It was a messy start to my few days with my uncle in Dublin. Firstly the Airport bus broke down half way to Dublin. The driver simply yelled for everyone to get off, muttered health and safety and find yer own way to town. After numerous attempts to hail a taxi I lucked in when Mr. Singh wandered out of the Indian takeaway and into his empty taxi. Are you taking passengers I asked. I’ve finished for the day but if you can tolerate my dinner on the front seat I’ll take you.” So from being up a creek without a paddle I was back in the race. Twenty minutes later I walked into O’Connells bar in Portobello to find my auntie and her brother waiting for me with a foaming Guinness still settling on the bar. Now that’s a real Irish welcoming. The night continued back at their place with various drink, numerous plates of food and tall stories. 

         At 10pm just as I was starting to feel both relaxed and tired, my uncle announced “ You know, wouldn’t it be a good idea to go to the cabin (way out in the middle of Ireland) on the first bus tomorrow morning. I think it goes at 5.30am.” As his words penetrated my thick skull I went from warm and fuzzy to dead cold sober. I quickly helped clear the table, dried some dishes and climbed the stairs to bed. It wasn’t a joke either, a few hours later I awoke in darkness to banging and crashing as packing got underway downstairs. Sure enough my uncle left at 5.30am using public transport. A city bus, train and a wee country bus had him arrive in Offaly just as Barb and I arrived with a van loaded with food and tools. 

              My auntie has been coming to Bloomville in Offaly for over thirty years. She was first lured to come and plant trees here with others before eventually gaining her own piece of the estate. The principal purpose of which is to regenerate this barren farmland into a sprawling forest. The transformation is inspirational. A meandering walk showcases the various sections of new forest at two, five, ten and twenty years. It is amazing what can be attained with belief and a vision for the future. Suitably inspired we returned and took up tools. Steady toil in repairing guttering on the simple cabin they sleep in and hacking back the overgrown access path leading back to the shed and main road. The sun came out and I found myself bent and chomping away with a set of garden shears. At dusk there was clear evidence that man had conquered nature and reestablished a wide access path to the cabin. 

            We plonked ourselves down in chairs around a small fire which Barb had started. Graham had cooked a pan of juicy sausages slipped into brioche buns and dessert was pieces of chocolate and cups of tea. Simple food in fresh air by work weary bodies. We stared at the fire, occasionally someone would get up and throw a bit more wood on. But as darkness came I slunk back along the now wider path to a bed in the van, I didn’t move a muscle till I was awoken to rain tapping on the combi’s roof. Nothing like being all toasty with the sound of rain outside. 

London, U.K

           I had great expectations for my time in London. My partner in crime for the last few years has been Rosie of Biggleswade. We met in India with others and her ‘up for anything without knowing a lot’ attitude has made her my first choice to experience all of the wonders of England. There’s been West End theatre shows, galleries, National Trust openings, Premier league football and Cambridge culture. So a broad pallet. I had booked matinee tickets for the dance space at ABBA voyage followed by Tina (Turner) final show tickets for the evening. 

          We arrived at Pudding Mill Lane train station (true and imaginative name) to sequins, feather boas, tight shimmering satin flairs and kgs of glitter enhanced faces. Should I mention the demographic was as broad as you’ll ever see, Grandmothers to grandchildren. Seventy five year olds dressed up like Christmas trees singing and swaying, all inhibitions left at home. 

        There was a feeling of pure joy in the air and it stayed there till the final song. It’s a digital version of ABBA, using virtual avatars which with a twist of language have been dubbed Abbatars. It is slick, futuristic and amazingly lifelike. All 3000 punters came for a good time, everyone got right into it and with so many hit songs sang loudly and proudly in their best Eurovision voices.

         We spilled shading our eyes into the late afternoon sun. So what happens when 3000 elderly ABBA concert goers meet a throng of West Ham football fans spilling off the nearby train just before kickoff ? They politely wait that’s what. It was hilarious to watch these two very different cultures literally colliding. So we forget the bellowing West Ham supporters and make our way into the West End to see Tina (Turner) the musical. It was the final night of an eight year season. The cast and much of the audience were in party mode. It was certainly a boisterous crowd and at every chance stood cheering or singing and swaying to the powerful voice of Tina Turner. 

       Tina did her curtain bow and we immediately shot out of our seats to catch the last train back towards Cambridge. The tube which had been on strike all week was kind of working but the National rail heading further North was either delayed or cancelled. So it was on the cusp of midnight when a train finally carried us the last miles to Biggleswade. By now my new shoes were biting at my ankles and I was walking like I couldn’t find a toilet. A sad sight indeed. 

      The following day was slow and suited a cultural experience. After a walk along the sluggish Great Oust river we arrived at the nearby Willington Dovecote which is opened one day per month throughout the Summer. It’s a 16th century stone loft, built for the breeding of 1500 doves or pigeons. We were met by a crusty knowledgeable old boy swinging a giant key from his wrist like the local jailer. Bent double we followed him into a miniature hotel with 700 tiny rooms each fitting a pair plus their brood. High above our heads there were two entry points and then it was up to each pigeon to find a vacant room. It was an extraordinary build. The irony was the original owner only offered the pigeon meat to his wealthy friends whilst every day the pigeons gorged themselves stupid on the nearby farmers crops. 

Pigeon loft at Willington. U.K

          And then it was back to Karlsruhe and a few lazy days of peddling around the nearby Black forest or weaving through the vast farmland now stripped of summer crops. Each night Troudl would prepare legendary meals and Gerd would expect me to drink large glasses of wheat beer because that was the tradition. And how could I break these long held, much loved traditions. 

          The following day I was up before the alarm, this only happens when I am starting an adventure. I crept downstairs like a ninja and ate my muesli in silence, packed the last of my bags onto the bicycle and was about to push off when my hosts arrived to wish me a safe journey. How lucky am I ?

          The intercity train arrived in Karlsruhe bang on time, like they used to and we pulled into the bustle of Milan, Italy seven hours later, just before 4pm. My bike had sat quietly in one of four bicycle slots, fully loaded, so I was quickly away. Initially unnerved by the chaotic, apparent no rules system of Milan it took me only ten minutes to decide when in Italy throw the rule book out and proceed with caution but little care.    

           My only concern was that I needed to reach my hotel sixty klms away before dark. Not impossible but tight. The route found every bicycle path to the countryside and I found myself on one of the long channel paths which apt me out in pure country. Waving fields of Arborio rice. Soon to be harvested and hopefully to be enjoyed later when I return to Milan. The Milanese take great pride in their staple dish of creamy, nutty, rich risotto. At 7pm I rolled to a stop outside my hotel in a small town near Pavia. 

          I was up early the following morning and away before the schools rang their bell. My destination the Port city of Genoa but before I get there I need to climb a mountain range which is thankfully gradual but unrelenting. It takes me a few hours under a baking sun and then I’ve reached the summit and I can see the glistening coast twenty five kms away. It’s a sharper descent than my grinding climb to the summit and my hands squeeze on the brakes till they are numb. The final kms aren’t strenuous, they are just nerve wracking with bullying buses, abandoned style parking,motor bikes in the cycle lane and a total disregard for traffic lights. But I can smell the sea, I’m close. 

        My BnB is across the road from the port and my morning ferry to Bastia, Corsica. But first is the surprise that my small hotel is on the third floor. I somehow navigate my way up to a beautiful petite set of rooms but the stairs play heavy on my mind. I will need to navigate them tomorrow at 6am, the chance of the lift leaving me stranded alone wasn’t even contemplated. I slept like a log which was a surprise considering the regular passenger and freight trains passing nearby but the double glazing did its job. 

            

             

 And so the cycling in Corsica and Sardinia begins. It was always to be the cornerstone of my cycling on this trip in Europe. I love Europe, the big cities with their iconic landmarks, statues and hard edged bustle. But I too live in a big city. So I find myself drawn to the less frenetic, the small towns, the tiny taverna with family serving or a bar with whiskery old men seeing out their days. That’s what I truly love. From what I could glean I came to the conclusion that Corsica and Sardinia would fit my dreams perfectly.

                 I chose the West coast of both islands. The biggest decision is trying to correctly calculate the distance I can ride on my loaded donkey each day. Especially when the words scenic, panoramic and breathtaking are all associated with Corsica and Sardinia’s mountainous terrain. Rarely does one say a long flat road made their heart flutter, and so it was. I found myself spinning furiously uphill within ten minutes of leaving the Port city of Bastia. Bastia has an imposing fortress facing the ocean which has held off intruders for centuries. Today it seemed to be holding me back. Sunday morning Church bells rang, hunters popped off shells in the nearby hills and I pushed along. I found myself alone and sweating profusely in the early morning heat yet I’d barely left the confines of town. Being Sunday no shops were open, there was no easy water available. I warily filled my bottles at springs in towns too parched to care. It took three hours of this tortoise pace until I crossed the first mountain range and suddenly I felt the coastal breeze on my face drying the sweat. I wind my way joyfully to the seaside town of Calvi. 

               The following days take on a rhythmic way. The seaside towns are obviously at water level which means I roll in, great. But every single day starts with a gut busting climb up and out to cross another mountain. Corsica is just a massive rock protruding from the Mediterranean Sea and it must have been difficult to even cut a road through the costal mountains. Each day the road has narrowed like they had run out of energy to keep going.

              Rocky narrow roads in Corsica.

               On the road  between Calvi and Sagone I find myself facing a bus which literally takes up every bit of the road. I cower with my bike jammed into a precipice type lookout as the bus inches past. The driver stares blankly ahead, he must have nerves of steel or has given up caring. Add that to the herds of bell clanging goats and sheep with ragged coats trying to find something to eat between the harsh crumbing rock and the sea. It’s a harsh environment. Yes it’s difficult riding but the scenery is spectacular, the sweeping curves, tight squeezes and generally good road surfaces make it a joy for a cyclist. These conditions are also a joy to many elderly Swiss classic car enthusiasts and hungry German motorbikers eating up the road but somehow we share the experience if not the tranquility. 

Sardinia

         ravioli with mushrooms.

               Ah yes the riding is always great but the true highlights usually come off the bike. I have an affection for mid morning expresso maybe with a cream filled cornetti ( this riding is energy sapping) propped at a metal table looking into a square or slow moving traffic. It seems that old Italy likes the same. Today I stumbled upon a dinky cafe with half a dozen table occupied by the unoccupied. There they all were, discussing and appraising the goings on in the town and everyone else’s business. I ordered my expresso at the bar and hopefully a cornetti. 

              The barman returned with bad news, he had ducked across the road to the nearby pastry shop only to find they were sold out. He shrugged in that theatrical Italian way. Maybe a bambino pizza ? It was 11am… maybe not. I looked around me, I’m the only other drinking coffee, the locals were all at various stages of downing their first birre of the day. Not in a hurry mind you for they had nothing to do, nowhere to go, only gossip to inhale. I decided on a cappuccino hoping the sweetness might fulfil my sugary urge and I had 100 kms to ride. The locals looked on in disdain at my frothy drink. I felt their eyes on me as I paid my few coins and remounted my bike, I hadn’t cut it today maybe tomorrow ?

           Before I know it I am in Cagliari. The riding in Sardinia has been less intense than Corsica, certainly less dramatic on the West coast but maybe I have regained some fitness and don’t notice the undulations so much. Whatever, I am overjoyed when I get two nights in the one hotel. A rest day ! My room is above a row of lively restaurants in a narrow cobbled laneway. I will confess to eating out every day within ten metres of my front door. Breakfast was twenty metres away and when the waitress said see you tomorrow I knew I would be back. The muesli breakfast and large bowl of cappuccino seemed to be resparking my energy levels after a week of over-sweet cakes and breakfast foods. I was preparing myself for the city part of the holiday in Rome and Milan. A ferry will take me overnight, an overnight ferry always conjures old world travel to me.

                The ferry to Civitavecchia was an unexpected highlight. Again I find myself in a holding pattern with  my bike, a handful of foot passengers and three German gravel riders. We discuss all things touring, and run a critical eye over each other’s bicycles. They are geared very much for riding cross country on rough paths whilst I am looking for smooth tarmac. It turns out they all went to kindergarten together and have stayed in touch their whole lives hiking the German mountains until sore knees and a hip replacement forced them to turn to the bikes. The largest guy having only mentioned that his bike, like mine is titanium mumbled that his hip replacement is also titanium. We laugh and then another mentions he could use the hip for spare parts. Jokes in foreign tongues aren’t so easy and are often lost in translation.

                          Up in the communal area of the ferry travellers are building small camps and spreading prepared parcels of food picnic style. There is no way the ship is going to supply the type of food that these older Italians are so proud of. I sip on a beer taking it all in. A group next to me turn and offer a large container of sandwiches. It’s a firm and sincere offer. I take one, the woman’s eyes tell me to take another as if it is an insult to her renown cooking to only take one. They are delicious and you can see the pride swell in the lady who has made them. They are visiting Assisi for a religious festival of Saint Francis. It is also one of their groups name and birthday. The group break into song to celebrate Franco’s (Saint Francis) birthday he beams his broad, warm smile and the room erupts in joy for him. 

                    I head up to my cabin and lay feeling the steady rumble of the ship as it motors towards the mainland. A slight swell has begun, not enough to upset me but a sign that we are actually at sea. I give in to the steady rocking and sleep like a baby. By morning the sea is as flat as a pancake and I shower excited to be close to Rome. An hour by train from the port and I will be in the middle of the tourist madness which is Rome. It was exactly as I expected, a throng of humanity all wanting to tick off at least three Roman must sees and then a face plant in a real Italian gelato. I escaped to my hotel room and waited for darkness and some respite before venturing out to see my favourite building in Rome, the Pantheon.

                The magnificent Pantheon.

                  Whilst the revellers were sleeping off their Saturday night pizza and nightcap of lemonchello I navigated my way to Piazza Della Repubblica and a 9am arrangement to ride shotgun on a Vespa through the still quiet streets of Rome. Jeanlucca was my driver and navigator. Our group were a swarm of buzzing vespas plus sidecars spluttered their way up and down cobbled laneways to the pure joy of early morning walkers. You found yourself waving as pedestrians stopped and gawked. The guide’s voice was crackling away in my ear via an antiquated two way radio. She had said earlier that we would all become celebrities for a morning and here it was ! 

                As my pale olive Vespa turned each corner I would catch a glimpse of another historic or recognisable monument and inwardly gasp. Rome like Paris and London has more than its fair share of the iconic. Being Sunday morning there was also the bells in the too many churches appealing for parishioners. And smothering all of that cacophony was the constant wail of a distant ambulance pleading with its siren for a gap in the traffic. Yes our group had ticked off all of the big tickets but for me it was the general feeling of unadulterated fun. Fun that extended way beyond the vespas. It ignited something in the people we passed who mostly turned as one and openly smiled. 

   The Vespa sidecar tour in Rome.

                I ate something bad… real bad. I am still unsure what it was. It left my insides wrung out and me weak. I lost a full night and spent the next days slowly recovering. 

                  Time to leave Rome and my last stop is Milan before I pack the bike and head to Karlsruhe. I’m up early as the fast trains don’t take complete bicycles. I’ve carried a Japanese travel bag for three weeks for just this purpose but it’s still a pain to disassemble the bike amongst the bustle of busy Rome central station. I lug the bike with my bag of everything else on my back to platform 5 as soon as the previous train has disappeared and wait. And wait. Gee that’s funny I expected others by now ? It still didn’t click…  in all my years I have never heard one audible announcement on a station P.A system but today I did, loud and clear. “Train No 3758 to Milano leaving now.” They’d made a late change of platforms.

                      I stood and ran, but to where, my eyes darted to the rolling departure board. Thankfully I spotted it immediately, Platform 2. I was off lurching through thousands of bewildered commuters. I reached the train with not another person on the platform, the guards hanging from the last door blocking any easy access. I ran past them and threw my bike and myself into the next door. Behind me a loud hiss as the door closed and we immediately began to move. Phew.     

                     And then the hard work began with me working my way through four lurching carriages of 1st class businessmen and then the restaurant car before finding my seat and a spot to store the bike. I wiped my brow and tried to relax, it was three hours to Milan. At 1.30pm I rose with most others and made my way to the door. Out I staggered with the bike onto a long platform, an open platform to the sky. This isn’t Milan central I thought and as I turned to reboard the train pulled away. I was close, 13 minutes close to Milan central and about the exact amount of time the train was running late. 

                     Oh dear. The next hour was spent climbing up and down stairs as trains came and platform information changed. Finally I was aboard a local train for the last three stations. I waited for most to scurry off before finding a place to reassemble the bike. all was going well it was quiet except for a smoker showing interest and blowing fumes my way. As I lifted the rear wheel onto the bike the rear cassette exploded. Just as it had done a year ago. I scrambled to hold it intact and shove it back into the wheel. Somehow it fitted but it wasn’t working properly. I lifted my greasy hands into the air. Swearing silently in my best state school Italian. And yes Madonna was mentioned. I wheeled the bike to the hotel where the receptionist took it aside and placed it somewhere out of eyesight. 

                    I spent the next hour scrubbing away the days misadventures. You think that must be the worst of the day but no. When things turn against you they can spiral in an uncontrollable, sinister way. I had purchased a ticket to the Opera, La Scala, the world’s most prestigious opera house. Not really me but an experience, live performance in an iconic venue. I dressed and drew the ticket from my papers, check the address Jeff, I told myself and that is when my eyes fell in the date. The ticket was for last night. Last night when I was far away in Rome. I stumbled out into the street so annoyed with myself but at least my ticket had been cheapish with limited viewing, it could easily have been hundreds of Euros. I found a bar, the closest bar and sat out in the warm evening air, three beers later I’d had my fill and made peace with myself. The three beers and a Milan street scene almost matched the opera ticket price. Come quickly sleep, please. 

                        My final gasp was to revisit the Duomo cathedral in the centre of Milan. The Italians have a way of shielding their monuments till the last moment. I keep finding myself turning a corner and there it is… the Pantheon, the Colosseum. That is how it was as I climbed out of the Metro and suddenly before me the stark white and commanding size of the ornate Duomo cathedral souring up in front of me. I was one of thousands of tourists milling in the piazza. It took six hundred years of Italian labour to build it. Inside amongst the dominating columns supporting this cathedral my eye is drawn to the dancing, reflective sparkle from the nearby stained glass. It’s magical but I’m not drawn spiritually to the opulence. 

Inside the Duomo cathedral Milan.

                       Milan is where I stepped off to ride three weeks ago and today it is where I reconnect with a train which will whisk me back through tunnels to Karlsruhe. A final catch up with my friends, Gerd and Troudl who have been my European family and support for fifty years. And in the morning the long haul home which signals the end of another great adventure.