Feral scrapheap challenge

What we've been doing at work.

2011-05-27T02:29:00.000-07:00

Josh, Caleb, Willis, Joseph, me and Sam

So I've gone here to work on a wind turbine, I should tell you a little more about it. The design is actually quite a way from being perfected yet, in fact I would say we have only just started to get results which could be useful. The principle of the access turbine is in its name- it needs to be accessible to those who need it. That means it needs to be cheap- made locally and out of parts that are affordable to Kenyans. This puts the expensive high-tech permanent magnet turbines one gets in the West out of the question. Instead we are proposing to use car alternators, abundant in scrapyards and super cheap.
An alternator is a generator in reverse; the current is generated in the non-moving coil of wire (stator) as the electromagnet spins inside it. As they stand they don't work very well for us, a car engine rotates much faster than a wind turbine would. But by putting many more coils of copper in the stator, we should be able to get a current at much lower speeds. This is the theory, and for the first half of my stay the others have been trying to cram in as much copper into the iron core of a stator. It is a very slow process, weaving the wire in and out of 36 slots- the most recent rewind has had 80 coils in each slot. Scratching the fragile varnish insulation can make a short circuit, so winding requires a lot of care and frustration. One can imagine how annoying it is to assemble a rewind that has taken two days, only to find a short circuit which requires an entire disassembly.

the hi-tech wind switch

Meanwhile I started off developing a simple wind activated switch. Because the rotating part is an electromagnet, it uses power even when not spinning, draining the battery. This is not a problem in a car as the the whole system is manually switched on (the ignition), but requires our design to have a switch to energise the coil when there is a useful wind blowing. I had considered all manner of complex ideas to achieve this based on the blades reaching a certain rpm, but a simple flap lifting when the wind picked up sufficed. Mark 3 was the simplest solution, made predominately out of the steel side panel of an old PC. Designing things involve walking firstly to the friendly yet small scrap metal yard to see if they have the material in mind, then if they don't, going to the Aladdin's cave of junk where the owner tries his best to rip one off.

Fabricating the design is done mostly on the dusty floor using our tools- drills, saws, hammers, angle grinder and an arc welder. Any more advanced process such as turning on a lathe is outsourced to one of many other businesses in the area. If our local machinist is busy he lets us use his geriatric old lathe. Pretty much every standard industrial process can be made here, but only Jua Kali fashion- literally translated as 'in the blazing sun' but has become to mean slapdash.
So about halfway through my time here we assembled our latest alternator with the turbine body and blades Sam had created. It is his first design, improving upon the many previous prototypes created by the other two, none of which had worked. We took it down to Hippo Point and tested it with a fairly strong breeze coming off Lake Victoria. Results were poor- the little bades didn't harness the power required to turn the rewound alternator. Generation at lower speeds requires more physical load (torque). Not only did we need to make them bigger, we needed to consider a more efficient shape, given that our current ones were mere triangles of a PVC drain pipe.

I proposed sculpting wooden blades, so after a bit of online research I went to the Kibuye timber area and set about getting a sample blade made. Amongst hills of wood shavings and decrepit old bandsaws lie carpenters' shacks, bustling with men pushing lengths of wood through guard-free planer thicknessers, powered by crackling bare wires.
The wood yard is stacked with wild timber, rough cut before seasoning so all of the lengths are split and warped, and rarely parallel. I find a length of cyprus which looks okay and explain to a carpenter the alien concept of cutting the length of it at a diagonal, changing the angle every 20cm. He nearly got it right, only messing the last angle at the base of the blade. I bought some glue and salvaged the last section, and the following day tried some different guys to cut the angle on the other side and plane the aerofoil. I was pleased with the result, but considered their business minds a little bit greedy. Back opposite the entrance to home I noticed a couple of carpenters sawing away in the shade of a little workshop. I decided to see if one of them and do a better job, so I introduced myself and got him going. Willis was keen and meticulous with his tools, and produced another very commendable blade with a hand saw with much more precision than the Kibuye lot. I had no problem in leaving him to make four more. I went back to Jua Kali to prepare a mounting and a geared system- an idea Sam had to increase the alternator speed. I bought some Chinese bike parts and some block bearings, and set about putting them together on a box section frame.
In addition I have been investigating using the first wooden blade shape to form other plastic and fibreglass blades. I have created a two-part concrete mould from it and we have cut and heated PVC pipe, pressing it into the mould to form two halves. After that, the mould has been used by a fibre glass specialist to make a test blade, so already we have quite a few blade options to evaluate. These have just been crude experiments, the wooden shape has to be tested and developed to find the best aerofoil angles.

In order to see which blade performs best, we need to compare the power generated against wind speed. Without a wind tunnel or an anemometer, we took advantage of the slightly more relaxed road traffic laws here and secured a box frame to the roof of the car.

So in the last couple of weeks we have given ourselves many options, and there will be a need for plenty of further testing and development to find out the cheapest, easiest and most effective design. It is a shame to leave the project before reaching a significant milestone, but I have a strong inkling I will be back.

Island hopping part 1

2011-04-20T04:29:00.001-07:00

The dusty sweaty heat of the workshop is intense. Every day, my light coloured clothes and skin are caked in a layer of brown gunk. Mixing this with sun cream or mosquito repellant creates a coating of soft brown plasticine. One afternoon a refreshing wind picked up, carrying ominous clouds over the distant hilltops. The tree tops swayed vigorously and the mark-i turbine buzzed in a worryingly fast frenzy. Sitting on top of Douglas the spare parts man's shipping container shop, it normally is very indecisive in finding the wind with its small tail fin, but now it had no doubt. Then the rain came, occasional big blobs of rain rising to a power shower of warm sweet water. Brown rivers washed all of the dust and dirt away in no time, and soon the rain passed, leaving a much cooler, cleaner damp air.

The following morning it was noticeably cooler. I went out to buy eggs from the stall in the compound of the Marie Stopes nursing home and in true British spirit, chatted to Patrick our day guard. He asked me if it was true that ice formed on the rooftops of our houses. I explained to him the concept of snow and how it can bring everything to a standstill.

On Friday afternoon we packed and got in the car to meet up with Elin on Rusinga Island, off Lake Victoria. We drove through a landscape of enormous Flintstones boulders and got to the Ferry slipway just in time for the 6pm departure. A loud commotion of drunk men sprung upon us, amused by the unnecessary need to help us push the car onto the boat (a connection between solenoid and starter motor I suspect). We sat on the roof rack and watched the most majestic sunset, spilling shards of light out through golden edged clouds. Sam pointed out that it looked like the cover of a self help book. Night fell and we followed some vague directions over a dusty track with Josh still on the roof rack. As we asked directions, locals joined him as they were going the same way. Eventually we found Elin and Michael who she had been staying with. We took the car over some pretty rutted off road track up to the small cluster of tin roofed houses where Michael lived with Mama Jane and their family. Whilst having dinner, Michael roped me into setting up business with him starting a volunteer tourism business.

We rose at the break of dawn, greeted with large plastic mugs of gritty coffee from Mama Jane. Two locals on their Indian motorcycles waited for us to take us to the other port on Rusinga. I was confused how four of us plus luggage (including guitar) could get on the two bikes, but we did, gliding off down the dirt tracks with quite some grace. We got to the port and waited for the little wooden boat to take us about 10 miles across the bay to Mfangano Island. The start was much more leisurely than Mama Jane had warned us, after plenty of waiting around a breakfast of Ugi, Chapatti and beans, our boat arrived. Most of the passengers were being carried through a stinky mire to the boat for 10 shillings (around 7p) but with my pride and gangle I squelched up onto the boat. We faffed for a while and left at 10, three hours later than expected, but only went 20 meters along the shore before we picked more passengers up. Then we motored off through the soup of flies and algae in the blazing sun. I amused myself at the sight of the passengers reading a newspaper named 'the Standard' and how different it was to the 'Evening Standard' reading passengers on the tube in London.

20 minutes in and the engine spluttered, forcing the driver to head for land. 200 shillings were handed down the boat to the helmsman, who ran off 'for a spare part.' He returned a while later on the back of a motorbike with some sparkplugs and we were soon back on the water. The algae and small flies increased and on the horizon there appeared to be a plume of smoke. It was apparently an enormous cloud of these flies, visible twenty miles away. A local told us all about the ecosystem here, how the algae was caused by rainwater churning up the algae from underwater currents, and how the entire lake was populated by the Nile Perch. Introduced in the 1950s, this enormous predator has eradicated virtually all of the other fish in the lake. Growing up to two meters in length, its white flesh is exported in enormous quantities especially to Israel, creating a huge local economy where people from all over have settled on these shores. There is one distant rock island on the horizon where twenty thousand fishermen have settled and created a tin city upon it. A fragile microcosm which will only last as long as the massive stocks remain.

We hopped off the boat at Mfangano and strolled up the dirt track circling the island to meet Adam, a young American who has lived here for five years as a fisherman. He lived an almost feral existence on the beautiful shoreline in a mud hut, line fishing every afternoon in his little boat. We were showed our camping spot, went for a swim in the warm waters and then had a late lunch with him and Brad, another American seeking sanctuary from western civilisation. We joined him for a trip our fishing, taking it in turns to cast the four lines as we drifted down the beautiful coast, watching the birds circling around and occasionally spotting a large monitor lizard on the rocks. Needless to say we caught none of these legendary beasts, and as the sun set and we headed back we watched a dramatic tropical storm on the horizon with bolts of lightning illuminating the distant hills on the mainland. Half way back it was clear we were not going to out-run the rain, and as the little boat crashed up through the huge oncoming waves we began to get rained upon by the biting wet deluge. As I sat at the bow the spray of the lake water warmed me up, I looked behind us as the rest of the crew were huddled and shivering. Visibility was nothing, so I was very pleased to hear Michael, the Kenyan navigator recognise our beach. How, I just don't know.

We heaved the boat onto the shore and fled up to the warmth of the hut where Elin had made some pizza dough. How much of a treat this was!

The Arrival

2011-04-15T05:12:00.000-07:00

After an easy flight from Heathrow, I touched down at Jomo Kenyatta airport, queued for an eternity to check a visa I had already acquired, and exited into Africa. I was not sure whether I was going to be met by my friend Sam Duby and his wife, Elin, so I formulated a backup plan to stay overnight and meet them the following day (for that was the last incorrect rendezvous correspondence I had heard about). Despite having no guidebook and effectively having no clue, I was armed with the confidence of coping with the unfamiliar and having a relatively hardened attitude and look about myself for a freshly untanned Mzungu. I had decided that whilst observing the many young missionaries on the plane, and I had always believed my scruffy cheap green sports bag (aka the Tardis) was a better tool for establishing this look than an expensive strappy backpack.

Nevertheless, my contingency plan was unnecessary as I was jumped upon in the arrivals crowd by Sam, and I was escorted to his old ex Camel Trophy Mitsubishi. We drove through the chaos of late night Nairobi traffic, past dark silhouettes of skyscrapers and up into Karen, a forest of upmarket compounds. This was going to be our home for the weekend, staying with Leslie and Michael, an american missionary couple, their 7 month old baby Finch, and their enormous Rhodesian Ridgeback, Simon. The night guard opened the big iron gates and we drove in, said hello, chatted and slept. The following day we had a very un-African breakfast in an upmarket restaurant and strolled around Karen's market. It was clear that my acclimatisation into Africa was going to be gradual, not just culturally but climate wise we were cool up in the forested hills. We spent the time in Karen visiting different compounds to meet various people involved with projects developing appropriate sustainable technologies for Africa. Each was heavily guarded, perimeter fences surrounded with razor wire or electric fence, often with pens of savage looking pet dogs. Sasha, a big Russian owned a beautiful plot with an organic farm where we purchased some milk. Then on to Dominic, a half-Kenyan who showed us his affordable and simple bio-gas system, effectively a big bag which is filled with excrement and methane is tapped off straight to a cooker. Finally we went to see another more substantial concrete biogas system on a large dairy farm. The swill from the cows fed the gas supply for all twenty of the residents of that compound.

The Rift Valley

From what little I had seen of Nairobi, it was pretty clear that it's possible to live very comfortably here, but the razor wire around the compounds was a reminder of the massive gap between have and have not. Monday noon we set off towards the have not, though I'm sure we'll still be a long way form its centre. The drive took us a few hours into the real dusty Africa up to the escarpment of the Great Rift Valley. We stopped to have a moment in a lay-by on the edge. For as far as the horizon would let us see, this vast flat land was the birthplace of mankind. We sat and thought about that, how we'd ventured out from here, discovering all sorts along the way. Here we were, returned so easily having shrunk the world with aircraft, appreciating the moment with a Coca Cola sold to us by a kid on the roadside.

We descended the snaking road past prudent old beasts of trucks steadying themselves with a trail of the smell of hot brakes, and we levelled out onto a long straight, shimmering on the dusty hot horizon. The journey continued for six hours, stopping just once for mutton and ugali- the staple dish of many here. It is effectively polenta, although when cooked in an Italian way it may be considered fancy. Here it is a pale corn block of stodge, mixed with the salty juices of spinach and greengrams.

We climbed the other side of the valley hours later and Beryl (that is the name of the jeep) gave us a blast of hot air in the cab to stop her overheating. We turned off the superior A104 onto the Kisumu road, the surface deteriorated significantly and Beryl's 4x4 capabilities proved her worth. Dusk fell on the dusty track with a beautiful sky, and eventually we got to our home in the black of the night.

Our compound is noticeably more modest than the Karen ones, but also less guarded. We got home tired, said hello to Josh, our fellow Access wind coordinator, and went to bed.

So after a day of rest, acclimatising to the massive environmental change my body faced, I have been working the last three days in Jua Kali, the feral and dusty 'industrial estate' of Kisumu. The place has to be seen to be believed. The weaver birds, who have been engineering beautiful nests in the trees for many millennia look down upon quite a different mess of engineering. The most part of the work carried out here is motor mechanics, though almost anything can be fabricated or repaired here. Parts are salvaged from donor vehicles until they are rendered useless, then the metal carcasses are cut up by hand and sold as scrap metal to local smelters. Teams of entrepreneurial Kenyans operate small businesses amongst derelict wasteland, donated to them by the government in an attempt to reduce unemployment. The earth mixed with rubble, rubbish and engine oil paves a labyrinth of corrugated iron plots, populated with scores of young men, lounging in the shade. I can only assume a lot of them are trainees. We are located in a shell of an old fish market, or space next to an evangelical church. We share our plot with a communal old black Singer sewing machine used to upholster car seats, a couple of old vehicle shells and a very dark and dingy space at the back where some of the kids skive and smoke weed. Our core operation is currently myself, Sam Duby, Joseph - a self taught local who has a business installing electric fences, and Calib - an elderly widower who is delighted to help in 'his retirement.' Alan, a jovial educated car mechanic joins us occasionally, chatting away in a happy manner about allsorts. He has a fascination with Airbus, and wanted to know all about what I knew about it.

Calib has been helping me make a wind activated switch and I have been coordinating his every move, too much so in my opinion.

He is the sweetest loveliest person I have ever met, he has a heart anyone would warm to and a slightly old fashioned colonial subservience about him. For many years he worked as a trade unionist on the coast, and then a social educator, supporting villagers to help demand their basic needs. Last night we were invited to his modest little tin roofed house for dinner. He had killed one of his hens to cook, head to feet and everything in between in a pan, while the other hens and chicks clucked away around our feet as we ate one of their sisters. It was almost tear jerkingly moving, this humble old man's humanity.

Joseph and Alan

Joseph

Calib

Destination

2010-03-23T06:13:00.000-07:00

I set out early today as I was going to attempt to cover 200km and a climb of 2700m in two days. The journey was on the N2 through the centre of Ketama and was more or less 100km climb followed by 100km descent. After the Moroccan breakfast of eggs, olive oil, bread and olives I left the hotel and descended out of Al Hociema and upthe steep hill towards the mountains. The climb was relentless and already the sunwas fiercely beating down on me. Even bottom gear was hard work on the thighs as the steep dusty road passed by at walking pace, the lorries roaring past. The support of the locals and their 'ah! super sportif!' chants kept me going. The gradient reduced and the road snaked its way up a vast valley, little clusters of houses were scattered about like pastel coloured hundreds and thousands, some were way up the hillsides up remote tracks. In the foreground I saw donkeys and bellshaped hay stacks and yet more men, sitting about and smiling at me. I rested at another tea stop with its french speaking curiosity and continued on. It was pretty obvious that 100 km of uphill was going to be more than today, I planned to do about 60-70km and then 140 tomorrow. But my 10kmh speed in the baking heat was proving to be hard work, and I had developed a pain in my chest. While working out what to do, a coach overtook me and stopped a few metres in front of me to let passangers off. I had no time to ponder upon a decision, my mind was made to go and ask the driver if he was going to Ketama and he would take my bike. A few moments later and 50 dhirams poorer I was in the comfort of a seat, with plenty of time to ponder on whether I was cheating. The coach hurtled along the winding hairpins and I watched the landscape change to rocky ridges and fir trees. We stopped at a few more towns. This is the land of the Rifians, berber people who have fought occupation from Portugal and Spain until last century when their land became part of the Moroccan kingdom. As we budge through a busy market, they trade their animals, friut,vegetables and spices with each other in a way that I'm sure has little changed in a millenium. It is a lush green land which gets a lot of annual rainfall. A passanger gives me an orange and points to two collapsed houses. This winter's excess of rain has been catastrophic for some. The road jams as the traffic negotiates a hastily repaired section of the road. Many parts of the road have been badly damaged by landslides. After a delicious tagine for lunch we pass Ketama, the summit, and I consider when to get off the coach. It is nearly 3pm, so the remaining downhill is too much to do today. I wait until 4 when there is still 50 or 60km to go, I should get to my destination by dark. I get on the saddle and get going. The way is one of the most amazing but hairy rides I have done. The gradient is very gentle as the road follows the contours of the enormous Rif, up a small section and then down, down down. I am constantly trying to keep myself from being pushed off the tarmac as the Mercedes race past, often waving in support despite nearly killing me. I have little chance to admire the stunning mountains in my peripheral vision as I snake down the valley. I pass Bab Bezoot and level out, pedalling harder and slowing down as the road works its way up to my furthest point away from home, Chefchaoen. As the sun begins to setand my legs begin to ache, I see the lights of this charming peaceful city approach. I go straight up to the old Medina where I find Pension Souika, a beautiful old hotel in the centre catering for backpackers. I unpack and relax, straight away I meet my first friend here Diego. This is the first time I stay at a place full of other travellers in the whole trip. It is a refreshing experience. The next two days were complete relaxation, strolling the blue washed walls, up the hill to the mosque, eating lots of food, hanging out at Oussama's sandwhich shop,meeting French German US and spanish backpackers and feeling a little bit smug.
On my last night before departing, I am woken at about 1am by the light switched on and some loud Moroccan voices. I eventually open my eyes and am surrounded by four police officers and the Spanish guy in the bed next to me in hand cuffs. Dumbfounded, I watch as they gather his posessions and take him away, leaving us in peace. Naturally the following morning I want to know what had happened, I am relieved to hear that it was a mistake and he was later released. Apparently he shared the same name as a Cuban wanted by interpol for murder, and that his check in to the hotel's computer had rang alarm bells.

near the end the adventure begins

2010-03-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

In case some of you are confused about the goal of this voyage, Ceuta in Morocco is still the final destination I intend to cycle to. Rather than cross the Costa del Sol to get there, I decided to see a bit more of Morocco, so I will ride the north Moroccan coast from Melilla to Ceuta which is 20km more and five times the climb of the original leg. Just in case you thought I was cheating.

So far I can say that I am so glad to have done this. It has taken me no time for my spirits to be lifted no end by the people of Morocco. The french stage was so cold I was pretty much alone every day, and although plenty more people were out and about in Spain, I passed by pretty much unnoticed. Morocco is the complete opposite.

After last writing in Almeria, I went down to the port and bought a ferry ticket. The boat departed at 11.30pm and I tried very hard to assume a comfortable sleeping position across two reclining seats. The crossing was calm and quiet, but the night's sleep wasn't particularly good. Like so many of the other Moroccan passengers I caught my best nap on the floor. As the sun rose behind a pretty drab sky we arrived into the Spanish province of Melilla. It was early and I had little inclination to explore the town, so I went and found the frontier. The transition from Europe to Africa occured in 50 meters, orderly queues descend into fighting chaos as cultures filter through the barricades and past serious looking border police. After filling in an immigration form I am issued with my stamp, past the guard and into the land of Morocco. I knew to expect a sensory overload, but it's always underestimated. The sights, the sounds and above all the smells are overwhelming. I also forgot how much attention I attracted, and being early in the morning after not much sleep I wasn't yet ready to face this, so I withdrew some Dihrams and got going towards Nidhar. The dusty dual carriageway took me south around the hilly peninsula as I passed countless smiles and greetings of Salaam alikum by the men of the roadside watching the world go by. I went straight through Nidhar still unacclimatised to the overwhelming attention, but I was getting very hungry so I rested up at a little tea stop out of town. I ate six eggs, a baguette and my first of many delicious mint teas while watching a guy dunking a lorry inner tube in an old bath tub to find the puncture. Suitably recharged, I got back on the N16 and rejoined the Mediterranean. The road had been recently rebuilt with EU funding, and the carving through the gentle foothills of the Rif mountains was immense. I wondered what kind of machine could slice through rocky hills so straight and cleanly on such an enormous scale. The earth walls revealed the geological periods of sediment of these ancient hills as I cycled past them relatively effortlessly, for the gradients were fairly easy. On I went, I realised that there were very few built up areas on this coast, just small settlements of farmers and fishermen. The traffic was incredibly light for a national road, possibly one vehicle passed me per minute. Every other vehicle here is an old Mercedes, handed down from from a European owner and cherished and repaired indefinately here. Th is is a land where things get fixed rather than discarded. I stop for another mint tea and am invited to share lunch with another customer: Yet again I am the centre of curiosity; here people want to know what it's like to be a young Engish guy, what philosphy we have if we don't worship our god. I carry on, and it dawns upn me I should think about where to stay. There is nowhere particular on the map indicating a guest house is likely, so 90km along I stop at a tea stop, meet the customers and use my judgement whether they seem sound enough to trust if I ask them if there is a place to stay nearby. I do this about three hours later after doubling my arabic vocabulary; learning about each other's lives, talking about the mad world we live in and the volatile situation with muslims and the west and how they just want to coexist just like most of us. We share the tranquility of this rural beach with the strangest looking cliffs behind us. The customers leave and bid me the warmest of farewells; saying how honoured they are to have met me, and Mohamed the owner of the tea hut lets me stay in the security of his hut behind the shutters, he will wake me at 8 and cook me breakfast. So after another load of eggs and baguette and some cake for lunch, he insist I pay only what everyone else would, about £3 for dinner, breakfast, countless cakes and teas.
I get going and the sky is even more grey than yesterday. An hour in and I take refuge in a marble lined classy cafe as the heavens open. I put my waterproofs on and continue along, playing duel with a tractor full of farm workers. They are highly amused that I'm quicker on the downhills and they overtake me on the uphills. I pass Ajdir and the gradients get fierce. My road goes inland but I decide to cycle 10km further to the big town of Al Hoceima. I realise the amount I withdrew at the start; 100 Dirhams sounded like a lot but was about £8 and I only had 30 Dh left. As the hills of the detour got steeper and steeper I hoped there would be a bank. Sure enough there was, and after a huge steak and chips for lunch I decided to find a hotel and recuperate. It had been 3 days since I stayed anywhere with washing facilities.

Paradise!

2010-03-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

I realise that I have been spoilt for hospitality. My Cartagena host, a young Mexican student called Pako was quite busy, so I was happy to pass the time before he finished at school, then cook us and his two housemates some food while he continued integrating radio frequency calculations. The housemates were Polish and German, and seemed more interested and offering of their Sangria. I really can't complain though, I just know I have been extremely spoilt. I got breakfast in a cafe, and got ready for a big day, 110 km and over 1200m climbing, west down the coast to Aguillas. I think it's too hard to describe the ride today but it was definately the most beautiful, traffic free yet gruelling rides so far. About 20km were on a rocky coastal track, and the finale was a 600m climb in the beautiful Cabo Cope y Puntas de Calnegre. I'll let the following photos do the talking...
I arrived at Aguillas, had a pizza and met up with Camille and Frederick, my hosts for tonight. French and US respectively, they were delightful company, but I was probably not the best of company as I was so exhausted. Fred told me about his complicated immigration situation, how he had remained in France after his marriage with a French woman had ended, and he had been deported from France after refusing an offer from the authorities. He was a perfect candidate for working for the government as a spy, apart from his political stance which meant now he was in Spain, teaching English on a tourist visa.

I left relatively early and realised my ride to Mojacar was tiny in comparison to yesterday´s, and with a strong tail wind I was there in no time. The sun was fierce today, and I was happy to go slowly in order to recuperate. The last leg however was a very steep hill into this ancient hill fort. The warren of whitewashed buildings have seen an occupation of many different tribes over it's long history. Greeks, Moors, Spanish and most recently English it seems. My host, David was born in Merseyside, but had never considered Britain his home, having raised a family in Denmark for the most part of his life. We went to a bar and did a very British pub quiz with some other English. Our team came second and we left. David was tired of this community and wanted to go on to Thailand for his next chapter.

We walked down the steep hill and after filling my bottles with warm spring water I said goodbye and got going again. I would break up my journey to Almeria and take David's advice to go and wild camp in Las Negras, where I may find some other young travellers. I warmed to this idea, since France I have felt a lot more alien to the locals and other more 'mature' holidaymakers, and I am sure this is not just due to my language barrier. The going was tough as the road worked its way through a desert landscape. David had told me it had been used for many spaghetti westerns as a fake Nevada or other US wilderness. Although not a long distance, the climbing was fierce today, and eventually I descended into Las Negras. I cased the joint for evidence of wild campers and younger, more alternative travellers but there was nothing, just a 6 euro site with designated pitches, entrance barrier and noise curfews- not my idea of camping, but an option if I found nothing else. Eventually I found a hippy and asked him of this spot I had imagined. Victor, a Czech guy told me it was not Las Negras but San Pedro, a mere 3km along the coast, but the only way was by boat or a very rocky track which he doubted I could ride the last part. It didn't put me off, and after buying some dinner I pushed up an extremely rocky track and cycled around the headland on a terrain most mountain bikes would have never graced. Victor was right about the last bit, carrying a 35kg bike over it was hard enough, but off in the distance I knew what I could see would make the whole chore worthwhile. It was like a paradise, a shanghri la. A small abandoned beach hamlet with a beautiful sandy beach. Cut off by the modern world with no tarmac connection, the sandstone structures were rebuilt using found materials. The odd tent was pitched in amongst a terrace of beautiful wild gardens, vibrant with herbs and flowers. I knew I was in a dilemma, I was going to be sucked into this place. Getting the bike back up the path was going to be a mammoth ordeal, yet I had come with no food and needed to remember my mission. I met a few Germans, one of whom had been here every winter for 7 years. He showed me the abuse the elements gave his tent, a couple of months of sunshine and the nylon disintegrated. We had a couple of beers in a makeshift bar an entrepreneurial Austrain ran, a tarpaulin over the terragce and some small warm cans for a euro each, then I went to sleep in my beautiful little pitch.

I packed up and carried the bike and the bags in two stages, I was exhausted having not even ridden anywhere yet. The 3km took close to an hour and I picked up a coffee, breakfast and lunch and got going. Yet more spaghetti western backdrop, and the route took me off tarmac and up a red earth track steeply up into the mountains. It was a route the GPS had chosen for me so I didn't know what to expect, but it was ideal. A hard climb up and then 40km of ever so slight descent through the plains of Nijar, populated by hectares upon hectares of tomato poly tunnels. This was my landscape for the day until the civilisation built up to Almeria. I am ready to change my lansdscape and culture now, and continue the last leg along the North coast of Morocco.

the beautiful hills

2010-03-14T14:11:00.000-07:00

Marlene and I took the poorly wheel to a motocycle cum bicycle mechanics a few streets away. They took it from me and told me to return at 6pm. After buying some provisions Marlene left me at her flat and went to play Bridge for a few hours. As well as catching up on couch surf requests, I tried learning some spanish, motivated by my need to collect the wheel. The young guy who served us was not there when I returned, Marlene had warned me that the older guy was pretty grumpy and unhelpful. Sure enough my terrible attempt at asking if the wheel had been fixed went over his head, the only think I understood was no comprende. Luckily I saw the repaired wheel, so the international sign language of pointing to it and saying quanto did the trick. 12 euros later and the bike was back on form ready to depart tomorrow. We went to a bar and had some wine, then returned to sleep.

After a hearty breakfast, I said goodbye and got going. It was overcast, and I went inland to traverse the hilly headland, climbing slowly up the N332 to 200m.

The road snaked its way through enormous gorges with a railway line precariously following a contour around the cliffs. Up we went until we reached a plateau with the occasional evidence of civilisation dotted about on the barren landscape. I pressed on through Teulada and Benissa before descending a great long hill down to the high rise landscape of tourist ville. Back on the coast the weather was fine again, but beyond the sprawl of tourist shops, Mc Donalds and small businesses there was little to see. The road undulated past Calpe, Altea and eventually skirted around the famous Benidorm, a metropolis of high rise apartments resembling a hazy salmon and cream coloured Manhatten. There was no desire to explore it, and I went inland to get away from the package holiday madness. The road climbed steeply up the mountain side, the 250m climb was relentless in the heat but it was comforting to enter the tranquil beauty of the vast arid hills. I passed through Finestrat and turned down a closed road for 6 km, weaving its way up and over the hills until I found Rosalind's little bungalow up a dusty little track. What a place! Rosalind defined a content life of solitude. She had lived here for five years, the last two alone, and she was quite happy to exist alone on the hillside. She had solar electricity, rain water to wash and cook with and spring water to drink. I marvelled at the landscape in the afternoon sun, then she lit a fire and cooked me some pasta and chorizo. I listened intently as she talked about her rich life, her travels around the world, her year in South America discovering her amazonian roots, her four sons of two marriages and the stresses and strains of love and separation and the complicated arrangements of her grandchildren. We talked about Bristol where she lived for many years, about the role of today's men and women in family, and last but not least, football which she surprisingly loved. Rosalind was a truely inspirational woman.

I said goodbye and thankyou after porridge, and descended to Villajoyosa to return to my coastal journey. The sun was intense but it wasn't too hot, the going was cooled by a gentle breeze. I cycled through the hilly arid landscape and on to Alicante. As I passed the cacti and aloe shimmering in the sun, I cast my memory back to the piles of snow I had passed on the hills of Somerset, the icy blizzards of Niort and the strong winds of the Canal du Midi and how these thighs of mine had got me here. They are still going strong, stronger now and I have to admit I am quite amused by their shape. Not quite Belleville Rendezvous legs but not far off.

The traffic in Alicante was frantic, but I followed the route through the centre despite it being barricaded off from traffic. The empty dual carriageway took me to the seafront where enormous yachts were moored up and everybody was out parading the street. There was a cycling event and a load of cyclists out, BMXs, families and children, mountain bikers, glamorous girls on folding bikes, young guys on retro fixed gear bikes and then me, a lonesome lanky grubby guy on a heavily laden vintage steed having ridden 2200km. I chuckled to myself as I cruised past, nobody noticing. The traffic re joined me as I left Alicante and descended onto a great shimmering plain with another high rise resort. I stopped for a pizza and continued on past huge salt flats before climbing gently to La Marina, my destination. I met my hostess, Viviana at the very busy, luxurious and successful campsite she owned, and we walked to her beautiful house where her Spanish husband, Tony, family and friends were. Originally from Belgium, she had lived in Spain since the sixties and spoke five languages. The sheer luxury of the house, swimming pool, many cars, caravans and pool was an indication of the campsite's success. She showed me her ceramic studio where she created a huge variety of beautiful pieces, and after a conversing with her friends with her as the interpreter we had dinner, I planned a long leg of couch surfing, wrote this and went to bed. The following morning after beakfast, she took me to the campsite shop where she insisted on filling a bag of goodies for lunch. I said goodbye, and as I cycled along I thought about the contrast of my two last hostesses. Both were so kind, yet there was something about the generous hospitality of a person who had made such a successful business out of hosting that gave me goosepimples. I felt very honoured to receive such an exclusive treatment from the Deckx family.

The journey today was another very sunny one, on past more tourist landscape and over a gently undulating terrain. The road was being widened, so I had a lane all to myself as it was closed off but more or less complete. 10km on and the two carriageways became busy with traffic and I was ushered onto a cycle lane. It didn't take long for the gratitude to turn into frustration as it was about the most stupid cycle lane I had ridden on. Navigating in and out of junctions with sharp corners and street signs in the way, down and up hills to roundabouts instead of straight on the road, and negotiating big kerbs made this path more dangerous than the road. So I got back on the N334 and pressed on to San Javier.

I then left the busy road and took an F road straight past more farmland. It was populated by lettuces and irrigated with black pipes, the occasional hut and run down house. I stopped for a coffee in a very one-horse bar and got the cheapest cafe con leche so far. The big hooped earrings and dubious mullets and dark skin of the clientelle made me suspect that this was a land of immigrant farm workers. I pressed on, and the last 30km was hard going with a steady headwind. Eventually I got into Cartagena where I am now, killing another few hours before my host Pako finishes studying at 8.30.

slow progress

2010-03-12T04:24:00.000-08:00

Valencia is great. Kyle and Ana are great. What was meant to be a day´s rest turned out to be four. The first night I arrived we went to a couch surf party where Kyle did some projections. The theme was supposed to be Indian, though one would never guess. It was the most international gathering I have been to, I met French, German, Spanish, Estonian, Canadian, Romanian, US and Hungarian people, and then gave up meeting any more when the flat filled. It was very confusing knowing which language to try and speak, though I was happy to chat away in French with Julie, a young french girl studying furniture restoration. We drank lots of rum and coke and ate a buffet of food broght along by everybody, then at midnight the crowd was ushered out and we helped clear up. Kyle poured some more drink when we got back, but my 400km in four days made me quite dizzy and incoherent.
So the next few days were spent hanging out, seeing the city and meeting up with Julie and her German friend Anna, watching really budget zombie films and talking VJ. We go and see (or should I say hear) the mascleta, a daily explosion of fireworks for five minutes in the main square. It is all part of the Falles, a Valencian celebration of St Joseph in which enormous paper and wood puppets are burnt in the streets. They represent satirical topics of the moment, people unfortunate enough to be chosen are characatured in colossal inflammable structures up to five stories high. It is a pity not to see the main party next week where everybody from children to grandparents are out throwing bangers, processions work their way around the streets and the city is alive with noise. I pity the poor startled animals who must think there is a war going on. I confess that my time here was a major distraction to my mission and made me feel a bit transient, it made me warm to the idea of learning Spanish and spending some time here, but not just yet. First things first, some more pedalling to do.
So on Thursday I get back on the road, legs feeling recuperated. The weather is cool and sunny but there is a headwind. Out of Valencia I realise I must not take the souhwesterly direct route I had made, but detour out to the headland in a southeasterly direction. The GPS chose a route shaped like a question mark, 150km in all, so I predicted if I keep going straight along the coast it´ll be 100km. It's a steady flat ride past a the Albufera lake where rice is grown, and then on along the coast past the beautiful blue haze of some impressive hills to the right. The foreground of orange crops, mile after mile has now become repetitive like the vineyards of France, it becomes apparent what a massive industry oranges are here. I stop to pick up a stray one on the road and it is perfect. I press on past Gandia, only stopping at a supermarket where I stop for lunch. I'm right about the straight line, my concern was whether or not I would have to negotiate a headland with winding hilly roads or face a massive detour. But 100km and a headwind was still a hard day and the sun was setting as I reached Denia. Built around a castle up on a big rock, Denia appeared to be a classy tourist town, inhabited by many retired English and Germans. My host, Marlene was one, having moved here after devorcing back in North Germany. The children were grown up and she had chosen a new life in a sunny climate, with plenty of likeminded friends to make. She entertains herself walking in the mountains, playing Bridge and learning Spanish. After squeezing the old bike and luggage in the lift and showering, I sit down with some wine and some spaghetti bolognaise and we chat away. It is apparent that the previous evening, Marlene hosted her first couch surfer and did not have a good experience. The guy had made her uncomfortable and when she asked him to leave he had refused to. Only when the police had been mentioned did he leave but he stole her spare sim card, lent to him out of goodwill. It is a shame how much of a dent on one's confidence of trust one individual can make to hosts, Svetlana had mentioned she thought that Couchsurfing had grown too big for its own good. Still, Marlene was very pragmatic about it, the fact that his profile had existed for 2 years but nobody had witten a good reference is enough to be suspicious for the next time. Hopefully Gerhard will find it very hard to find a host again with his new negative reference.
I woke up today ready to press on with a fairly hilly 73km to Villajoyosa. However, after fixing the puncture I got at the end of yesterday I noticed that the back axle had broken. I knew I should have bought a new wheel in Bordeaux! We went to a scooter\bike mechanic who said to return at 6pm, so alas I am stuck here for another day. Slow progress recently.

pressing on

2010-03-05T07:19:00.000-08:00

The weather changes quite a bit here. I realised in Barcelona that I had caught the sun from the previous two days´riding, yet when I woke up it was deadful outside. I guess most people would consider sampling the delights of Barcelona's culture, Picasso or Gaudi for example. But I had been in Spain for a week and looking at the progress so far made me want to press on. I've got a mission to do. Besides, the force 7 wind was in the direction I wanted to go, and the waterproof gear I had bought at great expense had to be put to good use. So, despite not getting a response from any potential hosts I said my goodbyes and got going. Getting out of town seemed to take forever as the traffic lights on each block of the city´s huge grid layout turned red as I approached. The road eventually got wider as I travelled inland and around the airport, and to my horror the GPS had guided me towards a motorway. Reprogramming it sent me all over the suburbs, so I used good old fashioned compass to work my way south through street after street of suburbia. The whole way along the roads were crammed with traffic, but eventually 20km later I was coastal again. I stopped for an early lunch, a 3 course menu to set me going, and got back on the damp saddle feeling ready. The weather forecast had got the torrential rain bit right but not the wind direction. The coastal C31 road became hilly and contoured as it curved around the rocky hills, and the traffic was very heavy with trucks and cars avoiding the toll of the motorway. I am glad I brought a high vis waistcoat with the conditions like these, especially at the speed I was crawling up the gradients at. Every half hour would see a new bay with the repeated views of 4 or 5 story apartments and hotels, all of which were still boarded up for winter. Past cement works, golf courses, marinas and nondescript wastelands I pressed on, still with the rain pouring down. The water was cascading down the cliffs and spraying out from behind the many vast trucks passing me. I was missing the tranquility of the French roads as well as missing the ability to listen to my mp3 player. Not only was it a pretty bad idea on these roads, but it's a 30 euro fine in Spain.

As the hills moved off inland, the roads became more and more inundated. Every now and again I would be sprayed by an oncoming car, but not only was I damp I was also getting tired and the litlle daylight I had was fading. I started looking out for a place to stay by the time I had reached Torredembarra, but I realised that beggars couldn't be choosers, and what with such poor choice being a ghost town I crossed my fingers for a good modest hotel. My luck was with me when I found La Torreta, a two star place with all you can eat evening buffet and breakfast for 46 euros. Its amazing how revitalising lots of food and a hot shower can be. I strolled to the village to find the internet didn't work, so I phoned a few friends to ask if they could search for tomorrow's host online, watched some boring BBC and fell asleep.
The following day the weather was quite pleasant. After stuffing myself for breakfast I got going. The progrees was good, though my thighs were aching. I reached Tarragona quickly and got online to book tomorrow's host. My host for tonight had replied, but my destination was a long one Amposta- 105km to do. With the wind properly behind me and a fairly flat terrain I was optimistic. I climbed out of the city past a vast port and even larger industrial plants. The N340 was yet more unpleasant riding, with as many HGVs as cars, and although I had a 2m wide hard shoulder it was not very forgiving for cycling. I didn't stop until I realised I could do with some sun cream, so stopped at an expensive resort supermarket to buy some, along with some DIY lunch. The scenery was pretty repetitive, although now there were more agricultural plots with oranges and pink blossomed trees. It was beautiful. The traffic was still relentless, so I took a slightly rougher little track running parallel for quite a way. I tried my best to work out routes avoiding the main road but these just proved too slow and I still had a way to go. Eventually I saw the peninsula of the Parc Naturel del Delta de l'Ebre. I imagined it to be a good place to explore, but not now- mission to do. Since being in Spain I have had some generally much nicer weather and some fantastic hosts, but my lack of language has made it lonely in the day. Fewer people seem to have the curiosity the french had, and even if they do ask me something as one guy on a motobike did, the conversation doesn't last long. I find Daniel's street and get a burger in a cafe beforehand. Daniel is the first host who I've not had a glimpse of on the internet, so I have an unusual anticipation when he opens the door. He is in his late fifties though he looks much younger, and despite his English being good he has an initially cold manner. This soon disappears after I have had a shower and he finishes on the laptop, we talk as he cooks boiled vegetables and omelete. He lives with a younger Pakistani guy (away), having separated from his wife five years earlier. He tells me of the injustice of the Catalan law, where he no longer has the right to his house. Whoever has custody of the child, usually the mother as in his case, keeps the house in order for the child not to be traumatised by the break up. In some ways there is sense in this (certainly for the child), but it can be very unjust for whoever does not have custody. Still, he doesn't have long before his son is old enough to leave home and study when he can have the right back to his house. We talk about travel, Morocco and living abroad, ties and freedom. He gives me a lot to think about on my way, and he writes down a sequence of villages to pass if I want to go inland and avoid the big trucks. It is very tempting, but is a massive amount of hill climbing and has little couch surfing opportunities.
I get up early and leave the same time as Daniel. The good bye is dashed as he is late for school. Yet another inspiring, kind human. So valuable for me in this alien land! I think of Ellen MacArthur sailing around the world alone, how mentally strong she would be to endure months of total solitude, not even a landscape to look at. Hats off to her. At least I have people like Daniel to help me along the way.
I get more of a breakfast at a proper trucker's stop, well doughnuts at least. It's back on the saddle for another 100km to Benicasim, but the wind is really on my tail and quite strong. I keep a steady 20mph and watch the road ease along on the GPS screen. The N340 leads me inland, past forgotten hotels and cafes, dirty apartments and massive swathes of orange crops. I am now not far from Valencia. I make brilliant progress, half way by noon and I celebrate by pigging out at a huge Carrefour supermarket. This store really sells everything, though I really only need protein, carbohydrate, a bit of fat, salt and fruit. I am quite disturbed to see a very vexed looking puppy for sale in the pet corner, it really does sell everything. I took Daniel's advice and took a bit of a detour to see Pentiscola, but I didn't really find it that interesting. The urge to ride was so strong I was in danger of being an anti tourist and not up for seeing what Spain was selling. So back on to the busy vein of the N340 and a I had a bit of a mountain to climb. The gradient was fairly forgiving but the climb seemed to last forever. I think the sheer weight of the bike is a blessing and a curse on these hills, the turbulence of the lorries hurtling past being less dangerous with the heavy load, but the obvious extra effort needed to lift it wasn't fun. The road became flat at about 200 meters altitude and took us through a barren valley with rocky peaks either side. Then after 15 km I was happy to see the bay view ahead and a steady long descent. Now I had no hard shoulder, so I just prayed no eager trucker would try his luck overtaking as the road swept downhill. It was another hour along the flat, whistling along with the strong wind before another unpleasant climb and a big steep descent into Benicasim. I cycled block after block in search of an internet place in this ghost town before realising the locals lived inland a bit. I found the library and whiled away a couple of hours writing this and then went and found my hostess, Svetlana when she finished work. From Volgograd, Russia, Svetlana has been living in Spain for 5 years. Another divorcee, she lives alone with her cat in a very pleasant house and works in the neighboring Castellon as an advocate. She had explained that she was going to be busy packing for snowboarding, so I offered to cook. It wasn't really until eating together that we could talk and unwind, and I was happy to experience yet another amicable interesting and interested host. She made a flan for dessert, a kind of thick set custard and lime caramel, and then after a bit more chatting we said good night. I woke and made us some coffee, then after a massive plate of scrambled eggs we went our separate ways.

The wind was stronger still and in my direction, so I was flying along with little effort. I took the coastal cycle path past Castillon and into Burriana where I stopped for coffee. I was invited to sit with two lycra clad mountain bikers drinking beer at noon. This was truely my first Spanish conversation, well a mixture of Spanish and English as we all had about the same rubbish level! Davide and Juan were so animated and awe inspired that I'd ridden all this way and paid my bill. I got a great send off from the bar staff and these two guys which lifted my spirits no end. From Burriana I followed the coast past waves crashing on the boulders, occasionally splashing over the road. I cycled past rusty industry and endless holiday developments. Daniel had told me about the recession halting some of the new developments along this stretch, and it seemed apparent. I could not imagine how many EasyJet planes would be needed to fill the amount of accommodation I passed. On and on I flew, going inland to Sagunto to avoid a port, with yet more industry sprawling across the flat landscape. I followed a stretch of coastal road on the gps but it was so close to the pounding waves that it had been eaten away by nature and blocked off. It was fun to go down it anyway. By the afternoon, the built up areas became more and more joined as I came into Valencia. I found the way to Kyle and Anna's flat through a maze of narrow streets in the old centre. Straight away I got a good impression of this city, stylish but not too trendy, varied but not too vast and with lots going on but with a laid back atmosphere. Although a couch surfer, I knew Kyle from the video jockey community and he had invited me to stay a while ago after generously donating to my cause. He was so happy to see me finally arrive all this way and I felt so priveliged to have such a hero's welcome. He showed me around his studio and flat, then gave me a chance to catch up on writing this. Tonight we will go to a couch surf party and I will tell you all about it in the next entry.

Down to Barcelona

2010-03-02T10:48:00.001-08:00

Like I suspected, I did not get up at the crack of dawn and cycle on. I took Kike's offer of another day as I was enjoying his company and still felt quite exhausted and slightly hung over. We had a leisurely start to the day and I went and bought some lunch, I was hungry so I went and got lots of tapas style nibbles, remembering not to buy eggs as they were abundant back home. I appreciated another day of doing very little, writing the last blog, reading and hanging out with Kike. I was amused to see him watching his hen coop pensively, and my guess about what he was thinking was right as he watched the cockerel scornfully. Since getting him he has had no luck with any of his hens incubating their eggs, and the cockerel reciprocates the scornful look at him, attacking him when he goes to feed them. He's given the rooster an unlimatum, no fertilisation by April and he will be Sunday roast. Time passed swiftly and after another filling pasta I was feeling recharged and ready for another day. We got woken very early by the cockerel's call and I imagined Kike was thinking what sauce to cook him in. I said my goodbyes and thank yous and got on my bike, with a route planned to go inland and miss out the next 20km of coast as it was very up and down and twisting and turning, though it looked longer on the map the main road inland was less distance and climb. The weather was glorious with little wind, and I climbed gently up out of St Feliu and cruised downhill to the inland junction, only to find it was a busy dual carriageway and cycles weren't permitted. With no means of cutting across to the coast I had to trek back to my starting point with ten unnecessary kilometers on my clock. I found the coastal road, and despite crawling up a lengthy hill I began to realise this way was going to be much more worthwhile, with the beautiful coastal views and next to no traffic I was glad to have been made to go this route. The first ten kilometers were uninhabited, the road snaked its way around the contours of the steep wooded hillside, carving a line of red earth in and out of the bays. It was bliss, the smooth tarmac and no traffic meant the downhills could be taken with a wide racing line, and the uphills were taken at walking pace while admiring the stunning scenery. Gradually modular cubes poked out of the vegetation, little holiday resorts terraced into the bays like honeycomb, all of which were almost empty. The bays got bigger and more developed, and after Tossa de Mar The road became busier, finally mounting one last big hill where the long straight flat beaches of the Brava could be seen vanishing into the blue haze of the horizon. By now the wind had picked up, and to my annoyance it was directly oncoming. I had to pedal to descend the last hill into Lloret de Mar, a considerably sized holiday town and my first experience of proper Spanish seaside tack. Mc Donalds, casinos, full english breakfasts and R&B all day all nite lined the big streets, couples and groups of girls I could tell straight away were English. Still I was hungry so stopped at the most local looking place with the provision of having the bike close by. Ok I failed on this one, I got a kebab.

Back en route and the going was really tough with the headwind. I got off the main road and went coastal again, down past repeated views of high rise hotels and apartments, fancy little plazas and tightly packed caravan parks. I thought to myself how different humans can be, how little this environment appealed to me as a holiday destination.
Eventually my tired old legs got me into Calella, I knew my host Yam was at work so I passed the time calling people and reading. He said he finished at 6, but then that became 8pm so I killed some more time and got some food. Yam came and met me, a Cuban chap with a mischievous smile. We went up to his apartment and about five minutes after meeting me he left me with keys and his little laptop saying he's off out for a couple of hours. Throughout the trip I've been awe inspired by the level of trust people have in me, but Yam takes it to a new level. I shower in his marble lined flat, not too dissimilar to Joaquim's. Yam works on computers, but is also really creative, making music, photography and video. Three and a half hours later the elusive host returns and I buy him a Guinness at the Irish bar below his flat. Here he is obviously a local, the barman treats us all to a shot of Jagermeister and we talk about Ireland as Yam drools at the young (and I mean young) Italian girls. I like Yam, he's funny.
In the morning we have a Cuban breakfast of Papaya, hot chocolate and eggs and yet again he leaves me to let myself out. I did 80km yesterday, so the 50 to Barcelona mean I don't feel the need to start too early. Besides, yet again I feel a bit rough.
Still I get on my bike and am pleased to see the wind has reversed. Once the legs are warmed up, the gently undulating road passes by at a super pace, little effort uphills and racing down them. The road is busy though, and every now and again I try and take a path between the beach and railway. Sometimes this proves to be a chore, with a dead end or road closure and a bit of a detour back. One time I carry the bike down a subway onto the ststion platform, only to find I can't exit without a ticket.
The landscape is a busy one but residential and industrial rather than touristic. The traffic feeds off to the motorway leaving me more relaxed as I take in the views. Gradually the hinterland of industry grows and the pillars of the metropolis can be seen on the horizon. Before long I'm on the outskirts, a monstrous beast of a power station marks the end of functional ugliness and the beginning of sleek creative architecture, big tower blocks and apartments glistening in the sun. I'm confronted by endless grids of traffic lights, all seeming to go red on approach. I go right into the centre and then pass the time for my host to finish work, wandering through the streets amidst the hoards of guided tours and young couples wandering about. I go to find Rupert and Bettina's flat near the central station. They are the first people I know from beforehand since day 1, so it is refreshing to have some familiarity at last.

Costa Brava

2010-02-28T05:11:00.000-08:00

When I started writing this post, two men upstairs were skinning and butchering a huge wild boar in the kitchen. I am staying with Kike and his dog Tate in Saint Feliu de Guixols on the Costa Brava after having ridden 80km down from Roses and it is quite a contrast to my last host, Joaquim. After last writing I went and met Joaquim at his flat in the centre of Roses. I put my bike in the garage, was shown around the lovely modern flat and took a very luxurious shower. He is a Catalan teacher at a local secondary school and is a few years older than me. Although he thinks his English is bad, I would disagree and I listen to him talk passionately about his culture as we eat a delicious healthy dinner. He shows me the tradition of eating Pa am Tomaquet, toasted bread with a special local variety of tomato rubbed upon it along with a sprinkle of olive oil and salt. The tomato is one that can keep for a year if hung on its vine, and is expensive to buy in the shops. The Catalans tend to grow these themselves, keeping seeds within the families and passing them down through generations.

I hear a concise rendition of Catalonia's history, how Franco tried to eliminate the identity, language and culture of Catalans, but after his death how it became the first region of Spain to gain autonomy. How although it is one of Spain's most prosperous economies there are still tensions between the cultures of the mainstream country and theirs.
We talk until the small hours about all manner of interesting topics about life and society, but I struggle to take it all in as I am very tired.
The following day I take a well earned breather, I cut my hair, do the laundry, go to the internet cafe and stock up on food. I then think I deserve a siesta, so when I wake at 6pm I go with Joaquim to Figueres where he goes to Japanese lessons and I go to the Dali museum. Alas it is closed, so I take a coffee and watch the world go by, a lively bustle of Spanish city life on a Friday night. It is true, lots of locals of all ages are out and about, dressed up and enjoying themselves. We go back and meet another couch surfer, Tom, an Israeli girl who is working her way around Spain working on farms (wwoofing). It is another interesting night talking away until the small hours.
I set off relatively early and get going, cycling inland past the local industries of fishing, boat sales and repairs and smallhold farms. The land is flat and populated with small villages and cattle farms, but as I progress the dreaded headwind picks up. The runs alongside a new dual carriageway construction and even on an off season Saturday it is apparent why a bigger road is being built as traffic is heavy. The route guides me between three sets of hills and back towards Palamos, where the evidence of the area's main industry, tourism is apparent. Being off season, I pass huge ghost towns of empty high rise blocks, never ending lines of Dutch and British caravans stored closely packed in fields. The headwind is still relentless and the distance remaining reduces painstakingly slowly, and yet again the knee begins to hurt. I get to Saint Feliu where I grab a coffee and phone Kike (or Henriyk) who comes and meets me by the bus station. We walk a short distance to his place that he is building. Once a garage with an unused floor below, he has converted it into a home with found and recycled materials. It is quite a contrast, with a fancy granite topped kitchen aquired when a rich family wanted a newer one, to the simple shower involving a bucket of heated water and a jug. He lives a 'good life' with 5 hens, a vegetable garden, occasional fish he catches when snorkelling, and meat which his English friend Nick has just arrived with from a hunt. We drink beer and lend an occasional hand in ripping the hyde off this impressive beast, with Tate the huge alsation cross looking hopefully for some scrap. Kike works about 6 months of the year as a surveyor to pay for luxuries like car, broadband and beer but is well on the way for living pretty self sufficiently. As well as living he seems to have a good community of friends and a very content life, so it seems strange to hear his band, some of the angriest sounding metal punk I have heard. I like it though. We drink beer till the small hours and I get the feeling I'm not going to make it to Barcelona tomorrow.

Here is his band...
http://www.youtube.com/user/zaspurrilla#p/u/6/HEFpNKjIJw8

2010-02-26T05:03:00.001-08:00

more photos can be seen at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/93893417@N00/
x

Estoy en España!

2010-02-25T04:47:00.000-08:00

Well I have made it to Spain, and I'm now in an internet cafe in what appears to be the arabic part of Roses, a coastal town at the foot of the mountainous border. After I left you last I went to meet my host outside the hospital of Narbonne. I had assumed he was called David, so when greeted by a Sarah I was slightly confused. In case some of you may be wondering about the trend of hostesses and not hosts, so am I. I ask a few people in each place but seem to have only had responses from young ladies. Mustn't grumble!

So we went to her flat around the corner and I had a cup of delicious tisane or herbal tea, seemingly more popular in France than UK. Much of it is home made and hand picked, and Sarah´s lemon, rosemary and honey blend was so refreshing. Sarah is yet another great hostess and quite funny as well. We talked for a few hours and then I went to sleep. In the morning I was delighted to have a fruity porridge and two of yesterday´s croissants, and we both left for work. My job was to get to Perpignan, though I had not had a definate reply from any hosts tonight, only a suggestion from a Guilguid that I come to a cafe at 7pm where the Perpignan couch surfers are having a meeting. Somebody there may well host me.

So to my delight I was back on the Canal de Robine again, guiding me south and over the beautiful Etang de Bages. The canal and railway come together and follow a narrow embankement separating freshwater and saltwater lakes. The view is incredible with the misty foothills of the Pyrenees in the distance and the wetlands in the foreground. Eventually the canal leads me into a forgotten industrial complex which reminds me of Newport in Wales, so when I realise it´s called Port la Nouvelle I chuckle to myself. I get onto the D709 but it is not a particularly pleasant road, and when the Peage (toll) avoiding trucks merge onto it I go back onto the coastal road to Leucate. This is my first taste of Mediterranean holiday town, and I imagine how much like Lego the architecture would look if it were all painted in primary colours. The road leads straight along wide palm lined boulevards, but being far from tourist season the place is deserted. I am passed by a big group of lycra clad cyclists, and then pass a slightly older group who up their pace to keep up with me; I'm sure it's probably quite disheartening to be overtaken by somebody heavily laden and ringing a bell on a vintage bike.

The route guides me inland, and holiday architecture gets replaced with industrial and more humble residential architecture, eventually becoming more and more built up as I enter Perpignan. I have a little while to pass before 7pm so I get a big baguette and chips, and amble along to the Porto Cafe where I'll sit outside with a coffee. I'm amused to witness a fiery row with the barman and one of the drunks, the dog barking and other locals joining in to the friction. Guilguid gets there at 7, and one by one the Perpignan couch surf hosts come together to have a social. Like all of my previous hosts they are all different, but share the same humanity and happily meet up regularly to socialise. It inspired me to do the same when I get back to Bristol. After a few amarettos, I gladly accept the offer of Nico's couch, where American Anna is staying too. We go home and eat some food and chat away. He tells me a bit about Perpignan, how it is the capital of northern Catalunya, and how the French authorities banned people from talking Catalan in his grandmother's day. Some Perpignan inhabitants want to unite with the Spanish Catalans and reform Catalunya. We chat away until 1.30. It's going to be a struggle to get to Roses tomorrow!

I rise tardily and bid farewell to Nico, then I get on the bike and set coordinates to Cebere, the coastal village on the border. It's 65km away which I think will be easy progress as I fly out of Perpignan with the wind behind me. It is easy progress for a while as I shoot past more holiday resorts, but as the misty blue foothills loom ever closer I realise the flat road won't last. I stop on the beach to admire the view, have lunch and oil the bike, then push on. It feels like a long while since the front gear has gone down to the smallest cog for a while but it's going to be pretty necessary for a while now. Uphills are a laid back 10 km/h and then the downhills glide along as the road twists and turns through hairpins, but the Route de Banyuls is slow progress. It is 4pm when I get to Cebere, so when the GPS shows it's another 46km of twists and turns, ups and downs to Roses, I think better of it and decide to give my knees a break and camp. I take coffee at a cafe on the Place with Annie et Bob, two curious Parisiens who instantly ask questions about the bike and then the ride, couch surfing and all manner of topics. I get a pizza along with some groceries and as the light fades I climb up the enormous hill towards the border. 100 metres from the border is a little track which splits to another blocked track, the flat stony ground is the best I will find, so I erect the tent and get an early night.

I wake up at dawn, but I am in no hurry to leave, I have until 6pm before my host Joaquim finishes work. By 9am I am in Spain, and I cruise down the hill to Portbou where I wake up properly in a bar with two expressos. This is the first time I am unable to converse, which is especially a pity when passing time. Still I happily pass more than an hour before I get back to climbing, up and round three headlands and four towns before going up into the natural park of Cap de Creuss. This is not the direct route, but for once I think I'll hapilly go the longer and challenging uphill route. I've got time to kill. The gradient isn't too bad as the road weaves through some rocky jagged hillsides. It's quiet on this road, but towards the top there is a gusty wind that almost knocks me off as I come round the hillside. I'm passed by several road cyclists and eventually I get to the summit, 280 metres up. The downhill sweeps into Roses, I'm at my destination by lunch time. About time for a breather.

Canal du Midi

2010-02-22T08:38:00.000-08:00

After last writing I went and telephoned my Toulouse hostess for the evening, Audrey. I took her instruction to go to the station and sent her a text when I got there. I heard a phone beep and she was right next to me waiting. I'm sure I'm not hard to miss.

We crossed the street and went to her flat. I put the bike in the courtyard and we sat down for tea and chatted away. She cooked some chick peas, lentils, cumin and marmite concoction which was very tasty, then we chatted away drinking tea until about 11 when I became very sleepy. I passed out on the sofa and slept like a log until the next morning. Audrey was great to talk to, she had a very easy friendly manner and seemed very wise. I was tempted to hang out the following day but I was on a mission and had some catching up to do, so after going to an internet cafe to 'book' the next couple of day's couchsurfers and buy us some breakfast I said my thanks and goodbyes and got back on the saddle. The Canal du Midi was going to be my path for the next couple of days and was right on her doorstep. It was completed in 1680 by a rich farmer, Pierre Riquet, though he died with huge debts months before his completion. The Midi and the Lateral link the Mediterranean with the Atlantic, a huge strategic advantage to the French as navigating goods by boat around hostile Spain was very long and dangerous.
This older stretch was noticably less straight than the Lateral (as the name may suggest), and it didn't take long before I realised how much of a headwind I had to negotiate. I got away from the shelter of built up Toulouse and out onto the open plains and the wind only got worse. I was normally able to cruise at 15 mph but today it was very hard going at 8 or 9mph. It didn't take long for me to realise my goal of getting to Carcasonne, 65 miles away was going to prove to be an almighty challenge. I stopped at Villefranche for lunch (I was so glad to have brought stuff with me as everything was closed on Sunday), and it was quite demoralising to see how much further I had. I had asked the potential host to text me if it was ok to stay, but I had not had a reply so it was looking more likely I would camp this evening. After lunch the wind seemed to die down a bit, but I was exhausted and my lunch wasn't quite enough. By Castelnaudary I was so hungry, and realising Sunday meant the only thing open was a Mc Donald's, I stuck my two fingers up at my principles and devoured two Big Mac meals. The ride past Castelnaudry was much better, both being full of dirty food and no wind at all to slow me down. Furthermore the grey weather had been replaced with a beautiful evening sun, and the canal and landscape had become more interesting. I rode about half an hour into the pitch black, then scoped a camping spot in the wild as I was actually quite near Carcasonne and had ditched the hope of a response from the Couch surf host. I found a spot in a huge flat field, far away from roads and paths. There I passed out in the comfort of the tent and fell into a deep sleep. I was exhausted.
I woke up at 8.15, promptly upped sticks and left. It really wasn't far to Carcasonne and there I stopped for coffee and croissants. It didn't seem too appealing and so I continued on down the canal. The landscape was stunning but the weather was not. I pressed on but was still hungry so kept my eye out for more food, monday morning however was not good for business in rural France. I did however find a boulangerie and picked up a job lot of yesterday's pain au chocolat.

As the day progressed the terrain of the track deteriorated, and I had to negotiate muddy singletrack lined with tree roots. Some bits were incredibly slow going, especially as the headwind had picked up too. On and on I pressed, I realised that I didn't have such a massive distance to do today so I stopped in a charming village called Ventenac en Minervois. The first cafe I found was open, and once inside it was apparent that a stranger had come to town as all eyes looked my way. It didn't take long for the curiosity to turn to warm hospitality when the barman asked where I had come from en vèlo. The place was full of old and young bon vivants of many nationalities, including an old London chap called Peter who took insulting banter from his Belgian friend. Peter gave me his son's address and number in Spain in case I needed a familiar helping hand. Yet more humanity to keep me going. I pressed on with only 25km to go, and at the last 10km the canal split into many parts. A sign and the GPS helped me distinguish which arm to choose, but what was unclear was how to cross either the canal or a massive wier cutting the way. I asked two sets of old ladies who gave opposing directions, neither of which made sense to the GPS and sign, so when they intersected each other I let them realise this and they showed me a tiny singletrack. This led up to a big old steel railway bridge. A load of old ramblers had come off the bridge and ensured my confidence it was the way, and although not exactly mainline, the silver surface of the tracks suggested it was still used. I chuckled to myself about the nature of the navigation on this final stretch, descending a ramped wall to to the correct final stretch of canal and finally getting back onto some smooth gravel track. The old bike had taken a beating today, and as I cleaned out the dirt from the mudguards I noticed this great iron sculpture, the claws of destruction. The last straight bit of canal quickly descended into Narbonne, and I reflected on the last five days of almost completely off road travel, Atlantic to Mediterranean, it had been extremely tough and solitary at times but beautiful and satisfying as well.

I'm now sitting in an internet cafe waiting for my host to finish work. The city feels daunting and unfriendly, there are lots of people talking to themselves and this cafe is full of photos of guns and knives, but I've got a warm feeling of the adventure I've had so far.

1000 km in!

2010-02-20T07:25:00.000-08:00

I am in Toulouse, and I'm burning up in an internet cafe. Having come in from the cold, I'd like to take my fleece off but I fear the stench may offend my neighbors (having not washed for 2 days).

So where was I last? Oh yes, Bordeaux, feeling a bit down because of the knee and the slow progress. So I went and saw a doctor about it, who said it was an inflamed tendon due to RSI and prescribed some voltasomething and some anti-inflammatory gel bandage. I also picked up the wheel, which was a bit better but confirmed my theories about these trendy fancy bike shops as it still wasn't perfect. Still, it'll do and I was past complaining again. Besides, I just want to go. That evening I made a quiche and bought an earthenware flan to bake it in as a little thankyou gesture. It really wasn't enough for the superb hospitality I've been treated to.
On Thursday morning I packed up and left, happy to have some very clement weather to enjoy. I rolled down the riverside and crossed the almighty Garonne on the Pont de Pierre. I carried on upstream on Bordeaux's less classy side, which gradually became industrial and then rural. I was looking for la Piste Roger Lambert which was a disused railway line cutting a windy section off the Garonne. I wasn't exactly sure how to find it (as it wasn't on the GPS) so when I eventually passed a cyclist going that tiny bit slower I asked him. He was out doing a spot of exercise, so he decided to change his course and take me there. I spent 20km chatting away with Charles about life and bikes so I didn' really take in the scenery. I was astonished when he told me he was 58, he could have passed for 40. We went our separate ways (I think he'd gone well out of his way) and I took his advice to have an early lunch at this restaurant. I had a delicious seafood salad, boudin noir (huge black puddings) and chips and some kind of meringue and custard all for 10 euros. I could have also had a carafe of wine with that too but opted for water. I seemed to be the centre of attention again, and talked with an old postal worker who looked like David Attenborough about france, country living and Burma, but had to excuse myself when the conversation got a bit heated about politics with an homme droit (David was gauche). I was back on the saddle, and the old railway weaved through some stunning countryside. I'd passed some old boys who'd stopped so I asked them if they were 'en panne' -I was determined to make use of my heavy tool bag some point. There had been so many opportunities to chat away
but I had to continue, as I had decided my knee was good and I wan't going to take the 40km lodging option.
I was quite surprised about the gradients for a railway, going was occasionally quite tough as the old line got up to some high ground with a bit of a headwind. Here the old boys in their lycra were gone, and it didn't take long for the feeling of solitude to kick in. 60km in and the railway route stopped, I had to rely on the sketchy directions of the GPS. The hills got harder and the way became wigglier, and I switched to an arrow waypoint and got onto some tiny tracks. I was getting a tiny bit concerned about the time, but there was little I could do but to press on. Eventually I lost a lot of the gradient, and had my first near miss as an old lady decided to cross the road without looking. I am so glad I had replaced the old 70's brakes on the bike! On to the flat and I decided to ditch the GPS directions and take the busy D road as it was straight and flat, and daylight was running out. As I got into Marmande, I phoned Edwige from the station, and she came and met me instantly. I heaved the bike up the stairs and realised how exhausted I was, I had ridden a pretty hilly 120km.
Edwige gave me tea, I had a shower and she cooked me soup, pork and pasta and Normandy perry. Edwige is a young sage femme (midwife), who works in Marmande and is quite adorable! We went out to the local bar, had a drink and then crashed.
I had a leisurely start with a great petit dejeuner and went out for a quick coffee with her midwife friend. I left not long before noon, heading south to find the Canal Lateral. I got on the towpath which would be my route to Toulouse, about 150km of virtual solitude. The going was good, dead flat, pretty straight and some fairly interesting relics of industrial heritage. But it was solitary, and yet again it really set my solitary feeling which is quite deep and at times daunting. It was times like this that the mp3 player is a godsend. I kept a good pace with little rest for 5 hours, passing my goal of Agen, where the canal crossed the still enormous Garonne on an impressive aquaduct, one to make Dundas or Avonmouth look piddly. The canal swept round past a town of hills on one side, plain on the other, and I was happy to keep going, knowing that tonight would be another night under canvas. Evening came and I looked for something larger than a hamlet on the GPS, finding a big village. The nature of it's welcome gave me an incling of the bored kid factor, loads of really noisy mopeds ragging about, and sure enough while waiting for my pizza by the riverside I was surrounded my some intimidating kids, smoking and spitting. When they asked what I was up to and I told them, their hostile nature changed to one of surprise and disbelief, and dare I say it, smiles and respect.
I stuffed my face with pizza and left the town with dusk falling quickly, getting back onto the canal to scope for a hidden camping spot. I had plenty of energy and was happy to be fussy, so when I found my spot I was a good 10km away and in the pitch dark. I popped the tent up, spoke to parents on the phone and went to sleep very quickly. Another 100km day.
The night' sleep was ok, but there was a lot of condensation in the tent and I was slightly damp. It was colder again, and I got the tent away quickly as it started to rain. I got 10km along before finding a pleasant market town with a thriving market and about 10 hairdressers. I got some breakfast, lunch and a coffee and chatted to a woman interested in the bike.
Back on the towpath and the weather wasn't great, but I handled the solitude easily today. It was yet more industry, massive power station cooling towers and railway line running parallel with the silver streak of the TGV flashing by. I wondered if the canal's summit would be Toulouse as each set of locks indicated about 5-10m incline and there were a hell of a lot of them. A flight of locks was bypassed with this set up, I can only guess is a boat lift, one of the strangest vehicles I've ever seen. After lunch, with yet more hostile weather, monotonous canal increasing headwind and general tiredness, I was pleased to see the landscape fade back into what I'd seen as I left Bordeaux, except this time Toulouse changed into city over what seemed like a much larger distance. So here I am, in the centre and it's about time I check if my host is free (wasn't sure by the email and I'm a day earlier than expected).

Down the Medoc and the going gets tough.

2010-02-15T08:25:00.000-08:00

So after a bowl of coffee and some homemade crunchy oat cereal with cocoa and almond milk (yum) I left the Baudot's. It was yet another bitterly cold day and I headed west from Saintes on a mixture of GPS and Jerome's directions to try and find la route Royan ancienne, or D150. The old road kept merging into the new dual carriageway N150 and so I wiggled north and south on some very minor and roads and dirt tracks, some of which were full of frozen muddy ruts.

By the time I had reached Royan, the old back wheel was wobbling about quite a bit, due to a broken spoke. I was pretty close to the centre of this deserted tourist town, so I limped to the port to check the ferry times across the Gironde, then went and got a pizza and coffee. Before the ferry arrived, I tried to true the wheel by tightening the adjacent spokes but another one snapped. This made the wobble so bad the bike was barely rideable, the tyre wasn't going to last long rubbing on the frame. I phoned James, my Bordeaux host and he suggested I get on the boat and try a bike shop in Soulac, 6km from the port. If all else failed there were trains from there to Bordeaux. The crossing was about 15 mins across the enormous estuary, and I

hopped onto the cycle path to Soulac, immediately taking in the pleasant woodland trails.

It was a long 6km, but eventually I got into Soulac and found Ericycles. They took the wheel with a big smile and hurried off to operate on it. After aking where I'd come from/going to they seemed to erupt into a wonderful cacophony of joy and happiness to meet such a nutter (nous adorons les gens fou!). I was touched when they did not charge me, 'c'est pour l'humanité' after hearing the trip was for Médecins sans Frontieres.

So it felt like a speed machine after the mechanical and mental big up, but wasn't long before the light was fading.

Jerome had talked about wild camping in freezing conditions, and he advised I should christen the tent when I wanted to, not when I had no other option. I'd been against the idea for a while, but since getting on the Medoc I was up for it. So I got into Montalivet les Bains and found a restaurant where I got the squid, steak and chips and ice cream, relaxed while watching France win against Ireland at rugby, watched the foreca

st warn of -3° and then went out into the wilderness. Finding a spot was pretty easy, so many deserted spots to choose from. I popped the tent up and got snug, and despite being sub zero I was more than cosy.

So I woke up having had a good night's sleep, but by the time I was on the bike I felt the cold. I went back to Montalivet to get some breakfast but the place was dead. I found a young guy outside a cafe waiting for his boss to arrive to open up, but after 15 mins gave up and found somewhere else. This cafe felt like the centre of the world, bustling with locals. So by 10 I was back on the road, heading for James and Stephanie in Bordeaux, 55 miles away. The long straight empty cycle track vanished into the foggy bleak horizon, and the surrounding pine woods seemed to repeat like the backdrop of a Flintstones cartoon. The tarmac eventually ended but the GPS lead me straight on down a sandy track. I had come 5 miles down the tarmac, so I was reluctant to turn back, instead I continued down the sand track, pushing the bike with the optimism that the junction 1 mile away displayed on the

GPS would be tarmac again. It was not, and the track became more and more sandy, making even pushing the bike a real effort. I headed inland, assuming I would evenually get to the road parallel to the coast. By the end of it, 3 miles of pushing had challenged my patience no end,

and I had lost at least an hour of valuable riding. The road was yet more endless cold horizon, in some ways satisfying to go in a straight flat line but psychologically very arduous, especially as I had a cold headwind to battle against. About 20km from Bordeaux I got off the bike to text my hosts to tell them I'd be late. As I got back on the bike I heard a snap and to my dismay another one of the old back wheel's spokes had gone. I wonder if the cold affected the brittleness of the spokes, but whatever my spirits were quite down by now. Still, the first van I stuck my thumb out to picked me up, and the kind couple who had been to maintain their holiday house took me all the way to James and Steph's door, way out of their way.

I was greeted by a James at the big door of their beautiful riverfront apartment. His radiant smile lifted my spirits in no time, and after a cup of tea, shower, glasses of wine and spaghetti carbonara and delightful company talking english I was happy as Larry.

I woke to this beautiful sunrise, and after a coffee and a spell planning the next few nights on Couchsurfing I went out with the tired old wheel to find a bike shop. It was pleasant strolling through the spleandour of Bordeaux's grand streets, and eventually I came across a bike shop. A rebuild was going to cost the same as a cheap new wheel and tyre, and I took the shop's recommendation to keep the quality old wheel, as I've been told hand built wheels are better than factory built ones. I found a knee support and Ibuprofen (yes I've kept quiet about that, it's not just the old bike that's been suffering) and wandered around the old market, picking up a few provisions. Afternoon was spent reading, shaving, washing up and watching the Office on DVD. I went to pick up the wheel and got back, but was frustrated to see that it was a shoddy job as the hub wasn't centre. So annoyingly I won't be leaving Bordeaux early tomorrow.

2010-02-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

So when I last wrote I was having a well earned day off. I was happy to spend the whole day in the warmth of Laetitia's flat without any guilt about stying in. She returned in the evening and we went out to Niort to a very fancy restaurant with her friend. I enjoyed a salad of strange meat things, a fancy steak and chips and a creme bruleé. No matter how much I tried, she insisted she pay the bill which I felt bad about, it's not like she hasn't looked after me enough already. The following morning I set off in the icy cold and snow towards Saintes. The siberian wind blew me south through Niort, along a desolate back road over the plains, where I got my first puncture. Changing it in the snow with numb hands was a testing job and I didn't hesitate.
Onwards past Niort I got onto a busy D road, dead straight with the occasional truck thundering past but not much else. The icy wind blowing me and the snowflakes along meant I kept up a good pace, averaging 20mph. I stopped at a true trucker's Les Routierés where I had another steak and spaghetti, proper carbs. The GPS took me away from the straight flat line, making the going more interesting but slightly more challenging. A couple of roadies passed me, the second one intrigued by me poids lourdes, congratulating me on such an epic adventure. I descended into Saintes and found Rue Arc du Triomphe where I found Jerome and his elderly mother. The house was an incredible time warp, it had been in the family for over 100 years and was slightly dilapidated, but had such a charm to it. I was so intrigued by the various meubles situated around the house, including this ancient bicycle belonging to Jerome's grandfather. Jerome is probably more of a cycling fanatic than me, having traversed Canada a few years beforehand. They fed me with some very healthy food, raw veg and no dairy and homemade chocolate hazlenut and date pudding. Yet more delightful hospitality.
The following morning I woke up with a bit of a fever. I initially decided to only go a short distance, but with no lodging sorted and the freezing weather I have decided to stay a bit longer and recuperate.

2010-02-10T04:21:00.000-08:00

10 Feb 2010 : Here I am with my new friend Chocolat on my first day off. I've never met such an affectionate, licking dog. He's now got his jowls on my lap as I write this. I've been left here by my hostess, Laetitia as she's gone to work as a consultant for photovoltaic installation.
It's quite heatwarming to see such trust in a total stranger, she even offered her car keys and phone to make local calls but I had to refuse.
Laetitia lives on her own in part of a beautiful farm, there are a few other youngish tenants and she has a friend in Niort, as well as good workmates, but it strikes me as a very solitary place to live. The nearby Villiers en Pliene translates as Villiers out in the open and it certainly lives up to its namesake. It's so open and barren, and with the freezing temperature and misty light it had a really eerie feel to it.

So Monday morning I left Mr et Mme Girling and set off at sunrise. It was the first day I had no confirmed destination, I had the possibility of staying in a place called Cholet but the host hadn't replied to my request. So I set the GPS to guide me there, and if I didn't get a reply by 4 or 5 I would find a hotel. It was going to be a big day, 120km but I was up early and feeling much fitter than the day before. It was a frosty start, and the GPS took me down an 'unpaved' route which was blocked with a chain and a sign saying 'passage interdit.' A local said yes c'est interdit but beckoned me past when I explained the GPS suggested I go there. It was a few miles of beautiful forested track, but with a car behind me I dare not stop and take a photo. The track eventually rejoined a road and I cruised on south to la vallee de la Loire.
I had heard how the weather was considerably different south of the river but actually it seemed to get colder. It was however quite noticable how the landscape and architecture changed as this was suddenly wine country. Big vineyards and terracota roof tiles, I felt pretty smug having seen such a change from Bristol landscape using leg power.
The day progressed, and I kept on pedalling through rural France. I stopped at a patisserie for a bit of energy and met a friendly local who wanted to know my destination. I hear a lot of 'bon courage' from people, it's good moral support.
I reached a village and stopped for a steak and chips in a local bar and was naturally the centre of curiosity for the patrons. It's amazing how noticable food can pick one up, and straight afterwards I was back on the saddle pedalling away. The weather got colder, but I realised this was in my favour, since the cold northerly wind was behind me. By 4pm I kept my eye out for a phone box. Naturally these seem to have disappeared since mobiles, and more so in France. Eventually I found one, and used the GPS to find nearest hotels. This little device is a godsend as it not only lists the closest lodgings but stores their phone numbers. So I shopped around, and with the hostel closed on Mondays I opted for the cheapest hotel, 6km north east at Les Herbiers. I realised how beneficial the wind was beforehand, as now I had to fight it with tired legs. The clock showed 76 miles and this last little bit seemed to take forever. It was getting close to 6pm and I was so glad to step into the warmth of Le Centre, a 2 star hotel, tired and cigarette tainted but trying to be smart. I took a very small en suite for 41 euros, showered, found a boulanger and bought lots lots of pizza and watched the Météo. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

So I woke at a leisurely hour and went out for a café and 3 patisseriés. I checked out and got on the bike at 10.30. It was very cold and was gently snowing so I donned all my gear and got going. The going was ok, gently up and down quite a bit. The route today was further inland, so the going became more undulating. Not quite Somerset and Dorset but more gentle. The icy wind behind me made the gentle uphills less noticable though. Lunch time I stopped at another bar tabac and got a quiche, baguette and paté. The barman asked me to go and get a pain from the boulanger, where a customer told me that 60% of the inhabitants of the village were english. Throughout the day I had only seen about four or five people out and about, it was so deserted it felt like an apocolypse had occured. So towards the end of the day the landscape became more barren and flat, and it started to snow again. I eventually got in to Villiers, where I called Laetitia and she came and collected me. We ate endives in bechemal and drank red wine. It was nice to talk a mixture of French and English for once. I was glad she wanted to go to sleep early as I was flagging after a couple of glasses.

07 Feb 2010 : Ok, so I have made some headway. I am 20km north of Nantes (yes I am metric now) and I've got a lot to catch up on. So, after the last entry I went to a pub in Bridport with Gitte and Tim and we met the skittle playing locals. Watching some of the players throw themselves onto the floor as they launched the ball with two hands, it dawned upon me how local customs such as this were already becoming quite different, and they were going to become considerably more so as I go to France.
So I got up, had some breakfast and left in the pitch dark towards Weymouth. The going was tough with some pretty gnarly hills, but the sunrise over the hills and the view of Chesil Beach made it worthwhile. I got there by 9am, got on the boat and had a pretty uneventful crossing to Jersey. I passed 5 hours in St Helier where I changed the brakes (2 days of rainy Dorset hills had taken their toll) and strolled through the town centre, fairly uninspired by it. I couldn't figure out what it was about the place, it felt a bit like Essex.

After a while of wandering I returned to the ferry terminal and bought a paper. This entertained me on the énd crossing and by 10 at night I left the port of St Malo and set the GPS to Plouer Sur Rance, home of Stephane et Sophie, the first French couch surfers. The 14 mile ride was lonely, rainy and windy, and for the first time it hit me what I had ahead of me. I don't yet know but I fear the real challenge will be much more mental than physical. I have spent six weeks alone before, backpacking in Asia when younger, but there's something much more alone about this adventure. The appreciation I have for my couch surf hosts is much more than just for their amenities, it's the humanity and curiosity they have for me, and that is so much more valuable than a means of saving money. So Stephane and Sophie (a fork lift driver and a nurse) greeted me with wine, gateaux, shower and a bewildering curiosity, pourquoi tu faites ce voyage extrordinairre? I had forgotten that it was their night off and they were happy to stay up until 1am conversing.

Breakfast was nice and late and French, with yet more generous offerings as well as some English conversation with their 7 year old son, and then I set off for Bruz. The going was excellent, the roads are so much more pleasant for cycling than in England. Wider, flatter, smoother, a fraction of the traffic and the few cars that do pass give loads more space. The landscape felt like it whizzed past, and my spirits were much higher with the mp3 player. It felt like no time before I arrived at my destination and met Reno, a chap about my age who lived in a shared house on the outskirts. A very agreeable chap, he cooked me some pasta and chatted away about allsorts. We went to the shops and bought some provisions, and then the housemates and friends all came round for dinner. One girl recounted on her excellent time in Wales but she could never pronounce the name, 'M... ' to which I replied 'Machynnlyth?' It turned out she was good friends with several of the people I had gone to Spain with the year before. So we ate, drank, were merry and played poker until I realised I had to sleep. I could have happily spent all night up, but I have to push on. Shame!
Sunday- a tardy start and never felt awake, but left the new friends and set off for Saffré. The day started sunny but the going got windy and I realised that I didn't feel on top form. The route took me for the most part on a hard shoulder of a dual carriageway, with slightly more hill and a headwind, so the pleasant ride I felt yesterday was not so pleasant today. I rested in an Aire (service station) and a couple of hours later arrived in a very remote hamlet where Mr et Mme Girling lived. They were the parents of a couchsurfer who had happily put me up when their son was unable to, yet more superb hospitality. Yet another treatment of great hospitality and curiosity lifed my spirits, along with a tarte au citron to die for. I like the French!

04 Feb 2010: Well I m in Bridport at my first Couch Surf hosts. The really hot shower and spaghetti bolognaise are already so appreciated after two very damp days in the saddle, with the first night spent in the back of a Transit in the muddiest farm yard I have ever seen.
I left Bristol with my mate Jack who kindly saw me off on the first leg. The first two days encounter about 1/8th the total climbing, and the sheer weight ( yes it is heavier than the training run ) put the thighs to the test. The tops of the hills were in the drenching clouds and had a bleak wintery beauty to them.
We descended into Wells and Jack parted, leaving me to this adventure. 20 miles in and the sheer scale of the trip becomes apparent. I get to Muchelney, south of Glastonbury where I stay with Julia and Justin, two vegans who live in a beautiful romany caravan round the back of a beef farm. Julia warned me to keep pedalling when I get there as I had to traverse enormous floods of mud and cow shit. The momentum of the extra weight of the panniers helped, but my confusion of which caravan they lived in didn t. I m going to have to put up with that poo smell on my trousers for a little while. So Julia and Justin hosted me delightfully with lots of cups of tea, a delicious hearty soup and some porridge. I checked out her jewellry workshop and gallery in another vintage caravan in the adjacent farm the following day, and donned my waterproofs for day 2.
The going was tough, headwind and plenty of undulating Dorset countryside. It was a short day today but my legs were quite tired. I freewheeled down to Bridport, straight into a timewarp greasy spoon to pass the time and top up the calories with some good old fashioned stodge. Anyway here I am with Gitte and Tim and I feel pleasantly recharged for my dawn start tomorrow. Thank you kind hosts!