feeling when you are out of your comfort zone. Bring It On!

Am I ready? Probably not, I mean I haven’t tried packing anything up yet and it would probably be sensible to take a fully loaded test cycle before leaving, but then again whatever I bring is what I will need so I may as well just get on with it. However, one more day does mean time for more stuff. I have come across a fantastic collapsible frying pan / saucepan / kettle set which looks awesome. It all folds down to the width of a tube of toothpaste but the pans are pretty big when everything expanded; I just hope that all my meals won’t taste of the silicon/rubbery material that the pots are made of. I shoot down to good old Cotswold Outdoors and get it along with a pair of lightweight trekking trainers as I’ll need something in addition to my mountain bike shoes. I flirt with the idea of getting some maps, old school paper style rather than just relying on google maps but decide to just work that out on the way. Truth be told, I should probably be spending more time on looking at the actual route rather than just buying stuff for it but over the years I have come to the realise that the best approach is to have a general idea of where I want to go, but not plan more than a couple of days in advance. It rarely works out as planned and anyway and the EuroVelo route system does look pretty comprehensive so all I am going to think about is getting onto the EV6 for the moment, and for that I need to get to Besançon, which hold the accolades of being both the watchmaking capital of France and its greenest city. One thing I discovered was a great website for planning cycle routes in France, called France Velo Tourisme . You just put in the start and end point and it calculates the route for you. I decided to take the ferry from Dover to Calais, partly because that was the route taken by Lauren Pears in the blog that had originally prompted me to take this trip and partly because I was used to taking that route over the years when on holidays to France and school trips etc. I had wanted to take the EuroVelo 15 from Rotterdam and follow the Rhine down through the Netherlands and Germany but at the time, restrictions due to Covid made that impractical. With hindsight, it may have been preferable to go from Newhaven to Dieppe following the Avenue Verte to Paris and on from there which would be more scenic. I would be taking my Wahoo Elemnt Bolt as I could load up my routes and use that. Simple, right? Wrong, it just doesn’t work out like that when you are en route but at least I could use it to record stats on my actual route and upload that to Strava to impress and astound my mates. And if it isn’t on Strava, then it didn’t happen. I had also heard of a great app called Polar Steps which used minimal battery, records your route as you cycle along and you could upload phots to it as you went, sharing the journey with anyone who was interested. Turns out this was one of the best decisions and I would thoroughly recommend downloading it. You can even turn your final trip into a book, which I never did but it sounds neat. Oh, and another recommendation would be to get yourself a Revolut card, load it up with cash and use that to pay for stuff. It doesn’t have any charges on it, which makes a big deal when you are out on the road. So that was pretty much it. All I needed to do was go get my PCR test, pack up my bike and go enjoy my last evening with my partner and neighbours.

Booked the PCR test for tomorrow. Results 24 hours later and valid for 3 days, so that means I will absolutely be in France by Monday, but probably before. Looks like it will only take a couple of days max to get to Dover. All feelings of overwhelm have gone and am now just itching to go and super excited. From reading the blog to starting en route, 10 days. Would have been nice to have done it within a week, it just appeals to me. But hey, I am doing it. Told a few more people now, mainly my neighbours who want to give me a send off the night before. Still stuff to buy and send back, including my original tent that just arrived. Off to Balfe’s to buy some lights, a pump, inner tubes and a really cool and expensive multi tool gadget useful for all sorts of repairs. Barry also gave me an emergency kit of stuff I may need. No idea what to do with any of the bits and pieces but as he pointed out, if something goes wrong, you can always look it up on YouTube, but you’ll need the pieces – so now you have them. My bike is an own brand from Evans Cycles, a Pinnacle Neon. It’s a hybrid which I had bought for about £650 a few years ago when I decided to cycle from Lands End to John O’Groats. I bought it to replace my previous Giant model which had been forged from steel, held together with rivets and topped with a big bouncy saddle - or at least that’s how I remember it. Still, that baby got me all the way to the Hague via some WW I battlefields back in 2016. On that trip, I had originally planned to cycle to Amsterdam in a week but the whole trip turned out to be a catalogue of disasters, starting off with the wrong train to Dover, then being physically attacked and shat on by vicious seagulls when I was forced to cycle past within a hairs breadth of their nesting sites as I left the ferry at Dieppe (which was nowhere near Dieppe), mistakenly turning onto autoroutes in torrential rain with huge lorries either honking, missing me by millimetres or both, unending torrential rain every day after that, a puncture far from any town centre in the middle of a downpour with no possibility of repairing it anyway as I had not innertubes etc, accommodation not being available as I turned up sodden after walking for a couple of hours with my broken bike even though I had booked and finally, waking up in The Hague to the news that Britain had left the EU. I had forked out for the poshest suite at the Park Plaza Vondelpark in Amsterdam for a couple of nights at the scheduled end, to celebrate what would have been my first ever proper cycle trip, but the EU result was the final straw in that shitstorm of a week, so I just wanted to get home ASAP and there was a ferry from the Hague with my name on it leaving that morning. I have to say though, the one thing that was never a problem on that trip was my actual bicycle itself; I just got on with it as I didn’t know any better. It’s only when you take up cycling on a more regular basis and learn about cycles do you realise what a Heffalump that old banger of a bike was, loaded down as it was with overstuffed panniers and extra heavy-duty locks. True, there were few hills to negotiate on that short trip, but still… There’s a lesson in there somewhere, something along the lines of ignoring naysayers and doom merchants who tell you things are impossible and just ploughing ahead regardless.

This feels just like Christmas with packages being delivered daily. Today’s haul included an inflatable mattress, a set of saucepans, travel adaptor, camping mug and extremely hefty battery, or power bank to use its correct name on Amazon anyway, merino wool t-shirt and a cargo net. What’s not to love. Still haven’t made my mind up about the camping stove though, this issue is becoming all consuming. The whole Covid thing is annoying and hard to get my head around. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure about how far I would get on a trip to Istanbul given the restrictions on travel so have decided to keep an open mind, aim in the general direction and let’s see how it goes. I figured the borders would be pretty easy in the first half of the trip but wasn’t sure about the latter half. I have come across so many conflicting reports and at one point, it seemed that Hungary was going to be a game changer as they seemed to be very hot on checks. But the more I thought about it, the more I figured that once you are actually there, there is always going to be a way to sort it out. In fact, I was looking forward to these kinds of uncertainties, sorting out what and where to go and anyway, my friend Anna lives in Greece and that could be a pretty good option for a final destination too. Impossible to keep track of what is going on with regards regulations here in the UK, let along the 15 or so countries I would be visiting along the way. At least I had both my jabs and had downloaded the NHS app with my digital certificate on it. However I did need to get out of the England in the first place and that would presumably require a PCR test and for that, I would turn to my BFF Marina. She and her man Tom had bought a place over near Dieppe just before the Covid catastrophe crash, which was pretty unfortunate timing. But they had managed to finally get over there a few days ago and so would have been all up on what was required test wise. Although they live in Brighton, Marina was coming up to London for the day so we have decided to meet in Green Park, hire a couple of deckchairs and crack open some cans. It was a gorgeous summer afternoon, sun high and hot and one of those times where you feel totally free as you kick back with your bestie, knowing that no topic or subject is out of bounds and roar with laughter for the entire afternoon. I figured as I would be super healthy in the upcoming few months, I bought some cigarettes too. Since when did they cost £14 a packet? How does anyone even afford to smoke anymore? Turns out you just need to have a negative PCR test result to show at Border Control and that was pretty much it, easy-peasy. At least I now understand about the various colours of country and what that means in practice, which right now would exclude Istanbul as it was not a destination to fly out of, being a red country and all. But it would be months before I ever got there, if indeed I ever did without some black swan event occurred to restrict travel entirely. The one thing that doesn’t concern me at all is actually getting Covid. I am pretty sure I have had it way back before it was such a thing (I’m talking January 2020), I survived, am as vaccinated as any man can be and enjoy the benefit of super human genetics in terms of never getting ill, so I figure that I will be fine. Good positive mental attitude will see you through, well that and the vaccines. Oh, and Marina cut to the heart of the issue with regards the stove. ‘You can’t cook for fuck James, just eat out – it’s going to be so cheap in East Europe anyway, right?’ That’s what friends are for.

Today my Ortleib bags arrived, including the 7-litre handlebar bag which didn’t come with the clear plastic cover that the 5-litre version did, which I figured was important for displaying maps or guide books. Don’t know why, but this caused a disproportionate amount of overthinking, so I decided to order the smaller one as well and see which was best, although Barry - or was it Maciej from Cotswold Outdoors - had said that larger was more important than any clear cover and you could always improvise some kind of clear front cover. These bags are dope, really do look indestructible and importantly, waterproof. They cost a bomb, but worth it. I got the whole set in yellow, which looked great on my black bike. I realised I needed to get the mounting set for the handlebar bag, and there were a couple of versions to choose from, one with a mounting lock and one without. They were on sale at Condor Cycles so decided to shoot over there, find out which was better and pick one up. Of course, it isn’t possible to go to a brand-new cycle shop with so much kit and not buy more stuff. I normally buy online at Wiggle but seeing mountains of merchandise in front of your eyes is a temptation too far. First thing I wanted was a cycle cap, the small peaked hat that fits under your helmet. I asked the sales guy why people wear caps, to which he replied that they act as a sun shield , although he agreed that most people buy them for the same reason as I as doing, which was to appear more professional and generally lit. Have to admit, I had been a bit resistant to them because they presumably prevent ventilation from the holes in the helmet during hot weather and I was expecting a lot of that. However, I later realised that they were a fantastic way to keep the combined mixture of sweat and sun cream from dripping down your face as you cycle, and for that reason alone, I would heartily recommend. And they do look good; a damn site better than looking at the ugly old lump of moulded polystyrene foam at the front of the helmet; I plumped for a black and white geometric kind of design. But hey, if a cycle cap, why not a new helmet. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I had bought a new one but certain it was beyond any time span that could be considered safe. I remember being told once that the key difference between a cheap and expensive helmet was the number of ventilation holes (hence, why buy a cap?) but now that I look, the overall shape certainly plays a major factor. In the end, I plumped for a £70 Specialized model that had this yellow lining which I found out was a new (for me, at any rate) safety feature called Multi-directional Impact Protection System or MIPS for short. Basically, it means the inside shell of the helmet can rotate to absorb the kind of impact that can really mess with your brain when you crash. Who knew? There was also a sticker with the letters around the back with the letters ANGi, which I later found out was some kind of sensor you could buy that sends an alert to someone when you have a crash. Not for me, apart from the additional cost, I can just see me dropping my helmet, forgetting to switch off an alert and loved ones the other side of the planet getting all hyped up about a non-existent accident. One thing that I have started to enjoy is telling sales guys (I have yet to come across a female sales assistant) that I will be cycling to Istanbul. I have decided not to tell my friends until it comes up in conversation. I like the idea of slipping away, no social media, no fuss. This will be a big adventure and it will be my big adventure. But sales assistants are different and I confess that I am really getting to like the look of respect that my upcoming quest generates. This particular sales guy was keen on audaxes, which are long distance endurance events. He had cycled from Belgium to Greece in a ridiculously short amount to time, explaining that he didn’t really sleep very much and he didn’t need a tent as he just used to pass out near a roadside for a couple of hours before he got back on it. Each to his own. So, I left Condor Cycles feeling very satisfied with my little haul, which also the lockable version of the mounting set for my handlebar bag. IMHO, don’t bother with the lockable model – at least if you live in London. If someone wants to pinch your handlebar bag, I can’t see the lock on the mount doing anything to really stop them. The regular unlockable version is fine.

Started off the day putting up the tent again in the gardens opposite my flat and realised that not only am 2 pegs short of a full set, but the gardens opposite my flat are also essentially a dog toilet. Disgusting, why don't owners just pick up their mess? Anyway, the erection took time but I eventually got there, which is all I ask at this stage. And yes, it looked like a tent. So, today was all about buying an inflatable mattress, tent pegs, a stove and a trek tarpaulin, which is like a kind of patio conversion for a tent to increase the amount of covered space outside and particularly useful when it rains. I thought I would match that with another piece of tarpaulin for the ground and maybe cover that with a thin sarong to give my ‘patio’ a more homely feel. A tarpaulin outside the tent is also super useful for when you arrive at your camping spot for the night and need somewhere dry to unload all your gear before putting up your tent as well as additional space to take off dirty footwear and help keep the inside of the tent as 5-star as possible. Just make sure it is the last thing you pack so it can be the first thing you unload. Brilliant Barry from Balfes taught me that. I already had a couple of sleeping bags at home, and I’ve never remembered how I actually came about owning or purchasing them. One of them turned out to be on the threadbare side of flimsy but the other one still seemed to have some life to it. I also picked up my new cycling gloves and a magic rucksack that compacts down into a miniscule ball from my local Amazon collection point, yet another winning practical suggestion recommended by Barry that would prove useful when supermarket shopping or bringing stuff to a laundry. At least that was the plan. Then thoughts turn to clothing. I figured a couple of t shirts, a couple of cycle shorts, one pair of lightweight trousers, one short sleeved t-shirt, my trusty black fleece that I have owned for at least 15 years and has been everywhere with me, as well as a waterproof cycling top should suffice. It was going to be summer after all, and I would be chasing the heat as I headed down the continent. Along with a couple of pairs of pants and socks, naturellement. If there is one thing I have picked up from my pre-pandemic Camino de Santiago walk and indeed all my travels thus far, it is to pack light and with a healthy disregard for the fashion police. However, it doesn't mean I have to completely drop my standards and decided a light grey colour combo for shirt, trousers and fleece would be practical, ideal and good enough for a jaunt to the opera in Vienna or Budapest. A trip to Marks and Sparks as they always seem to do something technically wonderful with fabrics and they didn't disappoint with their crinkle resistant cotton. I figured that it was important to bring a non-cycling outfit as I intend to take lots of rest days in awesome locations and the idea of lycra for 3 whole months doesn’t bear thinking about. Oh, I also got myself some stretchy comfort shorts with an elasticated waistband (like I say, ignore the fashion police) for the evenings. I also figured I can buy stuff as I go along. Feeling pretty pleased with myself atm.

Started off the day feeling overwhelmed at the upcoming ride, the organisation, the motivation to sort it out, put one foot in front of the other, just get anything done. All seems too much, but all I have to do is put a list down of To Do items and stick to it. Breakfast was all about bread and cheese, and then I sat down to map out the first part of my route through France to the point where I join Eurovelo 6 at Besançon. I like the idea of travelling via Rotterdam but it requires quarantine etc, so France it is. Again, I felt better as I actually did something. I know it to be true, but when you are stuck in the headlights, then it is better to just do something small to move on. Next stop, High St Kensington to look at camping stoves. I am a bit worried about this part, as I haven’t a clue how to cook on them, what to cook or indeed how to camp. I mean I know it's not impossible as people camp all the time, but still on top of everything else it seems a bit of a ball-ache. Oh no, here comes another wave of indecision and overwhelm as I navigate the minefield of cookers. Options include very expensive dual fuel cookers (£155) vs pocket rockets at £35. But some blogs say how hard it is to find gas canisters in Eastern Europe. Oh God, just so confusing. So I call up Cotswold Outdoors in Covent Garden to check there is an experienced sales person there and there is, so down I go. Sunny and warm. Joy of Joy, when I go downstairs and I meet Maciej. What a guy! He cycles all over the world, although the longest he has done is about 3 months. He brings his 2-year-old with him and has been all over South America. He knows EVERYTHING and being in his presence is so calming. I just love this guy and with every word, my mood lifts. (Aware of how neurotic I am sounding here, I wonder if I will be the same at the end of my trip?). I decided to just buy the pocket rocket along with a 2 litre water bladder and be done with it. I came home, making a mental note to go spend and hour with him on his next day back with a list of questions. Come home, still wondering about the dual fuel stove, which has an even more expensive but easier to use model in store than was recommended in the blog I was watching. I decided to go and speak with my seasoned camper / traveller neighbours of their experiences with cooking whilst camping, and turns out they have an amazing tent I can borrow. It is an MSR Elixir 2, perfect as the info I had read said that it was important to get a two man tent as the extra weight was so worth the additional space it gives. So happy, it was meant to be. That'll save a couple of hundred. I spend the next hour trying it out, erecting it out in the gardens and will do it a couple more times over the next week or so, just to make sure I have it down pat. Along with the inflatable mattress, I can get a deposit back and so have decided to spend the £££ on the upgraded stove.

I cycle a lot and had only just got my bike serviced at Balfe's Bikes in Notting Hill. I had purchased my bike from Evans Cycles in Kings Cross due in large part to the awesome advice and service from the manager there, Barry. As luck would have it, Barry had moved over to Balfe's when Evans went into administration and I remembered that he went on quite a few cycle tours himself, so thought I would shoot over and pick his brains on all aspects of cycle touring. After about an hour, I came away with a list of items I would need to buy; with each item, the idea of my trip became more real. The whole subject of kit is a bit of a nightmare, tbh. A lot of blogs start off saying that you need to find the kit that suits you as everyone is different. Which doesn't really help a complete newbie now does it? I mean, I have to start somewhere right. One thing for sure is that I will need panniers, handlebar bags and maybe some frame bags whilst I'm at it. The overwhelming consensus seems to be that the brand Ortleib are the way to go. Almost everything I read comes back to them, so I go ahead and order a complete set of everything. Good God, they are expensive. Gulp. Still not exactly sure of the route though. I have been checking out some YouTube videos and liked the idea of following both the Rhine and the Danube to the Black Sea, chucking a right and heading down it's coast to Istanbul. However Covid is a big factor, so gonna have to be flexible.