For my 29th and last full day of riding, the Netherlands seemed determined to serve up a complete Dutch experience. We had the amazing cycle paths (have I mentioned those?): With their brilliant signage and knooppunt maps: We had the bike shop (with a wonky church tower thrown in): We had the canals… The ingenious swing bridges over canals: The convenient cycling bridges over canals: The old windmills beside canals: Or out in the fields: And we had their modern successors, taking full advantage of today’s howling north wind: We had the traditionally designed thatched houses: And the miles of terrain so flat it felt like cycling on a treadmill, and so low-lying that much of it registered as below sea level on my GPS profile And of course my Dutch bingo would not be complete without a retired couple riding side by side. In the interests of journalistic accuracy, I should point out that this picture was taken yesterday, but I saw plenty today too: And before I knew it I was at the north coast, battling that northerly gale to earn a place on my self-made podium. Danke well, the Netherlands, and tot ziens for now: you can be sure I’ll be back.
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It’s a final double bill of blogs from Team Bernard, you lucky people. Today, our three-country end-to-end cycling challenge came to an end, when we reached the North Sea coast of the Netherlands: In five days of riding, we have pedalled 409.8k from the Belgian border in the south to the northernmost point on the Dutch mainland. This brings the total distance covered, in France, Belgium and the Netherlands, to 2,185.2k / 1,357.8 miles in 26 days, and our grand total, including the warm-up in Spain, to 2,360.1 km / 1,466.4 miles in 29 days. As far as I’m aware, our objective today had no name, but this being the Netherlands it did have a knooppunt: it’s number 68 should you ever wish to visit. Since starting in Maastricht, with its historic skyline, modern bridges and cycle paths along the Maas (as the Meuse becomes in Dutch): We’ve enjoyed some very Dutch sights (windmill+cycle path+canal must be almost an orange royal flush): Smells (though to be fair to these ladies, I think it was usually pig manure that was responsible for the agricultural aroma): And tastes - though sadly I have (so far) failed in my mission to sample pofferjes or stroopwaffels: I’ve enjoyed trying to decode the language - more successfully in some cases, thanks to context: Than others… Which caused me to reflect on how privileged I was to understand the language in Spain, France and south-eastern Belgium, and how much more superficial a traveller’s experience of a place is when they can’t even understand what they’re reading, let alone hearing. But above all, we have enjoyed this country’s extraordinary cycling infrastructure, whether it looked like this (yes that’s the two-way cycle path on the right, road on the left): Or this: Or this: Or indeed this: It is safe, intuitive, and everywhere. Having seen policy making in action, albeit in a very different field, I’ve found it fascinating to experience the direct, visible and tangible effect of years of consistent, well-planned and well-executed decisions, both in transport policy and town planning. And the impact on culture, habits and health has been profound. Given how positive the effects are, the most remarkable thing is not that it has endured, but that it has not been emulated more widely. But it’s never too late to start… Tonight Team Bernard are in the vibrant university town of Groningen, which we reached by train from the north coast. Needless to say, the carriage had step-free access - Belgian trains please take note - which was so easy to negotiate that I did it one-handed while talking on the phone As we head home, Guillaume’s future hangs in the balance after another less than stellar performance today. In contrast, the ever-dependable Bernard has carried me all this way without a single puncture. In fact, if I can risk a hostage to fortune, he has not had one since I replaced his tyres and inner tubes in La Rochelle last year, over 5,000 km ago. After such exemplary service, it’s just a shame that he didn’t get his reward of a paddle in the sea, because the tide was out (what looks like water is in fact mud): As for me, the main questions on my mind are where next and how soon?
All being well, the answers are Spain and Portugal, in 2024. Thanks for following, and hasta luego. All was not well in Team Bernard this morning. To be fair, it was our 28th, and if all goes to plan, our penultimate day of cycling, so perhaps we’re all just a little tired. It started with Guillaume, who has been increasingly cranky of late. As I was getting ready to leave, he crossed his arms, set his jaw and said ‘Non’. I suspect he knew I’d been thinking of swapping him for a younger model, and had decided to take a leaf out of the Liège signalmen’s playbook. But if he’s serious about keeping his place in the squad, he really needs to rethink his tactics. Hugo Headphones manfully stepped in, despite having gone through the wash with my jersey yesterday. But he must have got water in his ears, because his instructions were woolly at best. In particular, his understanding of left and right was decidedly poor for a tool whose sole purpose is to issue directions. So our ride was punctuated by a higher than average number of stops, to check exactly what Hugo meant, or to retrace our steps because he’d said right when he meant left. Bernard remained as uncomplaining as ever, even though his rear wheel was still giving him gyp. In the cool of the early morning, we pedalled through shady avenues of trees: Onto a dyke beside the Zwartwater, where the impressively athletic retirees of Zwolle were out rowing And between low lying pastures brightened with splashes of colour: After that, it felt like we were on a tour of parts of the UK, from the Norfolk Broads: To the Somerset Levels To the heathland of the New Forest And even to Fleet Pond: In between, we learned some important Dutch words That prevented us from getting a bloody nose when the bridge opened We also learned that the Dutch like to be precise: while we just have cattle grids, they have many kinds of rooster. We’ve already seen Wildrooster - literally, for game, but in practice for sheep - and Dassenrooster for badgers. Today it was finally the turn of a grid for actual cattle: Two postal workers provided today’s addition to my growing collection of ‘Dutch people riding side by side’ photos But this was my sight du jour: After 28 days on the road, I can confirm that Bike Life is Good. And tonight, Bernard is getting his bathers ready, because tomorrow is the last push: we’re heading for the coast.
I know I keep going on about how good the cycling infrastructure is - and today once again there was plenty to be impressed by, from the clear signage: And the generosity of the cycle carriageways (in red on the right) To the ubiquity of them, whether in town or not: And the fact that, no matter how insignificant, rural or lightly used, they are always paved: And the brilliant roundabouts - on which drivers unfailingly wait if you’re going left and they’re going right But what today really showed me was the effect of all this investment. If a visitor only spent a Sunday in the Netherlands, they might think all the cycling was just a weekend thing, but leaving Nijmegen in Monday morning rush hour, as I did today, would be enough to convince anyone otherwise. Pouring towards me, safely separated from the (still considerable, but imagine how much worse it would be) traffic were hundreds of cyclists: commuters, teenagers, children, and mums and dads with little kids in cargo bikes. And cycling isn’t the preserve of the young and fit. I’ve also seen plenty of people on mobility scooters using bike lanes to get around. And this afternoon I was quite mind blown to realise that every single one of the 20 or so other customers in the café where I’d stopped for a drink - all in their 60s and 70s, of all shapes and sizes - had arrived by bike. As I pedalled along, even on quite long out of town stretches, I was rarely alone, unlike in France and Belgium: the commonest sight was a retired couple riding at a smart pace, side by side, chatting away. Entire books have been written on the benefits of cycling to physical and mental health, so I won’t try to list them now. All I’ll say is that, seen from here, they’re blindingly obvious. When I wasn’t ruminating on transport policy, the highlights of my day were crossing the Rhine at Arnhem: And a glorious spell riding beside the Apeldoorn Canal, whose trees provided much-needed shade on another 30 degree day What sight could be more Dutch than a cycle path map and a bike, beside a canal? Though oddly enough while out on the road today I was as much struck by scents as sights. This may sound weird, but when everyone is on their bikes rather than in cars, you (or I anyway) are much more aware of how they smell. And from a highly scientific survey, based on four days of cycling in the Netherlands, I can confirm that the Dutch invariably smell of soap, perfume and aftershave - or, in the case of teenage boys, clouds of Axe. I’m not sure they would be as positive about me after a day on the road, but at least this afternoon I had some good cover
Before I reached my B&B tonight, I knew it was on a working farm. But it turned out that the work it does is rather different from what I imagined. Its relatively new owner, Pierre, a 30-something former logistics manager with no farming experience, explained that it’s what the Dutch call a ‘Care Farm’.
How it works is the government gives grants to farmers to host people with poor mental health, or who are struggling to find work, with the aim of helping them get back on their feet. The ‘clients’ work on Pierre’s farm three days a week, grooming horses, shearing sheep, tending vegetables, or cleaning the B&B accommodation. In doing so, they learn new skills, and are given structure that may have been lacking. Most importantly, for those individuals who are going through very dark times, they are given, as Pierre put it, ‘a reason to live another day - even if it’s just to see the white roses again’. For the government, it is likely worth the investment even if it only works for a few people. And clearly, from Pierre’s perspective, the scheme is an essential part of his business model. But it was also clear, from how he talked about the positive impact on his clients, that he finds the work rewarding in ways far beyond the financial. It’s truly a win-win-win. Unsurprisingly, the Netherlands has received enquiries from other countries interested in launching a similar scheme. It would be great to think the UK was one of them… Inspired by a tourist map at my guesthouse, Bernard and I set off this morning for a gentle tour of the city. We hadn’t gone far when I was lured off track by a nice looking café. Well, it was important to restore my caffeine levels. And I appreciated the details - the little cube of cinnamon cake, and the vial of hot water for diluting your americano - so much that I had two. And having finally reached a country where vegetarianism isn’t considered an oddity, it seemed rude not to sample the menu While watching the world go by - mostly by bicycle, variously loaded with shopping bags, dogs, children, sports equipment and in one case, another bicycle - I reflected on my preconceptions of Nijmegen. I realised I’d arrived here expecting to find somewhere still dominated by the events of September 1944. Instead, quite rightly, I found the oldest city in the Netherlands to be a vibrant, forward looking place. As its motto says, old city, young vibe. In fact if I’d based my view on who I saw riding past the café, I’d have sworn I was the only person in town over the age of 30. Though that may have been because the cafe was on the way to the beach… And guess how the Dutch go to the beach? Imagine how big the car park would have been if they’d all driven instead. But with bicycle freeways like this, gently sloping up to rooftop height… And then over the Waal river bridge, alongside the railway, who needs a car? From the north side of the river, I looped back to the city’s third and newest major river crossing, the Oversteek, which only opened in 2013. And here I found that, while Nijmegen may not dwell on the past, neither does it forget. An information panel explained that the Oversteek had been built on the exact spot where, on the night of 20 September 1944, soldiers of the US 82nd Airborne Division paddled over in canvas boats, to seize control of the crossing from the north side. Each of the 48 lamp posts on the bridge represents a US soldier killed that night. To this day, every evening at sunset, a veteran marches across the bridge, and the lights go on in sequence as he passes them. They call it the Light Crossing.
Happily, I didn’t need my waterproofs after all. To many people, my destination today is still synonymous with Operation Market Garden, the daring attempt by Allied forces, commanded by Eisenhower and Montgomery, to capture a series of bridges, including at Nijmegen and Arnhem, in September 1944, and thereby hasten the end of World War 2. Bernard was keen to point out that he and Monty share a Christian name. I was more interested to learn that the Field Marshall used to live just up the road from us, in Isington, and that he’s buried in Binsted - both places that we regularly cycle past. Perhaps he would have recognised this old workhorse, quietly rusting beside the road near Landhorst: These days, the Dutch regions of Limburg and Brabant that we rode through today seem to be the country’s market garden in the literal sense, growing potatoes, onions, carrots, maize, and a lot of asparagus: And it wasn’t just vegetables: Berry Brothers were pretty confident about the quality of their soft fruit And this old mill - whose cloth sails these men were in the process of unfurling… Is still producing flour: Thanks to the very kind manageress at last night’s hotel (where the veggie lasagne was sensational), I wasn’t doing badly for food myself. As I planned to leave before breakfast, she made me a picnic: two rounds of sandwiches (cheese and crudités, because she’d remembered I was vegetarian), a yogurt, a banana, some water… and one of these: It would’ve been rude not to, even if it was the first one I’d eaten in decades, and all the sugar made my teeth curl. I also enjoyed my first in-ride coffee for days - and even ordered it in an approximation of Dutch. Although to be fair, ‘een koffie’ isn’t all that hard. And I may have mumbled a bit when trying to say please. Word of the day: alstublieft I was in good fettle, but the trusty Bernard had started to make uncharacteristic noises in his rear wheel. What should an intrepid, independent female adventurer do in such circumstances? Phone a man at home of course. Specifically, Dr Brett the Bike Whisperer - newly appointed (as of today, by me) Help Desk of my local cycling club. I would give him five stars for speed and quality of response, not least because I’d thoughtlessly messaged at 7 on a Saturday morning. He remotely diagnosed a couple of potential issues, reassured me that Bernard would probably be ok, but that I should get him checked over, if possible. How fortunate then, after so many weeks in the middle of nowhere, that we found ourselves in the Land of Many Bike Shops. Less than an hour later, at Peeters Fweewielers, in Heel, no fewer than three mechanics looked, listened and twiddled, before pronouncing that there was ‘no problem’. I was mostly reassured, though I think only one of the three could actually hear the noise I was talking about. Come on Bernard, you can do this. Cycling in the Netherlands is predictably glorious. Obviously the terrain helps: if there’s no wind, you can just turn the pedals without effort. But it’s the seamless cycling infrastructure that really makes the difference. You always know when you join a new road that there will be provision for cyclists - usually separated from the traffic: In towns, bikes and cars often share the space, but vehicles are squeezed into one central lane which effectively gives bikes priority: Funnily enough, if you make cycling safe and stress-free, more people want to do it, and no one uses lights or wears a helmet (with the exception of speedy Lycra-clad local gents, and slow foreign tourers). All the other customers at my coffee stop had arrived by bike, and in every town, people of all ages were out shopping on two wheels And while Belgium’s specially adapted bike carriages left much to be desired, here the specially adapted bins that allow cyclists to chuck in their rubbish as they ride past are a work of simple genius As are these gadgets for junctions with traffic lights. You just ride up and lean a hand on the red bit to summon a green light And of course the knooppunt system is brilliant - even Guillaume seems to have got the hang of it now The road and cycle path designers had even thought to plant trees, so that on a hot day like today you could often choose a shady side to ride on But even so, after over 100k in the heat, Team Bernard was more than happy to see this sign And relieved to know we hadn’t gone A Bridge Too Far Tomorrow we’re taking a break - see you on Monday.
After all the train-related excitement (see part 1), by the time I reached Maastricht I was more than ready to get back on two wheels. And of course the obvious thing to do on a boiling hot day was to ride away from my destination, so I could start my Netherlands end-to-end properly. However, I found that, while visitors from the Netherlands are welcomed to Belgium in style: There was nothing at all for those travelling in the other direction, so instead here’s a picture of Bernard on the Albert Canal, which marks the border On the way, we greeted a recent acquaintance in the form of the river Meuse And as we wove through the streets of old Maastricht we made our first acquaintance of Dutch cycling culture. There were a few too many cobbles for Bernard’s liking, and Guillaume found the knooppunts (nodes) hard to follow. As for me, the cycle paths were fantastic but I found it all a bit overwhelming, in the same way as Bruges had been. I suspect that until I’ve acclimatised to the rules and customs, I will be in greater danger of being mown down by a bike than a car, because they come at you from all angles and I might behave in a way they aren’t expecting. I was quite happy to get out of town and enjoy wholesome sights like this: two boys who can’t have been older than 10, riding to football practice on their own And when the sun got too hot there were convenient bridges to shelter under Which offered an excellent perspective on how canals in the Netherlands continue to be valuable arteries for commercial traffic And whose towpaths make excellent cycle paths (word of the day: fietspad) We saw a variety of fietspads today, from this: To this: Which really wasn’t their finest work. When I arrived at my hotel, the young woman showing me to my room pointed out I had grass burrs in my socks, adding guilelessly ‘we usually see them on dogs’ It was a very hot ride, and in any case I had a promise to keep, so I can confirm that my beer drought has broken. The brew I eventually sampled wasn’t Leffe, Affligem, Delirium Tremens or Paix Dieu. It was Alfa, and was certainly my number one choice tonight. As I write, the literal drought has also broken - will I be digging out my waterproofs tomorrow? Who knows, but one thing is for sure, I’m going to have to learn some Dutch…
Let the train take the strain, said I. Hold my Stella, said the signalman in Liège. It had all started so well… yesterday, the very helpful man in the ticket booth at Arlon station (still manned after 5pm, I observed) furnished me and Bernard with tickets (€27 and €4 respectively, for a four hour international journey), confirmed that we could travel at any time, even before 9am, and printed off an itinerary so I knew how long I had between trains at my two changes. This morning, an equally helpful female guard told me where to stand on the platform to be in the right place for the carriage which was ‘specially adapted for bikes’. Splendid, I thought, Belgium has really got this bike thing licked. Everything went a bit downhill after that, and not in the way a cyclist generally enjoys. First, there was the question of boarding the ‘special bike carriage’. When he saw the steep steps, Bernard looked sceptical, but there was no other way. I took off his panniers and wrangled him aboard with the athleticism of Anne Widdecombe doing the tango on Strictly. All I can say is I’m glad he wasn’t a 30kg e-bike. Once we were installed, things seemed to improve: we had the entire carriage to ourselves and Bernard even had curtains on his window At Namur, I was fortunate that the only person boarding the train came to my door, so I pressed him into service to get Bernard down the steps - I’m not sure how I’d have managed on my own. But my trials weren’t over: the lift from the platform was out of order (at least they had one - in Arlon when I asked, the answer was an unapologetic Non). Let me tell you that taking a loaded bike up an escalator is not a manoeuvre I would recommend. Bernard took fright and it was all I could do to prevent him from galloping backwards. After that, somewhat counterintuitively, I needed coffee to calm my nerves, and discovered that in Belgium a café au lait is called a Café Russe. Perhaps a rebrand might be in order - Café Ukrainien anyone? When my next train arrived - oh joy: step-free access, and an entire carriage of flip-up seats to allow room for bikes. However, take careful note of the steps visible beyond the door.. At this point, a certain Liègeois played his joker. We had been sitting for a while in Huy (which, over the intercom in French, sounded exactly like ‘next stop, yes’) when the guard announced, in a neutral voice but with words oozing judgement, that the signalmen had gone on strike ‘suite d’une crise émotionnelle’. I was just having an emotional crisis of my own at the thought of an unscheduled 40k ride to Maastricht when we got underway again, but Belgian trains were not done with me yet. When we arrived at Liège, the step-free door stayed inexplicably closed. Remember those internal steps? I had to rapidly divest Bernard of his panniers, race up the steps, down the ones to the platform, and repeat the process for Bernard, all the while hoping the train wouldn’t leave with him still on it. Just as I’d completed this manoeuvre, with the help of a fellow passenger, a member of train staff appeared. The door didn’t open! I said. Oh no, that door doesn’t open without the guard, says he. What I was thinking was “Why on earth not?” but instead I said: But the guard knew I was there, why didn’t he come to open it? He was busy at the front of the train madame. C’est pas grave. Pas grave pour vous, says I. Pas grave pour vous non plus madame, vous êtes sportive. Flattery will get you nowhere, I chuntered to myself, retreating before I said something more ungracious. At least Liège’s lifts were working. But of course the next train had steps. And was crammed with an excitable gang of teenagers bound for a camping adventure, their giant rucksacks festooned with karrimats, walking boots and frying pans. Bernard took the encroachment with good grace. All in all, I was glad I’d started an hour earlier than originally planned - even with the delay I still reached Maastricht at lunchtime. But as for train travel? Based on today’s experience, I’ll stick to cycling thanks.
It’s another double-bill blog day, and now Team Bernard is two down, one to go for this trip: It being a very minor road, there was no grand country sign to help me mark my achievement this time, but I can confirm that the village of Eischen is on the other side of the border, and if you need proof, here it is (GDL is Grand Duchy of Luxembourg): In four and a half days, I’ve cycled 413.2k / 257 miles from the chilly dunes of the North Sea coast, across the windswept polders of Flanders, beside the limpid waters of the Meuse, to the sun-baked hills, forests and farmland of the Ardennes: I’ve pedalled through the historic cities of Bruges… And Ghent… … where the cyclist is king, to the chaos of the capital, where he most certainly is not - yet. Some parts are definitely better than others: this was on the way from Uccle to Waterloo From my admittedly fleeting and superficial vantage point, I would venture to say that Belgians like to keep their homes immaculately tidy, to the point of looking brand new. Or perhaps they are brand new: everywhere I looked, houses were being built or renovated. Are there government incentives for modernising and insulating homes, I wondered? If so, they’re working. And it’s not just the houses that are well-built. Belgian cows have muscles that a gym bunny would be proud of Unforgivably, I have failed to partake in any of the local brews, but I plan to remedy that quite soon. Will it be Leffe, Affligem or Delirium Tremens though? Or perhaps, in honour of my former colleagues, this one might be more appropriate. I’ll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, Team Bernard will be letting the train take the strain tomorrow morning. Lunchtime should see us in Maastricht, for the start of our next end-to-end. Stay tuned!
After yesterday’s food desert, I fear today I may have overcompensated. Having set out with a banana, three madeleines and a protein bar, I then stopped at the boulangerie and added a pain au chocolat. Do you do sandwiches? I asked. Désolée, said Madame La Boulangère, but she knew someone who did. Imagine my surprise that Bièvre had a one of these: And a very professionally stuffed sandwich it was too, when I came to eat it later, on the shady doorstep of a derelict house in the tiny village of Grapfontaine Mist was hanging thickly in the treetops as I set out at 8am and the looming hills were cloaked in shades of grey But the sky soon cleared, and although the sun was hot, the hills weren’t as demanding as yesterday. Team Bernard nonetheless enjoyed the cool shade of the woods: And pine forests: But for the most part, we were out in open country Where it was hard to believe it ever gets cold, but given we were around 500m above sea level, it clearly does: So you could see why the farmers might want to make hay while the sun shines: The balers were yet to come and there were very few people about but the peace of today belied the conflicts of the past. Just before the village of Ochamps, at the top of a hill, I came upon this tiny chapel… And beside it a memorial to the French and German soldiers killed on 22 August 1914 in the battle of Le Chemin des Croix. Just as I was reading the information board, a military jet flew overhead - it seems we never learn A bit further on I passed this simple memorial, set in a circle of trees, that marked the burial place of a number of German soldiers. It was a peaceful spot, but the grass was knee-high, the paving stones crumbling, and there was no inscription of any kind. It seemed a sorry way to honour their sacrifice. Back on the road, the crest of every hill held the promise of another and while I was still well-stocked with snacks, I was running short on water I scanned villages in vain for people to accost: front gardens were as empty as my bottles. Finally, after a not particularly pleasant last few kilometres on the hard shoulder of a main road, I reached my hotel in Arlon, and fell upon their water fountain like a woman finding an oasis in the Gobi. After that, the obvious thing to do was get back on the bike and ride to the border. It’s just as well I’d replenished my water, because it turned out it was all downhill on the way there, which meant… well, what’s a few hundred extra metres of climbing anyway?
Last week, on my ride to Brussels, I was enjoying a banana in the shade of a tree when I was approached by a thin, bald, middle aged man in round red framed glasses, riding a huge electric mountain bike and emanating nervous energy. Think Tintin’s Professor Calculus on a health kick. After plying me with questions about Bernard’s front wheel luggage - in immaculate English: appropriate usage of the term ‘mounting kit’ was a particular highlight - he moved on to my trip, which I suspect was the object of his curiosity all along. When he heard I was riding through the Ardennes, he looked worried. It’s very empty, it might be difficult to find food, he said. I airily dismissed his concerns, telling him I was used to it in France. But the good Professor’s warning was ringing in my ears as I set off today, without lunch, or snacks of any kind, except for a banana. In my defence, I was quite keen to leave my accommodation. I certainly had no wish to linger in the shared bathroom, where the set up might have suited male guests but didn’t appeal to me: And not wishing to climb Cheddar Gorge again, I didn’t want to go back to Dinant to stock up. So I decided to take my chances. Though it turned out I was only halfway up Cheddar Gorge, so the day started with a gruelling 3km climb straight out of the gate. By the time I reached the top, my decision to forgo a shower had been vindicated: sunscreen was melting off my face and the rest of me was virtually liquid. Minutes later, I received a full-body blow-dry as we swooped downhill. And so it continued for the rest of the day. As my landlady noted somewhat gnomically when I arrived at my destination: Ça monte et ça descend. As always, the effort of climbing was repaid by some spectacularly long views, although they’re hard to capture in a photo My only provisions were consumed mid-morning, and thereafter I scanned the horizon anxiously for villages large enough to sustain a shop. But the Professor was right: there really wasn’t much out there. It was either vast arable fields… Or dairy pastures Or forests so dense that light didn’t penetrate to the ground - it was real Zone Blanche territory, if you’re familiar with that slightly surreal French police drama. Thankfully, I saw no sign of mythical horned creatures, though it would seem there are plenty of the normal kind about and they don’t exactly live in harmony with the locals Finally, in the village of Vencimont, where the boulangerie was closed, and the bar/tabac up for sale, my personal hunt for food was rewarded with the sighting of an artisan boulanger in an old water mill. But so distracted was I by his likeness to the lead singer of Coldplay, and so intent on buying something - anything - to eat, I unwittingly paid an outrageous amount for a small bag of madeleines. To be fair they were freshly baked, delicious and necessary, as by that stage I was running on empty. Though if Chris Martin’s baker twin had mentioned there was an Intermarché in the next town, 7k away, I might have waited. When I wasn’t toiling up long hills (I claim my personal Queen of the Mountain for the ascent through the village of Sévry), or flying down them (top speed: 46kph), a few things caught my eye. Like the extraordinary 13th century Château de Vêves, which might have inspired the makers of Shrek … and the fact that street and town names were so proudly European. It occurred to me as I pedalled along that these two things - a centuries-old military stronghold in an area that has seen so much conflict, and a fierce modern faith in an institution that binds nations together - were not unrelated . Tomorrow I have a much longer, and possibly more demanding day in prospect, but in the words of the real Chris Martin: nobody said it was easy.
As is often the case after a hiatus, I was excited about getting underway again, but nervous at the same time. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Despite the distance, the hills and the heat, the ride didn’t feel all that strenuous. This may well be down to the exemplary R&R on offer chez Porter, which, among other things, allowed me to remind Nikki and Martin that, more than 35 years after I first claimed the crown at university, I remain Champion of the Afternoon Nap. Thanks to my understanding hosts, it wasn’t just sleeping dogs who were let lie. After my white knuckle ride into Brussels, for my departure, the city seemed intent on making amends. Traffic-free doesn’t really do it justice: for the most part, it was a cool, bosky, bike-riding delight And in the midst of all these trees, we were led unerringly (by cycle node signs, not by Guillaume, who was having difficulty finding his satellites under the thick canopy) to the EuroVélo 5 Also known as the Via Francigena, you may recall I last encountered it on my way to Dunkirk. Starting in Calais, it passes through Lens and Lille before swinging north into Belgium, and then south east through Luxembourg. Switzerland and down to Italy. Today it took me virtually all the way from Brussels to Dinant, through small villages… Into open country… And even to the geographical centre of Belgium, at Walhain: At Namur, we crossed the Sambre just before it joined the Meuse - if you look closely you can see the cable car coming down from the castle. From there, for 30 glorious traffic-free kilometres, we pedalled beside the Meuse Passing the odd bijou country retreat… And several (presumably hydroelectric?) weirs with lock gates for river traffic (word of the day: écluse): Dinant looked attractive in the late afternoon sun, and had I realised that my accommodation was out of town, and at the top of the local equivalent of Cheddar Gorge, I would have stopped to look around before going to check in. Too late now! It has joined the list of ‘places to return to another time’. As always, there were sights that caught the eye, from the political: To the architectural (check out the chateau nestled in the woods on the skyline): To the floral: And of course an end to end of Belgium would not be complete without riding on cobbles, but after a kilometre of this, Bernard made clear he would never, in any circumstances, be available for the Paris-Roubaix And when the locals tried to make a joke of it, he did not see the funny side: But cobblestones or not, it was great to be back on the road, though I confess having experienced the beauty of the EV5, I’m now questioning my sanity at voluntarily leaving it tomorrow and heading into the Ardennes with only the mercurial Guillaume to guide me. Wish me luck!
Today’s lesson was ‘Cycling Infrastructure: how to do it (and how not to)’. For my ride to Brussels, Guillaume had come up with a route that looked suspiciously like some of his less brilliant ideas from last year. For those who weren’t following that trip, his rationale could generally be summarised as ´Take the shortest route, and to hell with the traffic’. So when he suggested I follow the main N9 today, I was sceptical. Help desk (aka brother Mark in Norfolk, with some assistance from Google maps and satellite images), reassured me that in this instance Guillaume could be trusted. Indeed he could: the route started like this: For a while it looked like this: And later like this - the cycle path is the paler surface to the right, separated from moving traffic by the hard shoulder. It was at least this good for the better part of 80k. It wasn’t the most exciting journey, given it was pretty much dead straight, but at least navigating wasn’t difficult, and there were occasional sights of interest. Guillaume liked the look of the Delirium Tremens brewery: But Bernard was more moved by this WW1 memorial to members of the company of ‘chasseurs cyclistes’, which stood beside the road, surrounded by a field of young potatoes Back on the road, we were either given priority over cars joining from the right or we had our own traffic lights. Without fail, drivers wanting to cross the cycle path waited for me to pass before they did so. After a while, I stopped looking over my left shoulder at junctions, and just swept across like the locals. Considering I was right next to a main road, it was surprisingly relaxing In Ghent, whose extraordinary skyline is just impossible to capture in photos: … the infrastructure is equally good, but the tram tracks made Bernard nervous, particularly when we had to ride between them, or cross them on a diagonal The trams themselves were almost silent but somehow managed to avoid mowing down the crowds of pedestrians with whom they shared the same space So much for the ‘how to do it’ part of the lesson. No photos are available for the ‘how not to do it’ part, because I was too busy trying to stay alive. From my albeit brief experience, Brussels, capital city of what I’d started to think was a cycling paradise, is the most dangerous place I have ever cycled in, bar none. I had more close shaves in 10k of riding through it than in the previous 1,500k. The careful and attentive drivers of Flanders were nowhere to be seen and the glorious ribbon of safe separated riding vanished in a cloud of exhaust fumes, ill-parked cars and broken glass. I could not have been more relieved to reach the sanctuary of Nikki and Martin’s house, unscathed. Though it was clear I’d had a hair raising experience: I’m booked in for some R&R now for a couple of days, in preparation for the Ardennes. See you on Tuesday.
It’s a double bill of blogs tonight, you lucky people. Scroll down to read about the last leg of my France end-to-end. But meanwhile, my end-to-end of Belgium is already underway: I was delighted to see that the former border post has been put to much better use. As first impressions go, a luxury chocolate shop isn’t a bad one: Though this chip shop was also a strong contender: Given both countries are in the EU, and there’s no longer a border to speak of, it felt like a bit of a throwback to see a row of outlets selling cut price fags Talking of borders, no matter how many I cross, it never fails to amaze me how different one country can be from its neighbour, when they’re only separated by an arbitrary line on a map - which is itself (the map I mean) a human construct. It immediately felt so different, but not in ways I expected. Whereas yesterday I had to remind myself I was still in France, today I was having difficulty believing I wasn’t already in the Netherlands. It was mostly down to language: I had expected to see Flemish alongside French. So I was surprised not to see any French at all, and to be struggling to understand what I was reading. Sometimes I could guess from the context: But that didn’t always work. When I saw this sign, I thought: marauding poultry? Dangerous wildfowl? No, it turns out that wildrooster means cattle grid. To contain a flock of four legged lawn mowers - though they didn’t appear to be taking their duties very seriously But the differences weren’t just in the language. There was an immediate change in how other cyclists behaved. In France, I’d become accustomed to a reciprocal Bonjour, usually said with a smile, sometimes a wave. From my observations today, I would say that Belgian cyclists prefer greetings to be non-verbal, if at all. I quickly learned that, at most, I might receive a barely perceptible nod, but almost never a smile. Maybe it’s just that there are so many more of them - because it’s true that there are bikes everywhere - so it just seems weird to greet other cyclists. Why are there so many? Well, take the infrastructure for a start: if I thought France was good, Belgium is on another level entirely. Separated bike paths are everywhere, and cars give way to the flow of bikes: Though in Bruges, I found the volume and confidence of cyclists a bit intimidating after so much time on my own in rural France. No one wears helmets, they all know where they’re going, and they give no quarter to dithering visitors. I repaired to the main square for a calming hot chocolate in a cafe with a fine view But the bulk of the day was spent beside various canals, which didn’t offer much protection from the north wind, so it was a relief when we turned east Canalside riding isn’t very exciting, but today it was occasionally pretty And offered some classic views with a modern twist (see why I kept thinking I was in the Netherlands?) It was properly cold today, so this was a welcome sight in the bar I dived into to warm up in Nieupoort. I’m hoping for sunshine and a following wind for my long ride to Brussels tomorrow.
My end-to-end of France is complete. With only a few characteristic hiccups, Guillaume the Garmin has led me from one end of the country to the other, and the trusty Bernard has carried me up hill and down dale, on tarmac, gravel, grass, cobblestones and farmers’ tracks, without complaint - and without a puncture. Together, in 17 days on the bike, Team Bernard have covered 1,362.2 km / 846.4 miles (not counting the 174.9 km in Spain). We’ve travelled from the pines of Les Landes, through the vines of the Gironde, and across the vast arable plains of central France to the battlefields of Flanders. We’ve pedalled through the fine cities of Bordeaux, Angoulême and Chartres, and countless tiny villages that were often too small for a shop but were rarely without a church. We’ve crossed great rivers, from the Bidassoa, which marks the border with Spain, to the Garonne, Dordogne, Charente, Vienne, la Loire, le Loir, the Indre, the Seine and the Somme. We’ve battled the north wind and come out on top, at Bray Dunes, the most northerly point in France. With hindsight, it would have been much easier riding north to south, with the wind on my back. But I’m glad I did it this way, because I know I earned it (and clearly I’m a masochist). Overall, and setting aside the weather, my takeaway (once again) is that cycling in France is a delight. There are plenty of reasons why, starting with the brilliantly signposted cycle routes, whether on roads or dedicated voies vertes Speaking of roads - drivers are so patient and respectful that you rarely feel in danger. When overtaking a bike, most vehicles cross the centre line. And if they’re near a corner, they wait. When coming towards you on a narrow country lane, they start driving on the verge way before they get to you. And more often than not, they’ll give way to bikes crossing a road, even when they don’t have to. But if you pick your route carefully, traffic is rarely an issue in any case: Obviously, the boulangeries have to get a mention. Pop in for breakfast, come out with lunch and tea at the same time. A nutritionist might say otherwise, but I’m convinced pains au chocolat make the best cycling fuel And there’s nothing like the reassurance of having a well-stuffed baguette strapped to your panniers when you’re setting off into the vast emptiness of rural France. Talking of food, it has to be said that maintaining a strict vegetarian diet while taking on enough fuel for cycling is difficult in France, outside large cities. For a non fish eating vegetarian, I’ve had a lot of tuna. I haven’t eaten out often, but when I did, veggie options were limited. In Chartres, there was just one, so when I told the waiter I was vegetarian he just said: “Le veggie burger alors!” and relieved me of the menu. Biarritz was a pleasant exception: Belatedly, and thanks to my Dutch amis de route, Jan and Gerthe, I had a coffee epiphany. After many disappointing grands crèmes, and insipid cafés au lait, I finally realised that black was the way to go, so from now on it’s un allongé s’il vous plaît There are so many other things I love about France in general: the greetings and farewells that punctuate every interaction, with special ones reserved for travellers; the lunchtime closing - somehow the world doesn’t end; the Salle de Fêtes in every village, which sounds so much jollier than Village Hall. One village even had a communal walnut grove And I find it charming that even the tiniest village generally has a signboard explaining where the local places of interest are, even though the residents must know already, and visitors are unlikely to need them If there was one thing that concerned me, particularly in central France, it was that, if I had a mechanical problem, it would be a very long walk to find help. My solution was just not to think about it, in the hope that if anything happened, a guardian angel would appear, as they did last year. Fortunately, Bernard sailed through without needing assistance from anyone, aside from regular applications of chain oil. Fingers crossed things stay that way through Belgium and beyond…
Are you there yet? Not quite. But very nearly. Since crossing the southern border of France at Hendaye on 11 May, it has taken me 16 and a half days to pedal here, and I’m on track to reach Bray Dunes, the country’s most northerly point, tomorrow morning. Despite yesterday’s exertions, when I hit the road this morning I felt quite restored. Perhaps it was down to the wholesome conversation over breakfast with a mother and daughter from Arizona who were on pilgrimage from Canterbury to Aosta. Or the two large cups of sweet black coffee I drank to make up for the drought yesterday. Or perhaps it was just the effect of a proper rest after a few disturbed nights. Could the secret to a good sleep be riotously mismatched bedding? And while we’re on the subject, what is it with French pillows? You can either have a pencil thin bolster than runs the width of the double bed (how does that work when there’s two of you in it?) or else a big square thing. Last night I had both, but I was so tired I was past caring. Dunkirk is due north of Auchy, so I’ll give you one guess which direction Mr Blowhard was coming from today, at more or less the same strength as yesterday. Thankfully, due to cooler air and the general absence of hills, it was altogether a much better day on the bike. We very briefly joined EuroVélo 5, aka Via Francigena - the cycling equivalent of what my Arizonan friends were doing on foot: And then began zigzagging our way north through a complex web of numbered nodes - a system that I’m likely to become very familiar with as I understand it’s used all over Belgium and the Netherlands: The twisting and turning both made for a more interesting ride and ensured I didn’t always have the wind in my face. At one point we joined the North Sea Cycle route, which was signposted in (I assume) Flemish: LF is the Dutch acronym for a cycle route: What with the routing system, the language and the names, I had to keep reminding myself I was still in France - it felt so different from the country I’ve travelled through so far And it wasn’t just the geography I was noticing, but the history. As usual, I had my earphones in (don’t worry, I can still hear the traffic), and with eerie timing, John Lennon had just sung “Imagine all the people, living life in peace” when I came upon this sign: Backing onto open farmland, it was, as often with these places, immaculately tended and incredibly poignant. All these place names are familiar to me from a diary written by my great uncle in the trenches in 1916 and 1917: And the local people clearly don’t want future generations to forget: this mural in Ochtezeele was opposite the primary school (situated in the same building as the Mairie, as I’ve often seen in small towns): It’s not just the conflicts of the last century that are remembered. This memorial outside the town of Noordpeene commemorates a significant battle in the Franco-Dutch war of 1677, in which Louis XIV wrested control of (French) Flanders from William of Orange. Even with all the History and Geography, there was still no escaping PE. Blowhard did his worst across the flat farmland of Flanders: And saved a particularly chilling headwind for the last charge into Dunkirk along the Bergues canal: Tomorrow, the lesson may well be Foreign Languages. Until then, good night - or, as I believe they say in Flemish, slapwel.
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