Epernay: Day 2

We decided to try out a cycle route from the Lonely Planet Cycling guide to France loaned to us by the new friends we’d made in Lille. It was rated “Easy-Moderate” but without any real reference this was not terribly meaningful. The book was written by experienced cyclists and probably not aimed at almost complete beginners like ourselves but the only way to find out was to give it a try.

The first part was smooth sailing, a mild incline past long stretches of sunny, open vineyards including some owned by the famous Veuve Clicquot. Then the first hill nearly killed us. It was the steepest we’d ever encountered. Granted, that’s not saying much having just come from the Netherlands but it was a rude shock to find that even on unloaded bikes we couldn’t make it up the first hill, a hill that didn’t even rate a mention in the guidebook. We took a break mid-way up in the old village and as we caught our breath we wondered what exactly constituted a ‘steep climb’.

It took quite a bit of convincing to get going again but after some dallying about and peeking into the former abbey of Dom Perignon we decided to give the ride another go. Thankfully the remainder of the ride was no worse and we passed through some rather pretty villages and gathered some frightening speeds back down towards the main town.

We made it just in the nick of time for a guided tour and tasting of 3 vintage cuvees (P2’s choice) chez Mercier. Not the most prestigious producteurs but word had it they put on a pretty good show and had one of the largest chalk caves in town. I’d never heard of them but apparently this was nothing to be embarrassed about because, like the vast majority of French wine, this stuff doesn’t reach the export market as it’s all consumed domestically.

Our tour began with the giant vat at the entrance which took 16 years to build and which the founder, Eugene Mercier, transported all the way to the World Exhibition of Paris in 1889 only to be upstaged by the Eiffel Tower.


Our elegant guide with the cutest French/Oxford accent then escorted us down to the enormous chalk caves 30 metres underground where we boarded a laser guided automatic train. All the key stages in the champagne making process were explained including the gruelling manual process of ‘riddling’ i.e. turning the bottles around at regular intervals to aid the settling of sediments before being extracted but thankfully that’s all been automated now.


After our tour we returned to the surface to appreciate the subtle differences of three different vintages and I was deeply impressed at how polite they were about herding us out of the tasting area and into the store so they could pack up and go home.

Our own journey home was that much more pleasant for having exerted ourselves earlier but I suspect the bubbles affected me more than I realised. P2 looked on in horror as I weaved through the traffic, faintly aware but not at all concerned about the cars swerving to avoid me. What a pleasant day for a ride!

Epernay: Day 1

Next stop Epernay, the Champagne capital of the world. We arrived fashionably late at the municipal campsite to find our little plot surrounded by what looked like a bunch of college boys on summer holidays. They’d hired these enormous campervans over which they’d strewn beach towels, board shorts etc and seemed pretty intent on getting hammered and making ridiculous whooping noises all evening.As we set up camp in the darkness with our headlamps a guy from New Zealand spotted our little tent and immediately recognised us as fellow cycle tourists and was terribly excited. He was retired now and he and his wife were at the end of an epic journey from China to Paris. Amazingly he’d hardly seen any other cycle tourists along the way. I hastened to downplay the significance of our little expedition considering that we’d actually caught the train that day but it was fascinating to hear about his travels. I was alarmed to hear that he’d been attacked whilst camping in Kazakhstan and had to be hospitalised! Fortunately a local intervened during the attack to save him and his wife but I admired their determination in deciding to continue their trip. It did cause me to reflect that two girls travelling together might be best sticking to safer countries. France and the Netherlands were just fine for now.

After hardly getting any sleep that night our priority the next morning was to check in to a hotel. We found a lovely little place not too far away run by another of those wonderful older couples we would come to grow so fond of in our travels. We were so tired we slept through until afternoon before venturing out in search of dinner. We followed our hosts’ recommendation and after some waiting gained a table amongst the 50-something entirely French crowd. A good sign in my book. The wine list met with P2’s approval (no mean feat) and the food certainly didn’t disappoint. It was my first experience of choucroute. This version was a deceptively simple mix of pork sausages, belly pork, apple, potatoes and onions baked in white wine. Result? Delicious!

Sancourt du Sud

It turned out to be a full day's ride to Sancourt du Sud, almost 60kms and quite a few hills we needed to push our bikes over. We passed through many eerily quiet towns and ran a little short on food as no shops seemed to be open past midday.

Using good maps made a world of difference. Navigating was a breeze and the IGN maps even had contour lines but sometimes it was hard to motivate yourself when you saw the steep inclines ahead. At halfway I was ready to give up and catch a train but when we reached the town which showed a station on the map it turned out that line was no longer running passenger trains. The closest one that did took us even further away from our destination so there was no avoiding it, we had to push on.

When we finally arrived the owners greeted us with a good laugh, remembering us from the night before. Our accommodation was comfortable and spacious, all the more appreciated given the effort in getting there.

We were so hungry from the ride it wouldn't have taken anything special to impress us but the food was simply delicious. The farmer's wife cautioned us not to spoil our appetites on the first course, a fabulous duck rillette served with warm, crusty baguette. We still managed a reasonable effort on the rest of the meal, slow cooked leg of duck, dripping in it's own jus with the meat just falling off the bone, served with a huge dish of ratatouille and for dessert, P2's favourite, rhubarb tart.

In the morning the farmhand showed us around the farm, his explanations brief in his coarse, mumbling. We saw many kinds of duck including the multicoloured Mandarin, pheasants, honking geese and a pair of enormous Goliath horses. The saddest though were the Giant Flanders rabbits, all terribly cute, some impossibly large but all destined for the table.

Sancourt du Nord

Despite going by train, getting to Sancourt by the appointed time was not a trivial task. We'd had some difficulty finding accommodation at one of these farms so were keen to assure the owners that we were indeed coming, if a little later than expected.

There was one train a day to the nearest station and it arrived 30 mins late. Not wanting to spend time getting lost P2 had gone on a mission previously to find a detailed map of the region so it was straight forward navigation to Sancourt. Despite needing to back out of an very rocky, unsealed road we made it in reasonable time with enough daylight to see by.

Now to find the place, 8 Rue du l'eglise (i.e. Church St), there's a steeple, off we went but there was no such street to be found. A few circles later we met a family returning home who, seeing us obviously lost, kindly gave us some assistance. We began to suspect something was amiss when even the locals didn't know the street or of any tourist lodgings in their small village.

Not ones to abandon two stray girls as night falls their daughter accompanied us on her own bicycle to aid our search. She spoke to the farm owner on our mobile. I only caught glimpses, town hall...car park opposite...50 metres down. We cycled around again but no luck. Mystified she rang again and the landmarks were checked and the situation explained. After a pause, "Ah! Sancourt du Sud! I see, then we have a problem."

We would never have guessed that there were two villages of the same name within 50kms of each other, close enough to confuse them but too far for us to make it to the other place by dinner time. The farm owner was somewhat exasperated and we later learned that she'd been driving around Sancourt du Sud looking for us. Fortunately the French family offered us their backyard to camp in for the night so we could rest now and sort the rest out in the morning.

After lugging our gear up through the side gate and into their spacious garden we pitched our tent and joined them inside the house for "something to eat". We hoped this meant dinner but we weren't sure as it was past 9pm and their daughter had already changed into her pyjamas. They brought out saucisson (dried sausage), bread and butter. Oh well, I thought, it's food. We tried not to look too hungry and ate at the same pace as they did.

Once they'd finished, fearing that was the end P2 asked if we could help ourselves to more.
"Of course," he said, "the pig is already dead." I didn't quite understand the expression or catch all of what he said and for a moment I thought they might have actually killed a pig for us. To my relief and disappointment P2 explained he was referring to the sausage.

Sadly, my French lessons didn't come flooding back to me and I remained mostly mute during our stay. They were extremely kind and quite interested in our travels. They had five cats, only one of which they'd intentionally acquired. The remaining four were strays brought home by their own cat and had been integrated into the household. We did pretty well to stumble across these folk.

To our great relief dinner was served consisting of spatchcock, tomato and salad. The father showed us on a map where we were and where we originally wanted to be. In the morning we joined them again for breakfast before they headed out to work or school and left us to arrange our affairs in their backyard.

Lille (briefly)

When we first stopped in Paris en route to London we found a very appetising book listing French farms which served homegrown produce to visiting diners, most of them with rooms for guests to stay the night. By this point in our journey we were a bit over the sight-seeing thing and Lille's cold and drizzly welcome did nothing to inspire. Straight to the train station it was to visit our first duck farm in Sancourt.

As I was minding the bikes outside the ticket office two young travellers appeared suddenly, smiling in my direction. After an automatic hello it took a while for my brain to switch into gear and work out what was going on. Two people with bicycles, looking like they've been roughing it, lots of bags, socks and underwear attached to the outside. Funny...that girl's bike looks exactly like mine.

They continued to smile patiently as I caught up to what they'd probably figured out long before approaching me. Turns out we were once practically neighbours as they'd most recently been living in Sydney's inner-west as well and were now just finishing their 2/6 month tour of France and heading to London for work/study. Sounds familiar doesn't it?

They were very helpful and eager to pass on advice from their hard-learned lessons on the road. They lent us some maps, we exchanged contact details and we gave them the location of a nearby campsite and an unused shower token. Strangely enough I'd hung on to it just in case!

France at last

France at last!

Leaving Ypres on a Sunday, we made a dash for the supermarket before midday closing time and managed a whopping 14km by lunch. Unfortunately only 4 of these were in the right direction and we passed the same supermarket and a few other familiar landmarks before finally making our exit proper. At this point we realised that P2's high school compass was a bit dodgy and resolved to find a better one.

We stopped for afternon tea in a rather unsalubrious bus-shelter where I grew amazed at how some drivers can identify females at distance on the footpath and react quickly enough to beep, yell, stick their heads out and make lewd gestures all whilst travelling at high speed.

It was also there that I decided that the saying "the best thing since sliced bread" had lost it's meaning for me. I'd grown to hate the stuff and hoped never to eat it again once we got to France.

I didn't suffer long as a few hours later we'd be there. Another disappointing border crossing with even less signage to indicate the auspicious occasion than the last. Ever since we'd arrived by boat to the Netherlands and had our passports stamped with a picture of a boat I've been dying to see what one receives when crossing by bicycle. I was devastated to learn later that no matter how you travel on the road, whether by car, on foot or by bike, you'll always get a car stamp on your passport.

But here we were at last! French roadsigns, french ads, french lack of bicycle paths and not five minutes into the country we encountered our first french hill. What a killer it was too, comparable to the wrong turn we took on a test ride in London which made
P2 feel faint and gave me the feeling I was about to puke. This time, even though we were more fit, we gave in part way up and pushed our loaded bicycles to the top and enjoyed the long gentle roll back down.

There was hardly anyone about in the small town of Bondue. Even the owners of the campsite, Mr & Mme Leper, were nowhere to be seen but we settled in anyway and decided to look for them later. It was like camping in someone's very large, very green and slightly overgrown backyard. The facilities were quite basic but it had a few quaint little caravans, each with a mini garden around it adding to it's unique character.

Eventually the owners returned and P2 settled our account in the local tongue whilst I tried my best to follow the conversation, nodding meaningfully. I was awfully proud of myself for managing two words.
"Can we...?" I started, waving a handful of travel brochures to imply the rest of the sentence.
"Of course! That's what they're for..." and I couldn't catch the rest but I convinced myself she hadn't a clue that I wasn't fluent.

During our recent travels we'd encountered, I thought, every variety of shower limiting system known to humankind. All but gone were the meek requests to limit one's time. Even in the most ancient plumbing systems there was now some kind of push button, 10sec spurt device or carefully rationed token operated systems which could cut off suddenly in the middle of your daydreaming, leaving you soapy and shivering. At chez Leper we really thought they'd taken it a bit far as they'd combined both the timer and the push button system. Fearing the worst we thought it best to maximise our time and shower together but ended up with a token to spare. What troopers!

Ypres (Ieper)

Starting late in the day and not having great maps we took the direct route to Ypres which was hassle free but for the most part quite unremarkable. We knew almost nothing about our destination city except for the vague location of the campsite. As we got closer I noticed the high number of cemeteries, all with a distinctly military look about them. Soon after, I saw signs in English which provided extra clues and I remembered reading something about the Somme battlefields and realised we were in World War territory as we passed a Canadian memorial.

As we reached Ypres we stopped at a pub to ask directions and the friendly barman drew us a map which featured something called a Menin gate. He tried to explain what it was but it seemed difficult to translate.

As we passed this enormous Menin gate I saw what looked like a streetfair and thought 'What luck! We're here in time for a festival'. Once we'd found our campsite, pitched our tent and freshened up we returned to the festival to find a sombre memorial service in process. It was blocking our path to the festivities I imagined behind the crowd so I asked someone English-looking what was going on. He was in fact Irish, a tourist who'd also stumbled in by accident to this memorial service. He explained that is was for all the soldiers who'd died in 'the Great War'. Much to my shame I have very little knowledge of modern history, a situation I hope to rectify, but I guessed he was referring to World War I. I asked him how often this service was held, wondering if our timing had been lucky but he said it happened every night. I found that hard to believe so put it down to him being Irish or something and let it pass.

"Where are you from?" he asked.
"Australia."
"Oh well then you must have something similar?"
"Yeah but not every night," I said with a shade of scepticism I hoped he missed. "Just the one day of the year". I remembered a play we studied at school by the same name but none of the details came to me. The Irishman and I shared our (mock) amazement at the frequency of the service. As it was, he was quite correct. P2 and I consulted the pocket wikipedia over dinner and the service has been held here every single night since the end of WWI except for when the Nazis had occupied the area during WWII. That's some serious dedication and as a history buff friend described to me later, it was a pretty horrific event in history. I guess it's time I stretched myself beyond Black Adder and Asterix & Obelix.

Bruges

We cheated and caught the train to Bruges as we figured it would be a mostly suburban industrial landscape and therefore not an interesting ride. Following another 'use-it' recommendation we checked into a cheap and cheerful place called Le Passage. It had a fairly popular restaurant downstairs where we met a friendly couple of locals who, by chance, had ordered exactly the same meals as us, down to the sides. The guy turned out to be the boss of a bicycle tour company called Quasimodo so we had lots to talk about and they gave us some tips for future itineraries in Europe.

His wife's originally from Greece but has been living in Belgium for quite some time now. She actually works in Brussels but commutes from Bruges everyday. I was quite surprised, given European attitudes towards distance whereas many Australians would think little of spending over an hour on the train just to get to work in the morning. We had a good laugh about their travels in Australia, a place they were quite fond of visiting but where they had severely misjudged travel distances many times, even in Tasmania which, even though it looks small on the map, is roughly twice the size of Holland.

The next day was almost all work and no play trying to fit in laundry, paperwork and administrivia and some incidental sightseeing. We achieved about half of what we initially set out to do and just managed to squeeze in a brewery tour. There was an hour long wait so we killed time by watching tourists, trying to work out where they were from and what kind of package tour they'd signed up for. There were loads of 50 somethings, retirees and a few honeymooners. We couldn't decide if one group of sensibly shod older women were on some kind of feminist reunion tour or whether they were in fact lesbians.

There were a lot of horse drawn carriages going around, each of the drivers pointing out the exact same landmarks to their tired looking passengers as they rumbled past. I read somewhere that 1 million of these tours are given every year in Bruges and to avoid the streets being filled with manure the horses have a bag attached to them to catch their droppings. We dubbed them poo-slides as there was a long canvas section under the horse's rear end that lead down to a large pocket just in front of the drivers feet. They idea of taking one of those rides suddenly seemed a little less romantic.

The brewery tour at De Halve Maan was interesting and yet sometimes alarming to see the hazards workers were exposed to using the original equipment. Children would clean out fermentation tanks in complete darkness and were required to sing as they worked in case they lost consciousness and could then be pulled out by their ropes. Adults shoveling the roasting barley withstood extremely high temperatures and suffocating conditions. Fortunately it's all been modernised and most of the brewery is now a museum for tourists. Here you can see the view from the top.

The tour was delivered in both English and French at the same time and by the same guide so it was a bit of fun observing the differences between the two groups and their reactions. From what little French I could understand the guide was saying almost exactly the same things to both. The English speakers were mostly a mix of North Americans, Aussies and UK types and although the guide's first joke was a bit vulgar, we soon warmed up to him so that even his lamest remarks got some kind of acknowledgement. The Francophones seemed like hard work by comparison. They took a much more serious approach, nodding gravely as they absorbed the facts and if anything, looking slightly puzzled by the punchlines. I'm sure the guide was well used to it as he modified his tone and asked them more questions, perhaps to get at least some form of audience participation.

The morning we cycled out of Bruges I was a rather taken aback by the swarms of tourists before I realised that it was now the weekend and numbers had swelled overnight in the tiny city. We managed to squeeze through on foot and mount up a few streets away from the centre but it wasn't long before P2's rear rack collapsed onto her back wheel. It seemed that the cobbled streets from the day before did more than give us an uncomfortable ride but that all the jolting and jittering had caused us to lose a few screws. Happily, a couple of spares later and a quick all over check saw us back on the road in no time, destination Ypres (or Ieper).

The unwanted extra passenger

Just to show the ridiculous size of the pump here it is. Note that we're using 700c wheels which are larger than most.

Antwerp Pt 2

So, with our accomodation finally sorted we spent another drizzly day indoors but managed to take the tram into town for dinner. As we chose not to carry a small library of travel guides with us we made good use of the free use-it guides, a great resource covering the major attractions of Belgium and specifically aimed at youth. We decided to go for a nice warm bowl of pasta in a chilled out little cafe by the river with refreshingly friendly and helpful staff. The waitress recommended a good spot for waffles so the next day we checked out and took a short ride around the city looking for "Desiree de Lille" (we never found this place in Lille later on). The waffles were nothing like what I expected. I'd imagined something doughy and cake-like but this thing was amazing. It was so light and crispy with just a dusting of powdered sugar. After an initial light crunch it would melt in your mouth.... *drool*

Then there were the beignets. P2 had ordered 2 banana ones. We've been searching for the perfect banana fritter for some time and we thought we'd found it, double deep fried, at a street stall in Vietnam but oh how we were mistaken. The bananas here were ripe, soft and sweet, unlike the smaller, denser asian variety, and the batter was crispy and light, similar to the waffle we'd just had but perhaps a shade heavier. My mouth's watering just thinking about them.

We didn't have a lot of time to look around but enough to get a feel for the city. P2 was more impressed, saying it resembled her childhood memories of what Paris should be like. To me it seemed a lot smaller, definitely more laidback compared to Paris and although lacking some of the grandeur it still had plenty of history in the centre of town. Still, I'd gladly return just for the beignets.

Antwerp

Although the weather was still very changeable I somehow convinced P2 that we should cycle to Antwerp from Wouwse Plantage. We could have taken the train from Essen but somehow it felt like cheating when the weather wasn't that bad, the train cost money and after all we were here to cycle. We were planning to take a train to Brugge later as Belgium is quite industrial and probably not much fun to cycle in that part anyway.

So, another late start whilst we make this decision, buy more food, get some minor problems fixed at the local bike store by another strapping young lad (this place is full of them, I swear), and we almost forgot, to send postcards with the Dutch stamps we'd bought. They'll be no use in Belgium.

We set forth once again but this time the signage isn't so clear and we're soon off the path and almost back where we started. Horribly disappointed we stop in at a tourist office for more directions. We make it to a train station and landmark for rejoining the path where I make possibly my silliest decision so far.

Unhappy with my slow progress on the bike I'm convinced that if I further inflate my tyres I will roll faster. They were looking a bit saggy under the weight of luggage plus me. We stop at a petrol station and try to work the antique air hose. After a few attempts the darn thing actually deflated my tyre! After much swearing from me P2 gets out the portable pump and I resign myself to reinflating manually. Somehow this refuses to work either. The pump we have requires an adaptor for the type of valve on our tubes. Pump plus adaptor don't seem to be working past a certain pressure so P2 decides it's time to buy a pump which is designed for the correct valve type. I concur although my bike is still unridable so P2 sets off on the mission alone and much to my horror returns with a gargantuan pump. It was the lightest one in the store and it did the job in a jiffy so rather than be ungrateful I inflate all our tyres to the optimum before setting off again with the enormous pump, an unwanted extra passenger awkwardly strapped to the outside of P2's pack.

Still refusing to take the train we cycle on, no usable maps, fewer signs and a somewhat dodgy compass. The sun sets as we enter Antwerp, still no map but we know the campsite is behind the Crown Plaza hotel so after starting off in the wrong direction we track down some more of those friendly locals for directions and find our landmark. We follow a sign to a Youth Hostel as even if that's not the place, they'll know how to get there.

The lady at reception looks puzzled. "Camping Vogelzang? I think it's closed. You spoke to them and they told you it's behind the Crown Plaza?" They had. We looked together over a few maps but she was convinced it was a dud and that the only campsite still open was across the river. This late at night I was not in the mood to hunt for an unknown place in an unfamiliar town. I got my bearings from the maps and decided to track down the place we'd contacted. On the way another local backed up the other lady's opinions but we pressed on as it wasn't far. We eventually found the place but yes it was closed although whether for the night or forever wasn't clear. The office was there and the place was empty. It looked majorly dodgy, like a park in an inner city suburb where the streetwise don't hang out at night. In fact that's probably exactly what it was.

In my despair, P2 reminded me that the solution was simple. We either stay at the Crown Plaza or the youth hostel. Genius. Although the Crown Plaza was undoubtedly more comfortable we opted for the hostel. The lady at reception shook her head a little as she saw us for the second time with a look of motherly concern for two stray teenage girls. I sent P2 in to negotiate, not wanting the emotional burden of her tut-tutting.

Wouwse Plantage

Our muscles still in recovery we decided to catch the train to Roosendal and from there cycle to our next campsite in Wouwse Plantage. Again, we left quite late after our last meal and hot waiter at Hotel New York.

Our first night ride in Holland was a little nerve-wracking. There were few people around to ask and no light along some stretches. The church clock struck 10pm as we arrived at Nispen's crossroads, the last landmark that made any sense from the direction we'd been given. Thankfully the owner answered our phone call and we found our way to Ottermeer Hoeve on his corrected verbal directions.

It was 10:30pm by the time we'd arrived and the owner showed us around the larger than expected and slightly spooky grounds. There were a few campervans and a campfire going and the warmth of the orange-yellow light made us feel instantly safe in the the almost total darkness. We decided to pitch within sight of these merrymakers even though the owner hinted that their children were likely to be noisy.

In the morning we could see that it was a beautiful place with lots of fruit trees, a few cute, chubby animals and a very homely atmosphere. As it turned out, the weather turned quite wet and we would spend 3 nights here overall, making occasional trips across the border to Essen in Belgium for food but otherwise trying to keep ourselves dry and the mosquitoes outside of our tent. This proved to be quite an exercise.

Our strategy consisted of waiting for the rain to settle to an acceptable drizzle then shaking the tent to scare the mozzies off, unzipping the flyscreen to put our shoes on, unzip the door, leap outside with our shower things and quickly zip up the flyscreen again. We had few false starts as by the time we'd organised the first steps it started to pelt down with rain again. I was really regretting that I didn't take the advice of the shop assistant at Paddy Pallins back in Sydney. She recommended bringing a small candle lantern which I'm pretty sure had citronella in it. I decided it was one more thing to carry so didn't go for it.

The last night was especially wet and windy. P2 barely slept as she feared the tent would give way at any moment to the rain bucketing down from above. I was worried that the bikes might get blown over as, although they had rain covers on them, I didn't expect the wind so they were just held up in the open on their stands. It was the condensation that rendered the most unwanted moisture. It lined the inside of the fly but thankfully only a few drops made it into our sleeping area. The bike covers had no ventilation so despite being covered, the bikes were still wet in the morning, albeit not nearly as wet as if they'd been left exposed.

New York, New York

Ahhhh... after four days cycling, it was fantastic to relax to the best that New York had to offer. The Hotel New York in Rotterdam that is. P1 and I enjoyed our first splurge of the trip - luxurious bed and wonderfully pressed white linen sheets, great steaks from the plumpest Dutch cows I ever saw and the fantabulous crepe suzette I had to order from room service (P1 was feeling a bit woozy after sharing a carafe of fine Languedoc red hence the hasty departure from the dining salon).

What can I say about the fine strapping lads at the hotel. Our waiter looked like a taller, more handsome Tom Cruise, no doubt this improved the quality of our meal. Room service delivery boy was a tall, dark (solarium tanned that is) & handsome Dutch with wonderful pecs, biceps and forearms. He was concerned about P1's well-being, seeing as we didn't eat dessert at the restaurant, and was very solicitous of her health, even going to the length of asking whether there was anything he could do to assist. What a niiice boy! Unfortunately P1 was in no shape to enjoy the attention so I had to decline regretfully citing that she had a slight stomach indisposition. P1, snuggled up in bed, just scowled and pouted at us as we giggled.

All those wonderful tall boys at the hotel are (IMHO) movie stars just waiting to be discovered. I'm so glad we took this opportunity to enjoy Rotterdam, definitely a city worth the visit :D

*bliss*

Rotterdam

I'm beginning to understand why cycletourers (at least the ones i have read) avoid busy towns. its not that they're anti tacky tourist destinations per se, it's not even the traffic or fear of being mowed down by an oncoming tram. for me it's the hassle of finding accommodation on the night.
So far we haven't booked ahead as we weren't sure how far we how far we would be able to cycle, one day to the next. This has been fine so far, in quiet little towns during the week but then we reached Rotterdam on a Friday night. All campsites, hostels and modest hotels were fully booked and it was only by fortune of last minute cancellation that we got a room at a boutique 4 star establishment (see pictures). No regrets at all on staying there, it was luverly even if a little expensive. It was just stressful working out where to spend the night when we were 6kms out of town with a mobile phone and 3 guidebooks, 2 of which were out of date and the other in Dutch.

But enough of the difficulties, our stay in Rotterdam was a welcome break after 4 days of cycling. P2 has already mentioned the main highlights. The modern architecture is nice too. As an old motorbiker in a pub north of Zevenhuizen warned us
"Rotterdam is a dangerous place."
"Oh? Why's that?" I ask innocently.
"It's full of men" he adds with emphasis.
So to all our single friends who might be reading this, if it's young, hot guys you're after then Rotterdam is the place to be!

Woebrugge

Our first day out of Amsterdam proper we planned to get to Woebrugge (pronounced "vow-breh-huh"). But first we needed more space to carry food. Not wanting to spend 60 Euros on a purpose built racktop bag that wouldn't fit neatly anyway I was terribly pleased with myself for finding a plastic box with a lid for 2.99 at Blokker.



We left later than planned so didn't get in until after 8 with just enough light to pitch our tent. It was a disappointing campsite after MONnickendam. Lots of slugs and coin-operated showers with no lights. Still, it was a relief to actually find the spot after a long ride in dreary weather against head winds.

Despite the conditions during our ride, the sight of so many well-fed sheep, goats and cows cheered us up as well as the novelty of a canal crossing on a cable-driven punt.

On approach to Woebrugge we passed quite a number of serious looking young cyclists. I thought it was interesting that the locals were so into their sport, riding through drizzle and cow pat flavoured air. Eventually we came upon the starting point of what appeared to be time trials. Cyclists lined up in all their professional looking gear, coaches with stopwatches and parents with cameras shouting encouragement at their precious children. No one seemed terribly interested in us except as an obstacle although a group of older boys did seem amused at all our luggage. I later realised I still had a pair of my underpants hanging out to dry.

Back to Amsterdam

On the way back we decided to go a different way. The paths were so well marked we had no trouble at all and even cut 7kms off our outward journey. We stopped for lunch along a random canal with a single row of houses and plump cows in the field below. I still find it strange when I see the height of the canal and then the height of the fields below it.
As we tucked into our saucisson and cheese sandwiches a man walked by with his dog and said hello.
"You like?" he asked as we gazed upon the bovine. It was clear he hoped for more meaningful conversation but his English wasn't particularly strong and our Dutch was non-existent. P2 voiced her genuine appreciation of the cows. We exchanged the basics in awkward halting conversation and he walked back to his house two doors down.

Ah well, that was that we thought. But no, he startled us by coming back for more.
"Before, this was all lake. In 1603 they built pumps. Now they have motors. My neighbour, he works at the pumps." Cool, now we were getting somewhere. After giving a brief history of his home town he ended as suddenly as he began, with a wave. We smiled back, stood there for a little longer to finish our apples but felt it was best to end the friendly awkwardness and move on.

Amsterdam

It's a clear and sunny morning in a little clearing about 30km north of Amsterdam in a little town called Monnickendam. We're doing an overnight trip as a practise run and so far it's going pretty well. P2 had a bit of trouble sleeping but hopefully it's just a matter of growing accustomed to accommodation al fresco. We're staying at a nature camping site (Natuurkampingterrein) which usually means it's a small campsite for tents rather than a massive caravan park. This place doubles as a yacht harbour so the amenities are well maintained and there's lots of pretty boats to look at.

But to fill you in on our journey thus far, yes we did make the overnight ferry from 'arritch in the end and it was quite a buzz to be on such a huge boat for the first time.

Before crashing, exhausted, in our cosy yet comfortable quarters we willed ourselves to take a quick tour around the ship.

We figured the bridge was off limits but we caught a glimpse, as we boarded, of the long glassed platform at the top of the ship, looking more like a control tower than a cockpit.
Out back was filled with shipping containers all neatly aligned. With the white ferry and it's cargo brightly lit against the black sea it looked like the set of a budget sci-fi flick. If only we'd brought the camera and a large fish bowl I could have had a true nerd moment.

We took a peek over the side at the dark water churning far below and tried to estimate how many seconds it would take once you'd fallen overboard to disappear from sight completely. My guess would be around 3 seconds.

In the morning we arrived at Hoek van Holland and caught the train to Amsterdam, narrowly escaping a fine for not having tickets for our bikes (oops) and were greeted by our local friend Vera (who we met on a learn to surf camp in Oz) and her bicycle, naturally. She kindly gave us a few tips about cycling in the city-.= (watch out for the tourists) before leading our first expedition through Amsterdam to Koosje's place (friend from same camp who's turned out to be quite mad about surfing).

Koosje was unfortunately out of town for work but kindly lent us her cool apartment right on the party streets of town. After dropping off our gear we went on an impromptu gastro tour starting with raw herring on a soft bun with pickles and onions (although I jumped at the opportunity I did find it a bit challenging), pointers to the best frites and deep fried snacks in town and rounded off with a large plate poffertjes, buckwheat dumpling-shaped pancakes hidden under a mountain of fresh butter and icing sugar. Yum yum!

Later, we ventured out ourselves to the ANWB (local equiv to the NRMA) for some maps and bit of guidance about campsite. The staff weren't as clued up on the cycling routes as I'd hoped, being a motoring association might have something to do with it. We decided that the maps on offer didn't provide any extra detail than the one we already had so we would try our luck with our 1:300 000 and wing it.

Fortunately this is working out ok so far. Being a densely populated country (compared to Australia), you're never too far from some kind of help, either official or a friendly local.

That night we met up with Vera and her boyfriend for dinner in Chinatown. It's funny how we always seem to end up in Chinatown in every capital city. I used to think it a bit pointless from a cultural perspective but I always double take when I hear large numbers of Chinese speaking a non-Asian, non-English language, mixed in with the regular Cantonese. I wonder if I can detect the Chinese accent in this other language too.

We spent the next day shopping for basics (food supplies, SIM card, replacement trousers for V) and the following morning, after much faffing around we finally set off.

It didn't take long at all for the hustle and bustle of Amsterdam to fade behind us. A short ferry ride north of the station and we were in suburbia. A few kms further and we were riding past some really smart looking houseboats along the canals. I'd never had guessed that modern architecture had extended to houseboats.

My favourite bit of the ride was a long bridge of land that extended out from the coast and stretched for kilometres. It was only wide enough for a two-way road and a raised bicycle path (fietspad). From there we had a clear view of the water on both sides with odd boat and plenty of birds.

As we approached our destination we met a farmer ("I have a farm. MOOOO!") who, after realising we couldn't understand his request to kindly stay on our side of the path, struck up a conversation as we rode. "Where? Oh, MONnickendam, not monNICKendam. From Australia? You cycled all the way? Ja, it's good to travel. Keeps the mind open. Maybe you..." I lost the thread at this point but he made surprising gestures which I later understood to be an offer of work on his farm milking cows. What a friendly chap.

Premature embarkation

London transport, how I hate thee! This morning we made a valiant attempt at catching the morning ferry from Harwich (pronounced Harritch) to the Hook of Holland only to be thwarted by fine print. We'd been up all night, preparing our bicycles, packing our things and at 5am we set forth to Balham tube station with family members and luggage leading us in the support vehicle (great idea P2!) whilst we pedaled our way through the pre-dawn darkness.

We were making good time, despite my parents insisting that they both pray for us on our journey (bless them, tap tap tap) and an eccentric fellow cyclist at the tube station who was terribly keen on telling us all about his son who'd ranked 8th in a few stages in the Tour de France and how his estranged wife had tricked him into returning his sons (Ortlieb) panniers even though his son didn't really mind him having them. I'm guessing the extra weight would slow you down a bit on the uphill stages.

I was concerned for Mum as she'd only realised the night before that we weren't going on a group tour but irresponsibly subjecting ourselves to the dangers of female duo travel. This slightly mad looking old guy ranting on in tight trousers and a yellow jersey really wasn't helping our case or her nerves.

Fortunately, my brother-in-law was quite happy to humour the strange man whilst we set about loading up our bikes for the first time. The full weight of our ambitions hit home. This was going to be a challenge. Even going down the stairs required some assistance but fortunately Mum was out of sight for that part.

Then came the London Underground personnel. It strikes me that they're quite keen to speak to you when they see you've got a bicycle. Mostly it's "I wouldn't do that if I were you" or "Sorry Ma'am, you can't take your bicycle on the (insert network here) line". Not that I mind terribly, I mean, the fact that any of them allow bicycles at all and then for free is great! But with all the different companies running their own little bit of the public transport system with their own sets of rules, it's a little confusing to say the least. Mostly they are quite helpful in helping you plan an alternate route.

Not this morning however. Point blank "You can't take bicycles on the underground". Not strictly true, we tried to point out. After all, after months of planning and weeks of frantically getting our bicycles fitted out for the big occasion we'd have been foolish not to check that this line would allow us to complete the first stage of our journey. We pointed to the sign right in front of us explaining that bicycles were not permitted except between [certain] hours on [certain] lines as well as, uh oh, what's that say? Open air sections of [these lines].

My heart sank. Even without knowing what 'open air' sections were exactly, I was certain that no amount of my brother-in-law's negotiating or my father's praying would sway them. Even though the man obstructing us started to show some signs of empathy his hands were tied as any breach of policy would be plainly visible to the all-seeing surveillance cameras.

We heaved our overweight bikes up the stairs (just to make everything seem that much more impossible), unloaded our luggage into the car and rode home alone. By the time we could appreciate the scenery at our own pace, with sunlight peaking over the horizon and through the common, we grew philosophical about our situation. Such things were to be expected, my father said on our return, more than a little envious that we're still young enough to attempt such nonsense, free from the responsibilities of having families of our own.

As it turned out, the ferry company was quite happy to adjust our ticket so we'll be doing it all over again tonight at a much more sensible hour. This time we've made sure to actually speak to each of the train companies responsible for each leg of the journey to confirm the acceptable carriage of our precious bicycles. Fingers crossed!

Time's a wasting

I'm starting to lose my cool, whatever cool I had anyway. I've spent nearly two solid days researching equipment on the internet. I've realised we only have 5 days before we catch the ferry to Amsterdam and we still don't have enough panniers (bike bags) and bike racks.

Helmets, waterproof pants (trousers! I meant trousers!), chemical ice-packs (for that inevitable injury), these we can technically sort out along the way but without bags to put stuff in then we're stuck with our hands full of random but essential items plus two bikes to maneuver.

P2 is naturally taking all of this in her stride, sleeping in as we speak, not in the least bit worried about the unreliability of ebay and Royal Mail. Surely these things will just work themselves out.

Perhaps she has a point. Meanwhile it's in my nature to prepare for the time when chaos act in our favour and when it doesn't.

Two wheels good

Look what the nice delivery man brought me today! And in British racing green, no less.

Steel in a worthy steed

After fretting about the lack of steel-framed touring bikes in London, the two piggys finally have their steel steeds. Not without a great deal of stress mind you, but Piggy1 assures Piggy2 that it's all character building... hmmm.

Originally, P2 had wanted a touring bike built around the Surly Long Haul Trucker, and Shimano Deore-level components, but blanched when the price tag hit home... £1000+, whereas her estimates had led her to believe that she could have built this wonderful machine back home for around $1800. For that matter, why are the Surly LHT frames £325 in London but only $300 in the US?

Nonetheless, recovering from her initial shock, P2 fell back to her second preference - the more affordable Fuji Touring.

It was quite an ordeal finding a retailer with appropriate stock as it seems touring bikes have gone out of fashion. Three long days of online shopping later, a few phone calls dispensed at random, then a day trip visiting local bike shops (well, London bike shops...), she finally found a Fuji Touring. And here she'd thought that she'd be doomed to ride on an alu framed bike (Dawes and Ridgeback alu touring bikes are the most abundant here).

Unfortunately, the last Fuji Touring bike in London was an '05 model sitting on the shop floor, having been breathed on, tinkered with and poked at by all manner of people walking past. She'd have to see to it that the bike was properly disinfected before taking possession of it.

On her first test ride, she had to come back into the store for instructions on how to use the STI shifters (she'd figured the brakes all by herself!). First time with STI and drop bars... exciting!

On her second ride, she came back into the store as the chain had come off after not shifting properly. The nice man in the shop fixed that up in no time.

On her third ride, she almost rode into the back of a large BMW backing out of a single-lane car park. She was pleased to find that the cantilever brakes worked admirably, although one of her shoes did stick in the cheap pedal cage. Almost toppling sideways, the day was saved by a gutter on which her foot alighted immediately upon being freed, her pride remaining mostly intact as she endured a few concerned looks from nearby pedestrians.

At last. being overall satisfied with the bike, she returned to the store, intact, to the applause of her rapt audience (being the nice man at the store, who was pleased that the bike returned in one piece after having witnessed the shaky start).

So that's the story of how P2 got her bike. P1 became immediately anxious about a bike for herself, and having also tried the Fuji Touring, decided that this would be the bike for her too. But where to find one?!?!?! By this time, it was common knowledge to the rest of the city that the last Fuji Tourer in London had been snapped up by P2. This fact, of course, did not escape P1's attention.

After another day of trawling England's online bike stores, P2 found another supplier of the coveted item. She promptly sent the supplier an email enquiring ever so nicely about a reduction in the price of the bike, and could they also polish it to make it gleam?

A day later and no response from the supplier. P2 was not impressed. P1 was almost in tears trying to convince P2 to just call the store, they must be too busy to respond to email. Stubbornly P2 refused, but not for long as P1 becomes very persuasive when she needs something.

Cajoled into submission, P2 called the store and spoke sweetly with the person on the other end of the line. Yes they would discount the bike by £100, and they could even courier it express for next day delivery. What charming people, P2's faith in customer service returned and P1 was vindicated in the knowledge that she had been right about their service.

Both piggys are now eagerly awaiting their new shiny bikes, not quite clones but close. The proud owners will post pictures immediately upon arrival of their new acquisitions.

The End

Introducing...

So here we have it, the long-awaited, much anticipated travel blog. Introducing Piggy1, the leader of this expedition by virtue of having a sense of direction (and being rather domineering), and Piggy2, our resident connoisseur with her senses keen and her head in the clouds.

Together they escape the monotonous rut they'd found themselves in and plot a temporary escape. The plan: to cycle through France, sample the country's world famous produce, enjoy the open air and puzzle a few locals. The reality: *yawn* logistics, tight budgets, foreign bureaucracy...

Fear not, we will spare you every boring detail and save your attention for the occasional wave of inspired ramblings¹.

As we begin our adventures in England I suppose one should say "Tally ho!".

¹ WARNING: may contain details that some readers might find boring.