It’s a smooth flight out of Melbourne and I slowly settle in for the endurance that is long haul flying. But things change in Singapore when the plane with 500 passengers aboard begins to take off but then doesn’t. We wait an hour then are towed unceremoniously back to the airport. Exasperation fills the cabin but I take a deep sigh, it’s beyond my capabilities. I’ve tried running with my arms stretched out but my feet have never left the ground so I’ll leave it to the experts to sort out the problem. Eventually we are informed that we are not flying today and sent through customs out into steamy Singapore. 

                 Have you ever watched the Great race ? Five hundred passengers all trying to get taxis to their assigned hotels, a logistical, chaotic nightmare. We (my new found friends and I) plunder the hotel buffet and then head to bed but late in the night a message comes through on the hotel phone. Be in reception at 4.30am, somehow we all get there, bleary eyed but ready. Buses return us to the airport and we check in again. 

                I head to my seat and that is when I first realise I have left my new iPad on yesterday’s plane. In the rush to abandon ship I had left it next to the seat. My heart sank when the steward confirmed that this was a different A380 (where do you find a half $billion ‘spare’ plane overnight ?) I’m told half way to Frankfurt that the iPad has been found in the repair hanger and will be forwarded to me. So I arrive late on a smooth flying plane and that’s always good. I soon settle into German life thanks to my lifetime family in Karlsruhe. Days later as I pass through Frankfurt airport bound for Belfast I pick up my iPad. The pickup idea was good but the airport is huge and many, many calls were made before it was eventually tracked-down and handed over. An expensive loss averted. 

             So here I am in Belfast with a large cardboard box containing my bike and contradicting information on how to get to Derry. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I’m given confident but absolute rubbish advice from locals on the best way to Derry. Then finally the bus driver refuses me and my large box and points me towards the taxi rank. Once in Belfast I’m given more unhelpful advice but eventually manage  to untangle this local sport of misinformation. I sigh a deep breathe when I’m finally sitting on a bus to Derry. 

            A gaggle of women out for a Friday night hens party burst onto the bus at a stop half an hour from Derry. They have a plan. The two prettiest go first flirting with the driver and asking if they have to pay ? He waves them on, twenty others follow them aboard. The noise is equally deafening and grating as they scream and laugh in their strong Northern Irish accent. Their Caribbean fake tans seem out of place in a country that rarely sees the sun and it is currently raining heavily?  Eventually the bus arrives into Derry and the party girls all spill out. 

            I look around for a quiet, dry spot to assemble my bike. The area around the bus station is pretty rough (aren’t all bus terminals) and I need to keep an eye on my inquisitive new friends looking for something of interest. It’s cold, wet, windy and Friday night. As daylight fades I’m trying to stay unflustered or I’ll pay the price for not getting my bike setup right. Forty minutes later, tyres pumped and bike bags attached I leave the cardboard bike box and an old travel bag and push off. It’s still spitting and the showers stay with me for a while. Soon I leave the suburbs for quiet country roads but the cars are flying past in the open road. With the last daylight I roll into Moville and some longtime friends. So glad today is over, it’s stressful when you rely on so many forms of transport with a cumbersome bike box. Just me and my own wheels from here on plus a few ferry rides to get me back to Germany. 

                I do my share of sitting around in Moville, catching up on news and visiting McGuire’s pub in town. There is football on and the pub is full, I sit and observe, barely able to follow the conversation at times the accents are so broad. My friends own the pub and now have a manager running it. I watch, as the locals watch the owner wondering what he’s doing just sitting quietly in a nook of the heavily timbered bar. The Craic, laughter and calls as others arrive is a nice background to our afternoon. The football melts into the background.

                Soon enough I’m on my way with many long days to come. An Irish mist stays with me much of the first day. I’m on the first ferry from Greencastle to Magilligan Point in Northern Island. Past the empty IRA prison towards my ferry in Larne. The farm land is lush and the animals look healthy as I grab glimpses from between the hedgerows. Then the afternoon is over wilder country, The Antrim coast is sparse and rolling glens exposed to the coastal winds.  I roll into Larne, the smell of industry and salty seaport smells twitch at my nostrils. I stay at a hotel close to the ferry terminal for ease in the morning but the port runs 24/7 and my room stays flooded in light from the activity across the road. 

               I wake to howling winds, the whitecaps high on the water. I am early to the ferry and put my bike on the bus which travels with the ferry to Stranraer, Scotland. I go to sit in the lounge and watch the weather outside. I try to open the door onto the deck and almost lose my arm as the wind grabs it telling me to go back inside. I still have 130 kms to do when I arrive. It won’t happen. The ferry is late, causing me to miss any connecting bus which may have taken me on to Dumfries. Instead I wait for the local bus, I am barely finished asking if he will take me when he says one word “No” and the hydraulic doors hiss and close in my face.

              I shrug and start peddling into this energetic wind towards the town of Cairnryan. I arrive ten minutes before the next bus is due to Dumfries. “Will he take me ?” I ask an old guy waiting. “If he’s a good one” he replies shrugging his shoulders. The bus pulls in, I wait, the guy ahead in the queue turns and gives me the thumbs up and a door swings open underneath. I slide my bike in and jump aboard. We rock and roll for two hours through the countryside before he drops me near a hospital. I have an hour of cycling to my hotel tucked up in the nearby forest. I’ve made it, a few times today I doubted how it would pan out. I should have more faith but I knew I couldn’t ride today’s leg into that wind. 

               I leave Dumfries heading towards Hadrians wall but just before I roll into England I come across the Devil’s Porridge museum. With a name like that I couldn’t just whizz past. I wander in to find that it was where a huge factory was built in the middle of nowhere to manufacture explosives for munitions during the First World War. Here 12,000 woman immersed cotton with chemicals to make cordite propellant for munitions. It was the largest munitions factory in the world at the time. 

               Speaking of shotguns, just down the road I enter Gretna Green and seek out the registry office where runaway lovers can go to get married. They’ve been heading here just inside the Scottish border for 250 years. A simple ceremony often witnessed by the local blacksmith who was seen as the most senior person in the town. It’s still popular today with those not wanting all the bells and whistles. I spot one beaming bride swinging her newly minted husband’s arm as I munch on a sandwich.

              I start to find my rhythm, it always takes a few days. Just when I think I’ve got this I arrive at the Yorkshire Dales. Miles and miles of undulating hills and very few towns. Again I have bitten off more than I can chew distance wise but simply have to tough it out. The morning is all wet and climbing with drab grey skies, the afternoon was all downhill and the sun peaked out. I could have been on another planet. It’s wild country and that ruggedness is its beauty. I wouldn’t ask the sheep what they thought, huddled together backs to the wind, their tails jammed up their backside. My hotel sat serenely next to the river Wharfe. Locals sat about on the river’s edge sipping coloured drinks unaware that there is wild country just up the road. I arrived unceremoniously with my tongue hanging out, completely knackered.

               The countryside flattened out after that. Of course it’s not flat but the rolling hills give me beautiful vistas out over the countryside. England’s rolling countryside shorn bare after the harvest is magnificent. The drawn out afternoons with long golden skies slowly diluting into night. That’s on the good days but when it’s grey and miserable I feel my mood swing to despair and ponder whether I will ever get to my next destination.

               I spend a couple of days in Biggleswade to catch my breathe. it’s not the centre of England but home to another friend and within striking distance of London. I spend a day being educated in all things academic in Cambridge, well the few bits that are open on a Monday. We visit a number of the colleges and then the Eagle pub, famous for the ceiling graffiti smoked onto the ceiling with cigarette lighters during war time. There are many tourists in the town all curious as to what makes the world’s most famous university town tick. The old town is narrow laneways, old world limestone buildings and quirky shops. It has a lovely vibe except for the volume of tourists of which I am one ?

                I weave my bike into the heart of London. It is predominately bike paths these days and you are kept away from the traffic although you can always hear it nearby. Suddenly I pop up on London Bridge and all London opens up around me. I turn South East rolling along a stress free bike path alongside the Thames to Greenwich and the Cutty Sark sailing ship sitting high above the waterline.

Then I’m back on busy, narrow, poorly maintained English roads heading towards Dover. The heavy traffic is daunting. At one point I am pushed up onto the footpath by a truck flexing its muscles, other times I simple escape onto the footpath for peace of mind. It was during one of these moments that I had a tractor with massive wheels and a long trailer give me a wave. At first I thought he was abusing me but his face wasn’t angry. Suddenly I turned to see that my rear pannier had come off as I dropped back onto the road. I turned and peddled furiously back from where I came, sure it would be stolen or flattened by a truck. Some hundreds of metres back there was my bag containing my clothes and my IPad sitting on the road. Somehow no-one had run over it and I refixed it before peddling on. Lucky a second time for the IPad and having no clothes wouldn’t have been much fun either. 

                    The weather doesn’t improve much after catching another ferry from Dover to Calais. A ferry escort van with its lights flashing directs a group of 24 English cyclists and myself through the chaos of the Calais ferry terminal with lumbering trucks all around. We go straight through customs then a hand from the van waves us farewell. Out in buffeting winds and sleety rain I have no choice but to stick my chin over the handlebars and will myself along. I need to make Lille by dark. Fuelled with French pastries and coffee I was going well when another puncture stopped me in my tracks. The puncture I could fix but the tyre wouldn’t sit evenly in the rim. 

                For 40 kms I bounce along before I spot a ‘work from his garage’ bike mechanic. I knocked unsure what to expect or even if he was home. The door was opened to an Aladdin’s cave of bike gear and I was invited inside. He couldn’t have been more helpful and within half an hour I was on my way. Dejected at my expected late arrival into Lille I try to get a train from a nearby station but there was a strike or rail issues so the decision is made for me, a final grind to Lille. 

                I arrived covered in road grime into the centre of Lille to the coolest hotel I had ever stayed in. The receptionist stayed Uber cool ignoring the mess standing in front of her. My room was stark white, the walls, the bedding, the towels and leather chairs. I stood there unsure how to navigate to the bathroom without destroying the place. Soon I was acceptably clean and ready for public viewing. But deep down I was exhausted. I sat amongst the large student population of Lille and drank two leffe beers very quickly. Then some proper food before I collapsed back in my white in white hotel. Rejuvenated after a solid sleep I attacked the breakfast room with gusto. I tried absolutely everything whilst the cool kids slept on. 

               Suddenly I find myself in Belgium, the dirty skies and rains follow me. I have a long day to Beaumont, 120 kms and can almost smell the finish line when I puncture again. I struggle to keep my cool. Slowly I remove the bags and wheel then repair the puncture before riding the last two kms to my hotel. I wash, I wash the road grime from my gear then head into town for a meal. Service is slow but the Italian food is ok. It begins to rain, thunder cracks overhead, it’s nearly 10pmwhen I finally get back to my room. 

              As I stumble to bed I notice the rear tyre is flat… not again. A beer and a half carafe of wine may have swayed my decision making. I decide to fix it there and then. I turn the bike upside down in the room, off comes the wheel and I begin stripping the tyre. The tube I had repaired was leaking so at least it wasn’t a puncture. It was then that the wheels fell off my world, literally. As I rotated the wheel the cluster of oily gears slipped from the axle onto the pristine carpet. Disaster… I frantically tried to stuff them back on. No success, I need better lighting so I take my wheel into the shiny white bathroom complete with operating theatre quality lighting. It took twenty minutes of me trying to use my pointer finger to align the gears before they finally slide back onto the axle. Still with no knowledge of actually how this all works, I’ve managed to get all the pieces back together. 

                     Triumphant at having the wheel look like it should I turn to assess the trail of grease, it’s not good. The bathroom handwash was my only ally, I pumped it almost empty and eventually cleaned the bathroom to a respectable level but the bedroom carpet was another thing. I only had toilet paper available but that soon became another part of the problem. I made an executive decision to sacrifice a hotel hand towel… yes it was pristine white, once. After more soap, scrubbing and rinsing I would just have to wait till morning to judge my cleaning effort. I crashed into bed not quite clean myself, it was 11.30pm. 

                  At reception the following morning none of the staff were aware that there had been a late night tussle between an old bloke and a greasy bicycle wheel and that’s how it will stay. The almost dry carpet appeared uniformly clean to the casual observer. And then I was gone before my one could point a finger. Miraculously a spin around the hotel carpark confirmed the gears were all working, I puffed my chest out.

             I had a long heart to heart with myself as I peddled away from Beaumont. I need to reset and turn this into enjoyment. I reviewed my google maps and spotted a railway station at Ciney. I headed in that direction even though it is still sixty klms away not the original 120 kms. My mood lifts and by lunchtime I am sitting on the station platform awaiting a 2pm train. Then it’s only another ten kms to my destination, Neufchateau. I wander down to a nearby lake and watch others enjoying the weak sunshine whilst eating a late lunch/early dinner. I sit there and plan to reduce my last four days to more manageable distances, a weight lifts from my shoulders. I just need to get my final day of 100 kms done. 

            It’s a steady climb out of Neufchaeau, Belgium then undulating hills into Luxembourg on the smoothest roads I’ve ever ridden. My day finishes in Perl, a tiny village just inside the Germany border. France is spitting distance away so a real meeting of borders on the Moselle river. The hotel has a terrific Indian restaurant downstairs and I attack a large plate of butter chicken, rice and naan. I chat for an hour with a German couple, Petra and Thomas, both on a second marriage and giving it their best shot. In a bid to prove he was both imaginative and spontaneous Thomas had agreed to getting married at the top of a lighthouse. Petra had got her man and she stared into his eyes certain he would not get away. All was perfect in Perl except for the big onion church clearly visible out of my hotel window. It chimed triumphantly every hour.

          The showery weather continued to follow me. Europe has had an unseasonal summer and I have endured much of it. A couple more shorter days on the bike before my final roll down from through lumpy country to the Rhine river flatlands and into Karlsruhe, Germany. I’ve ridden 1400 kms from Ireland in soul destroying weather at times. Just trying to get everything washed and dried was a pain often with a hairdryer helping the soggy socks along. Plus the wet roads brought shards of glass to the surface and with it regular punctures. It battered my energy levels and confidence. Of course I’m glad I have done it, proud that I travelled most of the distance under my own steam.

          I’m not finished yet. A friend from home is cycling in Southern France for a week. I can join him but it entails a complete day of trains each way. The quickest way is to head to Paris then two trains heading South via Nimes or Lyon to Beziers. So the bike is disassembled again and slipped into my light soft travel bag. The bag itself is light but with bike and other gear it’s probably 17 kms on one shoulder and a shoulder bag with another 8 kms of clothes and stuff. Gerd escorts me to the station but I go through a stressful day. There’s balancing my bike bag in corridors, delayed trains, a taxi dash between stations in Paris and arriving in Beziers at 6pm to be met by Phil, looking all fresh. 

         We are soon out into the warm evening. Soon we pass the nearby football stadium surrounded by a sea of abandoned cars. Any late arriving fans have left their cars on roundabouts and any available space determined not to miss the start. We peddled on before taking a turn onto a larger road. The larger road was a freeway with bitumen as smooth as silk but the traffic was travelling at speed and then the horns started. Not encouraging horns I thought. I didn’t wave for fear of agitating them. I was in street clothes and pushing hard into a headwind. It took us all of an hour and a half of strain to finally get to Roujan, a small wine town North of Beziers. I arrived sweaty wet, tired and just wanting to lay down. An amazing dinner of Duck confit with trimmings and copious quantities of bespoke beers and wine were expected to be consumed. I did my best before collapsing onto a soft bed upstairs.

          For five days we explored the hills and wine regions around Roujan, the harvest was in full swing, the only traffic on these backroads were the tractors pulling trailers loaded with grapes to the nearby co-op where they were weighed and pressed. The farmers looked like expectant fathers as they waited at the co-op for their receipt to inform them of the weight of their crop. Then they would turn their tractors around and chug back to the harvesting machines straddling their vines stripping them of the bunches of red and white grapes. And on it goes. 

        The more unnerving rides for us were on Sunday and Wednesday mornings. This is when the locals get out with their high vis vests and a long heavy shotgun cradled in their arms. Dogs are sent along dry creek beds or in thick forest to flush out wild boar, goats and god knows what else. The hunters sit on headlands awaiting the fleeing animals. Evidently most years someone other than animals gets shot. I just hoped it wouldn’t be me grinding away in a low gear up some narrow mountain path. The cycling was interrupted regularly with lunches and long dinners in the Mediterranean warmth. I think I left weighing more than before I started riding. 

          And then I am back at Beziers station with another day lost to travel. Another dash in the opposite direction across Paris, this time on a bustling Friday afternoon with my heart in my mouth that I’ll miss my connection. I slump into my seat for the final journey back into Germany. I am not looking forward to carrying the bike bag back through the streets of Karlsruhe. So I am delighted to find Gerd on the platform when my train pulls in. Half an hour later I am sitting eating a large bowl of spaghetti the drawn out travel day forgotten.

         I do some short rides as my final days evaporate. I mention that I have seen a Concorde at the Smithsonian in Washington earlier this year. We have one too announces Gerd proudly. One hour by train and… we also have the Russian equivalent next to it. I was unaware of the Russian Concorde, unaware they had stolen the plans and built their own. They’ll deny it of course. So not one to miss an opportunity to see something a little special I drag Gerd and Troudl to Sinsheim Museum. The two planes are not just together but are set on steel columns in full takeoff position. They look spectacular pointing skywards. We are permitted to go inside them. It was like climbing Everest to clamber up inside to the cockpit. There was also a full on Uboat, or submarine to non Germans. A monster of a thing which was transported here from Kiel on the Baltic Sea and then 50 kms on land, it was a one year logistical triumph. I sat buzzing on the train coming home like a child who had eaten too many lollies at the show.

           I have enough time back in Karlsruhe to ponder my last five weeks. At times I stress that I have bitten off too much during my comfortable planning stage at home. But once I’ve had time to recover a bit, to reflect on the highs and the lows the verdict keeps coming back in the positive. I have met some normal folk and as usual my fair share of the weird, the wonderful and downright kooky just by getting out there. You simply can’t buy that so I’ll keep seeking it out but I still look forward to sleeping in my own bed.