And that's my favourite joke in The Simpsons...

And then Smithers says to Mr Burns ‘Women and Sea-men don’t mix’, and that’s my favourite joke in The Simpsons. Because that’s what they’re doing. They’re sat at home eating their TV dinners, sitting on their sofas and their watching the f*cking Simpsons.

My favourite line from my favourite movie, but I can guarantee that whilst most of you reading this have seen the film, not many of you will be able to recall where it’s from.
It’s delivered with subtlety, the focus drawn to more important characters and if you do watch the film but don’t hear this line, it really makes no difference to the story, but to those of us who do notice it, sometimes the small touches of genius can really make a massive difference - and for me this is the perfect way to describe my time in Georgia. If I had been more organised I almost definitely wouldn’t have taken myself through this wonderful country, but I can’t describe how glad I am that I came.

Due to having to wait for a parcel in Trabson I had ended up spending 6 nights there and previously I’d found that when I’d got settled like that, motivating myself to get back on the bike was one of the harder things to do – not from Trabson it wasn’t. In Austria I’d been told the local joke that Austrian diplomacy’s greatest achievement was getting the world to believe that Hitler was German and Mozart was Austrian; in line with this Turkish diplomacy’s greatest achievement is getting the outside world to think Trabson is a tourist destination. The Trabsonians I had spoken to had told me things along the lines of ‘ah yes, Trabson is the best place in Turkey; we have beautiful beaches, the best fish restaurants and of course the spectacular Sumela Monastery.’ Not strictly true though, is it my Turkish friends? The beaches are 6km out of town one way, the restaurants 4km out of town the other way and the Sumela Monastery is 44km or an hour and a half bus ride away from Trabson, tucked high up in the mountains. So whilst the town itself is nice enough, there’s very little you wouldn’t be able to find in any Turkish town and as a result it’s no surprise that on my first day out of Trabson I was only to happy to get away.

A day and a half later and I arrived at the Georgian border. I was sad to see the end of my time in Turkey, it had been a good home to me for the previous month and the excitement of seeing a football team actually winning had left the country with a feel good factor that had lasted long after the European Championships but as I approached the border, I can’t lie, I was looking forward to a change of scenery.

And boy, was it a different culture. The further east I’d traveled in Turkey the more religiously conservative it had become. One of the more bizarre memories I’ll have of my trip is always going to be that of a lady swimming in full Muslim dress with only her face showing as she struggled desperately against the sea whilst trying to teach her baby son to swim, so I found it somewhat amusing that the first thing you come to in Georgia, just 3km into the country and still just about in view of Turkey, is a beach which was home to hundreds of Georgian girls in scantily clad bikinis, an equal number of macho guys and a big party atmosphere with a barbecue on the beach, party music on the stereo and even jet ski races going on out at sea – situated so close to the border the first impression was that Georgia wanted to be fun, and it wanted Turkey to see it was fun.

But I wasn’t here for the beach, and 15 km into the country I turned in land and started towards the mountains and my target of the Goderdzi Pass, located not just 100km away but also 2 vertical kilometers up at an altitude of 2025m. The climb was long and difficult. My map had told me I was on a main road, however what my map didn’t tell me was that after 60 km the road was made of dirt and stones and that even the trucks were struggling. With the road changing it meant time to change my tyres from the ones that had done me so well from England, to the new mountain bike tyres I’d had sent to me in Trabson. As I was sat carrying out the changes in what I thought was a quiet spot away from civilization it soon became apparent I wasn’t in as quieter spot as I thought I was and I was soon surrounded by a local family, who after watching me finish working ushered me into their home for dinner, not to mention several shots of Chacha – homemade vodka served from an old Fanta bottle.

Their home, my first experience of a Georgian mountain house, was perhaps as you might expect: The house was made almost entirely of wood, there were large holes in the wall, no glass in the windows – just an empty frame instead, and upstairs (which you got to by a ladder from the outside of the house) there were 2 bedrooms, one for the parents and one for the 6 children I met. The downstairs had 2 rooms; one was a kitchen which had the women preparing food in, the other, the living/dining room, consisted of one table and 6 chairs.

Oh, and a flat screen TV.

A flat screen TV showing MTV Base.

I stayed for an hour, enjoyed their company, thanked them for their hospitality and left grinning as in my mind I pictured a traditional Georgian family, high up in the mountains huddled together on a cold snowy night, the heat escaping through their glassless windows as they all gather round to watch Dizzee Rascal perform on their flat screen TV. A truly heartwarming image.

My new Georgian friends: I was offered the hand of all 3 daughters!

The pass was a couple of hours further up the mountain and as I was nearing it darkness began to set in. I asked a passing driver how far away I was and he said 3 km. I traveled 8 and still hadn’t found it but by this time not only was it getting dark, but I was in thick cloud and visibility was pretty much zero so reluctantly I admitted defeat for the day and pulled off to side of the road and set up camp.

After such a climb falling asleep wasn’t too difficult, but I was woken up at 6 am by the sound of something going through my panniers. A thief? No, it was too heavy footed, and besides, it sounded like it was eating. Startled and still half asleep I put some clothes on, stuck my head out the tent and what did I see? A cow making off with my breakfast, that’s what I saw.

Without thinking I jumped out to shoo it off – this was a stupid thing to do and the scared animal ran straight over the bike, the clumsy feet of a heavy animal kicking poor Tullulah all over the place. I was worried – my confidence in being a bicycle mechanic was growing slowly but the thought of what the weight of a fully grown cow could do with the combination of being in the middle of nowhere at the top of the mountain meant that if there was some serious damage I’d be in serious trouble.

Thankfully after a couple of tests it seemed the only damage was that the cow had kicked the front derailleur out of place and after this had been carefully fixed I was free to enjoy the spectacular view. I didn’t have an altimeter with me but I knew that 2025m was higher than I’d been on the tour so far and if you ever want to feel truly free, there aren’t many better ways to do it than to wake up and be able to look down on the clouds. The fresh mountain air filling my lungs combined with stunning views made up for the reduced breakfast I was left with.

Not a bad view to wake up to!

It turned out the pass was just 500 metres further on from where I’d camped and after sailing over I was left to enjoy a day of descent. This would have been even more enjoyable if the rest of the day hadn’t gone as badly as it started: a puncture whilst flying downhill at 30mph almost killing me and then, far worse I would spend the next two days recovering from eating out-of-date sardines – I had been lucky in not suffering any illness up to this point, but the first bout of illness came from the worst possible cause: rancid fish.

A couple of days later and after an afternoon in Gori, the birthplace of a certain Josef Stalin, I arrived in Tbilisi in the pouring rain with my mind away in the clouds hoping that my mountain families TV would survive the storm.

For what it’s worth Tbilisi is a beautiful city, but at the same time is a massive misrepresentation of what Georgia is like. The city does its best to give off a European vibe, and with a lot of the locals asking if I think Georgia should be in the EU (seriously, what the hell am I going to say to that?) there is a strong desire in the culture to become as ‘European’ as possible. The architecture is beautiful in places and by night I have been to fewer more picturesque cities – so in contrast to some of the eyesores I saw on my way in it made a pleasant change.

I was in the city for 5 days whilst my Azeri visa was processed and during this time I aimed to do as little as possible, which I achieved quite nicely and the only other events to report were that I met 2 other cyclists: Andy, who had cycled to Georgia and had been living here for 6 months, but was due to set off again in September, and Danny, a Swiss cyclist who was about 5 days ahead of me on near enough the same route – whilst he’s headed for Turkmenistan, I’ll be in Kazakhstan, but we will be in China about the same time on the same route and I’m personally looking forward to hopefully bumping into him again (and steeling his spare supplies).

Finally, on Monday 21st I left Tbilisi with a shiny new Azeri stamp in my passport and made the border the same evening.

Baku was 600 km away - all you need to know about the ride is that it was long, hot (35 degree average in the day), flat and very, very boring; so instead of the details of the ride I would like to talk about my experiences of the Azeri people.

I have to be honest – everything Georgia was, Azerbaijan was not and my week on Azeri roads has been the hardest week mentally so far.

The main pleasure I find in cycling is the solitude, the time to think, the chance to be getting by independently and most of all the quiet that the countryside can offer: In Azerbaijan it has been impossible to get any of these things.

On the roads the drivers were bad enough. On my second day in the country, sick of the constant sound of horns I did an experiment to see how long it would take to hear 100 car horns - 11 minutes later I’d lost count. Off the road life has been just as tough. Every time I stop for a break at the side of a road I had to make sure I couldn’t be seen or else within minutes several cars would have stopped and wouldn’t leave again until I had gone. Worse still the overwhelming majority of Azeri’s seem to have no concept whatsoever of ‘personal space’. Every town, every shop, every cafe I stopped in I would come out to find people poking through my bags, playing with my brakes trying to push buttons on my odometer: We’re not talking children here either, these are adults. The worst case was in the town of Agsu, where after stopping to ask for directions from a policeman (whilst still straddling my bike) his friend started going through my bar bag, took out my wallet and started going through my cards. I wrenched the wallet out of his hands and said something which made my anger clear. The policeman (who spoke good English) apologised for his friend and ushered him away, but as he left I could see the look on his face told me he still had absolutely no clue as to what he’d done wrong.

Of course, as a Muslim country, there was still a large emphasis on hospitality and making your guest feel welcome but even this became tedious as it soon became apparent just how much of a money obsessed, materialistic country Azerbaijan is. In Turkey and Georgia the questions had been ‘Where are you from?’, ‘Where are you going?’, ‘Do you like my country?’. In Azerbaijan the first question I was asked before any of these was ‘How much does your bicycle cost?’ usually followed by ‘How much money do you have?’ and then more of ‘How much does your watch/ glasses/ shoes cost?’. This materialistic nature is reflected heavily in the arrogance of many of the young-men of Azerbaijan. The fake designer-clothes trade appears to be roaring and the overwhelming attitude, especially to a cyclist was one of ‘look at that guy, why would anyone ever need to ride a bike when I can be the mutts-nuts driving a Vauxhall Opel wearing a t-shirt that had Armani written on it around 300 times?’.

In hindsight I feel like I've been harsh on Azerbaijan - there were some good views!

I spent the entire week being the butt of jokes, avoiding maniac drivers and after 2 days, doing my best to avoid all social situations before arriving in Baku on the Sunday morning.

Baku, like Tbilisi before it but on a bigger scale, is a mass misrepresentation of how the majority of people in Azerbaijan live. The oil trade has pumped money into the rich part of the city and made it visually stunning. Unlike the majority of the country the streets are clean, well maintained and the housing is of good quality with further improvements still ongoing. I’m staying with a host out here and when I mentioned how nice it was in Baku to one of his friends I was promptly told ‘You haven’t seen the rest of the country’.

Unfortunately I had – the gap between rich and poor in the country is growing and with seemingly few plans in place for what to do when the oil runs out (estimated to be in about 10-15 years) the future for a country who’s inhabitants revolve around money could be very interesting indeed.

As for me, I’m here till the boat for Kazakhstan turns up. Thanks for reading and the blog for Kazakhstan will hopefully be up in about a month.

My second night in Baku - The picture is with Ali, my host, who's been nothing short of a saviour for me out here!

A Big Contrast In Asia Minor

My time in Istanbul can be simply divided into two parts: My time as a tourist and my time as a guest.

I had arrived tired, stressed and in need of a break - and it soon became spectacularly clear that the tourist centre of Istanbul was the last place I needed to be.
"Hey my friend, where you from? England? Come to my restaurant, lovely jubbly", "You come with me, I have best shop in Istanbul" and perhaps best of all "I shine your shoes, only 25 lira, money goes to childrens hospital" were all phrases I got used to hearing repeatedly as desperate street sellers would repeatedly grab my arm to try to get me to buy things I had no interest in; the hassle was constant, the decibel level high and the stress levels for simply walking down a street were just to much and pretty soon I'd given up with being a tourist. Istanbul's famous sites; the Blue Mosque, Dolmabahce Palace and the Saint Sophia all looked fantastic from the outside but ask me what they were like to see and I wouldn't be able to tell you and instead I was more than happy to spend the next 3 days playing chess with the receptionist at the hostel, setting up a self-indulgent Facebook group and hiding away from the hassle of the outside world.

But then my luck changed.

My Dad had originally put me into contact with Ozhan, one of his co-workers from their companies Istanbul office, with the aim of getting some help with Turkish translation and little did I know I would spend the next 3 nights with him and his friends getting an insiders view of Istanbul. The moment I was with a local the hassle stopped, the prices I was paying for things lowered and best of all by being in an office I got to get a glimpse of what everyday life was like again. Whilst seemingly every other tourist in Istanbul was outside in the places I didn't want to be, I was at my happiest in an underground car park with 3 grown men who had stayed behind after work to play with a remote control miniature truck, getting it to jump as high as possible over my panniers - a rare glimpse of normality!

The sharper of you reading this blog may ask why I stayed 6 nights in a city where I clearly had no interest in seeing any of the sights. Well there's a simple answer for this; my final night in Istanbul coincided with the Turkey v Croatia game.
For the previos week every television in Turkey had shown nothing else other than repeated highlights of the Turkish comeback against the Czech Republic and with a semi-final place at stake the atmosphere in Istanbul was electric. Better still I was with Ozhan in a residential suburb, watching the game in a local cafe, able to get a feel for what the game really meant to the locals.

It was certainly an experience. Watching a game in an alcohol free environment is a bizarre experience for any English sports fan and as for the game itself,well, lets be honest, if Turkey had lost there really could have been no complaints. But for those of you who don't know Croatia scored in the last minute of extra time to seemingly win the game, only for Turkey to score 30 seconds later with the last kick of the game and then win on penalties. The depressing low followed by the dizzying high, which peaked when an Ozhan bear-hug nearly broke my glasses, soon swept out onto the streets. Cars driving at 100kph down main roads tooting their horns as loudly as possible, 40ft flags hastily being hung down every street and within 10 minutes a marching mob of what must have been around 2,000 forming chanting the nations football anthem 'TURKİYEEE - TURKİYEEE' before turning to their attentions to bouncing cars and vans from side to side. I struggle to do justice to the scenes I saw that night (although there are videos on the Facebook group for the members on there) but the atmosphere was something I'll savour for a long time - I certainly won't be holding my breath for an England penalty shoot-out victory, thats for sure.

The following morning, with the city still buzzing, the curtain came down on my time in Istanbul and with new friends and warm memories I got the boat to the Asian side of the city (I still haven't forgiven Turkey for not letting cyclists ride across the bridge) and set about finding the road to the Black Sea Coast where I would spend the next 2 weeks with the aim of getting to Trabzon for my birthday on the 5th of July. To give a rough indication of the size of Istanbul on my way in to the city after crossing the city border I had stopped for a chat with a local cyclist who has asked where I was going etc and told me that from where we were on the edge of the Istanbul to my hostel was 40 km - he hadn't been wrong and leaving was no different as it was a further 17 miles before I eventually got out to the countryside.

The scenery was fantastic and it was good to see that a week sat around had refreshed my body rather than lost too much fitness, a fact made even more important when the following day I did some maths and realised that I had stupidly got my distances wrong and left myself with just 12 days to cover the 1,200 kilometres to Trabzon.

This was my first time riding a coast line and if I'm honest there was definetely an aspect to it I did not enjoy. The scenery was beautiful, the roads were good and although I was struggling to get my 100km a day in even the hills were fun. But the aspect I did not enjoy was the predictability; when riding a coast line constantly at the back of your mind is that you know whats coming up and when. The next 3 days were spent as follows; climb 4 miles, descend 4 miles. Climb another 6 miles, descend another 6 miles. A steady climb for 12 miles, a steady descent for 12 miles. The variation depressingly lacking as each descent left me dejected at sea level, knowing that in the 30 degree heat the only way I could look was up.

Of course there were distractions: Cows on the road when your in the middle of a 30mph descent is always entertaining and even more dangerously on the 3rd day as I hit the middle of another descent a child 100 metres or so in front ran out in the road waving his arms for me to stop. This had happened before for me with children wanting me to stop to look at the strange man and his stranger bicycle and if I had stopped everytime I had been shouted to I'd still be somewhere near Istanbul so I didn't feel to bad that I had no intention of slowing down. He, on the otherhand had a different idea and no matter which side of the road I moved to he jumped in front of the bike. I slowed down to pass but he jumped out in front of me; if I hadn't stopped he wouldn't have got out of the way and as I stopped about a metre from a collision, completely unfazed that I had nearly run him over he stuck out his hand and said 'Lira'. Great. I had been stopped by a beggar child. I moved round him and tried to ride off except now his new plan was to try to climb onto the back of my bike. I tried to ride off before he got on but instead of letting go he chose to hold onto the rack 'water ski' style. This was extremely dangerous for all of 2 metres and I had no choice but stop again, remove him and then as I tried to leave again he jumped back on and before I eventually managed to get rid of him his mother had shown up to also ask for money. A new foe on my trip it would seem - the suicidal child.

With that obstacle conquered I moved on and was happy to make it to Bartin 2 days later for the semi-final of the football. The whole town had shown up to watch on a big screen placed in the town centre and whilst the atmosphere was no 'Istanbul' the mood was good but its at this point, if I may, that I'd like to raise an issue.

My attitude since leaving home has been that 'I am here to see the world, not to change it' but something really needs to be done about the ammount of people in parts of Eastern Europe and Turkey wearing Man Utd and Chelsea shirts. I could understand if I was in a 3rd world country and these were clothes that people in the UK had bought, realised their tragic error and then donated to charity instead, but whilst my blog has mentioned beggars a couple of times, Turkey really is not that poor of a country (and from speaking to locals they can't see any reason why they won't be able to join the EU shortly) and depressingly these shirts are being worn through choice. Something needs to be done, and if anyone has anyway we can start to change the world for the better on this issue then please don't hesitate to contact me - theres something very depressing about seeing a 10 year old Turkish boy with the name 'Ronaldo' on his back.

Of course the game didn't quite go to plan, so even though the performance was good the result meant that the town centre emptied within 5 minutes of the final whistle and for the first time in 2 weeks something other than football was on the television sets in the shop windows that I was passing.

The next two days with yet more tough riding took me through the beautiful town of Amasra before a gruelling day left me absolutely shattered on the fringes of a small village called Buyukduz. Its worth saying that in 2 months not once had I beed removed from a camping site and only on a couple of occasions had I even been noticed, but tonight was not my night and as I started cooking a man in the only house within view came over, realised I spoke no Turkish and as such got the landowner to come along and move me along. Now normally this would have been no problem, except that at this moment in time I was toast. I simply could not move and after finishing eating I kept my word and left the place I had hoped to camp only to move to a side road about 50 metres further on. I really couldn't manage much more and I got out my sleeping bag and roll mat (too tired and late to bother with a tent) and crawled up under a gate to try to get to sleep. At the bottom of the road there was 1 house with a light on, so in my mind if they were home and it was late at night I was safe to stay there. So on that basis, I was a bit surprised when the exact same man who had thrown me off of his field turned down to where I was sleeping, which turned out to be his front driveway. I don't know many Turkish swear words but I get a feeling a few were used as he stood by his car ushering me away. He told me there was a hotel 10 km down the road - not a chance of me making that and after leaving I ended up just 30 metres down the road and collapsed into long grass where thankfully I wasn't bothered again.

Every cloud has a silver lining though and the positive of sleeping outdoors is waking up when the sun rises, at around 4 am in Turkey, means that I can get up and out before the 30degree plus heat of the day, and whats more today was a special day.

The 29th of June marked 2 months on the road for me and I have to admit it felt satisfying to watch my Odometer tick over 3,000 miles and then demoralising after blowing up my inflatable globe to see how far I still had left to travel. And of course to celebrate the anniversary, after 3 weeks of solid sunshine I got a storm. Thunder, lightning and heavy rain left me soaking and after having already turned down the offer of a free camping place because I'd needed to get more miles in I ended up camping on top of a hill, cold, wet, without a shower in 8 days and in dirty clothes. For the first time in a while I was missing home and I already felt dejected when, with full waterproofs on I was carrying my bags up a hill only to slip and fall in the mud covering myself in clay like mud. My name is not Margot, being covered head to toe in filth is not my idea of The Good Lıfe and I'm man enough to admit that being so close to my birthday and yet so far from home, a tear came to my eye. However I'm not man enough to admit what I did next.

The next morning I woke to find the sun back cutting a lone figure in the sky and was a lot happier after having had quick swim-wash and even happier to find that despite being 360 miles away from my destination with 3 days left of riding, the rest of my journey would be along a flat ground.The next day began to show me just how fit I was and as I managed a 95 mile day without breaking sweat I was safe in the knowledge that my body would not be the thing that would stop me from getting to Trabzon.

However there were still dangers. My pump, which had been secured to the back of the bike for the duration of my trip had dissapeared 2 days previously, I'm guessing on one of the white knuckle descents, so whilst I hadn't had a puncture since Germany one now and I'd be in trouble.

And then of course there was the Turkish drivers. As I write this blog which has reflected badly on beggars and will now go on to slate bad drivers, I feel that it's worth mentioning how much I have enjoyed being with the overwhelming majority of Turkish people. They have shown me unrivalled levels of hospitality, have done their utmost to ensure I'm having an enjoyable stay whilst I have been in their country and I've lost count of the ammounts of roadside cups of tea I have enjoyed with new Turkish friends over the last few weeks, so please, I recommend Turkey to anyone who's reading this (and if you do go to Turkey make sure you go to at least 1 place that isn't in Istanbul) and I can guarantee you will leave being glad you came.

Which brings me to my point - I'm pretty sure the Turkish highway code stipulates that to drive a car you can't have a mental capacity higher than that of a 7 year old and that when behind a wheel you must act as though you've never been allowed to use a car horn before.

Upon entering Istanbul I had cycled down the motorway simply because it was safer. In the country roads, particularly on hills if I had heard a car I had found it simpler just to stop and move away from the road than to risk it. The number of near misses I had seen I had lost count of and it's a small miracle that I had only seen 2 accidents.

The first I had seen was on a steep hill in the first week of Turkey. To give an idea of the genius methods behind much of Turkish driving I learned quickly that if a car wanted to cut a blind corner it would simply toot his horn several times as he approaches the corner - if he hears no horn in return then its safe to cut the corner. This method of course suddenly comes unstuck if the other driver is listening to music, doesn't hear the horn, is going fast himself or is not a local, and so not surprisingly I saw one accident at one such corner as 2 cars both going to fast came round and grazed each others bonnets together before smashing off each others wing mirrors.

The last example is a good one because nobody was hurt, however just over 80 miles from Trabzon I was at a traffic light when a lorry came screeching down the town's high street and ploughed straight into the back of the car in front at what must have been close to 40 mph, with me stood on Tullula not 5 metres away. This was serious. The car in front was written off and although the driver limped out he had the luck to be the only Turk I'd seen wearing a seatbelt since I arrived it was a shocking crash made all the more crazy that this road wasn't a highway, it was a small town centre road so for a lorry to have built up that kind of speed was ridiculous. The driver of the lorry didn't seem to bothered, checking the front of his lorry before checking on the driver he had hit and after everything had calmed down I rode away feeling all the more vulnerable on the roads in a country where speed limits are minimums and traffic lights are for the best part ignored.

Of course though I was fine and my journey continued (managing to pick up a spare pump from the worlds worst bike shop) before I stopped just 60 miles short of Trabzon, and with one day to spare I had timed it perfectly - what followed gives an example of the ups and downs of being a cycling tourist and also offers a 1 day microcosm that demonstrates the difference of being a tourist and a guest in Turkey.

I woke up to complete the last leg to a puncture. It was my first in 7 weeks and I soon learned just how useless the temporary pump I'd bought was. Despite my best efforts I couldn't get any kind of pressure, the pump wouldn't have pumped up a football (the guy in the shop who sold it to me had never heard of a presta valve) and after an hour of trying I let my anger out on the thing, snapping it into 4 pieces before dragging the bike back 1 mile to a car repair shop where I was helped out with an electric tyre pump and 2 hours later than planned I was on my way only to encounter more problems, this time with my rear cassette. But none-the-less I made it to Akcaabat, a town 6 miles short of Trabzon where the plan had been to get some dinner before finding somewhere to sleep. Dinner took care of itself as I met two Belgian twins who were of Turkish descent and were on holiday insisted on taking me for a meal and were even more insistent that I didn't pay anything.

With faith in kindness restored the next plan was to go to the beach to wash myself and fix my bicycle but on my arrival I heard a shout I'd come to dread - 'Turist!'. This had happened to me a lot over my journey through Turkey - the moment that I heard these words I knew the one thing I wouldn't get was peace and quiet. The moment your seen as a tourist your no longer seen as 'normal' in the eyes of the locals, your seen as someone who should answer all their questions, has money to spend on things for the local children and who should pose for pictures with them. I've never wanted to be, and to be fair, never will be a celebrity but if you want a sample of what its like ride a bicycle through Turkey. The constant hassle from children, having to make sure your somewhere you can't be seen to get some quiet and bizarrely small children with camera phones taking your picture were all things I wasn't quite prepared for.

After an hour of being pestered I turned to leave the beach, tired and dejected but on my way out was asked for tea by some locals. Not having anywhere to be there was no way I could refuse and soon we were all talking and joking away like old friends and after a while the conversation turned and I was asked what, as a Christian, I thought of Muslims. This was a situation I had been in many times over the last few weeks and one that always frustrated me.

Me labelling myself Christian is an insult to Christianity and not something I was not prepared to do, but worse still without the lingual skills to correct people I was stuck with it. In Bartin I had been treated to a conversation with a local Kebab shop owner who had told me 'Muslim - Christian - No problem' before reinacting Jesus on the cross accompanied by repeatedly saying 'Jesus dying, bad, bad, bad' and tonight, again, I was stuck with the label although at least my new friends put it to good use, offering me language lessons with the aim of tricking me into becoming a Muslim!

But with the label, much like with Muslims in England came the misguided stereotypes. As a Christian, in their eyes I would spend my birthday drinking beer until I couldn't walk and spending the rest of my money on 'Natashas' - Russian prostitutes who were common in Trabzon. It was strange; the conversation was jovial but in their mind this is what a Christian did on his birthday. And to think they were only half right.

With darkness setting in we talked on, becoming firm friends and it soon turned out that they were students at the local university (within the exception of 1 who was pro-boxer) and asked if I wanted to stay the night. Did I want to stay?! Of couse I did! And just like, after the day which had started with a puncture my last night for this leg of the journey was spent as a guest on the 8th floor of Akcaabat Universities student halls, enjoying my first shower for 2 weeks, free hamburgers and even a kickboxing display from my new, slightly macho friends!

And that, my friends, is that! I sauntered into Trabzon the next morning to the hotel my parents had got me as a birthday present (thank you!), got the bike fixed, cleaned myself up and after opening the birthday cards I'd bought with me from home enjoyed a birthday talking to people at home and having my first beer in 2 weeks. Then just when I was off to bed I bumped into my student friends who I'd stayed with in Akcaabat who, once again, asked if I was 'for Natasha' and were surprised when I said I was actually off to bed at 11 o'clock on my birthday. A lots changed this year it would seem, and bumping into people I knew in Trabzon really is starting to emphasise that it really is a small world after all.


Up next - Georgia and Azerbaijan

Just a quick message to say thanks for all the birthday messages and the repeated support for the site from friends, family and if there are any out there, Banbury Guardian readers!

Pictures

The celebrations after football






The first pictures from Asia - of Europe



The students I stayed with: I was told that this was the Turkish symbol - ofcourse I later found out what it really meant.



The problem of having a hotel room thats 6ft by 8ft

The road to 'New Frontiers' leads to the end of the beginning

First things first, a quick thank you to both Tibor and Sophie for the accomodation! Great to be indoors for a few days to recharge the batteries and the Persıan food, much needed nıght out and the Eurovısıon Party (how Latvıa dıdn't wın I'll never know) were all more than apprecıated.

But after 6 days relaxıng I was desperate to get back on the bike and off on towards a country I'd never been to before: Serbıa.

The fırst day on the road out of Budapest provided nothıng of ınterest except to be able to add a tortoıse to ever growıng Road Kıll Zoo whıch was now home to an ımpressıve array of bırds, mammals and reptıles and after a good afternoon ın yet more beautiful sunshine I was tucked up ın bed by 10 o'clock thınkıng I was ın a safe enough place far enough from the road. So, given the relative safety of my campıng place I was all the more surprised to be woken up at 5 the next morning by the sound of an axe choppıng wood not more than 5 metres from my tent. Takıng a bıg gulp, I stuck my head out the tent and to my surprıse there was an old man who'd parked hıs bıke not more than 3 metres from mıne, happıly choppıng away at a tree. I wasn't sure about the legalıty of my campıng sıtuatıon, so god knows ıf he was allowed to be choppıng local tree's down but none-the-less he greeted me wıth a smıle. He spoke no Englısh, me hardly any Hungarıan but wıthın 5 mınutes we'd establıshed that I was a German tourıst and he was choppıng up trees so he could drınk them - and wıth a shake of the hand of a wave goodbye I was off agaın towards the Serbıan border, arrıvıng a day and a half later (and wıth a proper border check thıs tıme and a nıce new stamp ın the passport)

I'd been welcomed by the locals ın Hungary and had heard good thıngs about the people ın Serbıa, but the receptıon I got was more than I could possıbly have expected. I should have guessed gıven that the sıgn for cyclısts enterıng Sebıa saıd 'We wısh you a nıce rıde wıth the wınd at your back :)' wıth the smıley face ıncluded that the locals were frıendly and the fırst town I reached, Sombor, I was approached ın the street as soon as I arrıved by a guy called Nanek, who told me he was on Couchsurfıng and wanted to know ıf I needed to stay wıth hım that nıght - unfortunately I knew I had to press on, but as I couldn't stay wıth hım he ınsısted on callıng hıs frıend ın Belgrade to see ıf I could stay wıth her when I got there! About 5 mınutes after thıs I went to the local market where I was gıven free food for the journey by a local stall owner and stıll yet more people were offerıng me places to stay, stoppıng to chat to ask where I'd been and offerıng me more thıngs I was to polıte to take. It was all goıng so well, everybody was so frıendly and then, as ıt was tıme to leave wıth my mınd stıll amazed at the levels of kındness shown to me, I pulled my bıke away and dısaster - I knocked over an old lady. Yes, thats rıght, Serbıa had offered me free food, free accommodatıon and all round kındness and ın return I had knocked over a lıttle old lady and her bıcycle. She was down and I felt terrıble, she refused to let me help her up and she repeatedly spat what I can assume were obscenetıes at me, and as she walked off stıll cursıng I was left red faced and the whole sıtuatıon made worse by the local stall owners all laughıng hysterıcally at the sıght they'd just seen. I dıd my best to slıp away for the rest of the day unnotıced.

Novı Sad came and went and the next day I arrıved ın Serbıa's capıtal Belgrade.

Throughout my travels I've been tryıng my hardest to personıfy the places I'd been: Luxembourg had been the pretty gırl who dıdn't know she was pretty, Brussels had been the pub bore who thought he was more ınterestıng than he really was and for those of you wonderıng England ıs the bızarre combınatıon of the lıttle aggressıve guy wıth 'short man syndrome' who'd somehow marrıed the attractıve wıfe. Belgrade, on the other hand had been around forever, ıt had been destroyed countless tımes and there was stıll vısıble scars from prevıous bombs but despıte of thıs ımage ıt was stıll glamorous, beautıful and whılst sayıng Belgrade as one of your most fun tourıst destınatıons ısn't exactly what people shout about, everyone I've met who's been has confessed a secret love for ıt. In the most bızarre way Belgrade was Dolly Parton.

An afternoon spent at the ımpressıve Kalemagdan (should hopefully get some pıctures up soon) I returned to the Hostel to some even better news - fınally some luck wıth the hospıtalıty networks. I'd sent around 15 e-maıls out over the trıp and all had been negatıve responses, but fınally I got a message from a guy called Marco ın Nıs sayıng that ıt was fıne for me to come and stay. I couldn't waıt - I was up and out the next mornıng and arrıved at Marco's 2 nıghts later.

Marco was half Amerıcan, half Serbıan who had grown up ın the US but was currently lıvıng ın Nıs, supportıng hımself by helpıng maıntaın websıtes. He also seemed to know everyone ın Nıs.

After an afternoon playıng pool (wıth some very dodgy Serbıan rules) we went to meet a local Cafe owner Marco knew who, on the sıde was an antıque dealer who had recently retıred from the Serbıan army. After showıng an ınterest ın hıs mılıtary hıstory he was quıck to brıng out hıs photo's he'd taken ın 1999 of the NATO bombıngs of Nıs. To thıs day NATO denıes bombıng cıvılıan targets - the pıctures I saw would dısagree: An old lady of around 70 dead ın the street surrounded by a pool of blood, her hand stıll holdıng the bag of vegetables she'd just purchased and another of a heavıly pregnant woman hıt by a cluster bomb (also an ıllegal weapon) were powerful ımages - whıch made the sıtuatıon of an Englıshman, an Amerıcan and a Serbıan Army Offıcer enjoyıng a drınk together whılst lookıng at pıctures of bombıngs made by Amerıcan aırcraft all the more bızarre.

Seeıng thıngs lıke thıs was surprısıng, but ın all honesty the evenıng that followed was one of the last thıngs I expected to come across on my trıp - my second nıght ın wıth Marco was spent wıth the New Frontıers Chrıstıan Group, who were meetıng as part of somethıng called an 'Alpha Course' and as such were meetıng to dıscuss ways to spread the word of Chrıst throughout Serbıa. The group was made up of maınly Englısh but also a few Serbs as well as a German lady and feelıng very much lıke a fly on the wall, as someone who has nosey tendancıes ıt was fascınatıng to hear theır poınt of vıew on certaın thıngs. A buffet, a talk on how and why ıt was ımportant to spread to the word of Chrıst, as well as each member tellıng storıes about how they became a Chrıstıan gave an ınsıde vıew ınto relıgıon I had seldom seen before.

Perhaps ıts because I was always taught by my parents to use logıc and scıence, perhaps ıts because I'm part of a generatıon that doesn't belıeve ın anythıng unless they can see ıt on YouTube, or perhaps ıts because I have many frıends of dıfferent relıgıons and each relıgıon seems to say to me that at least 50% my frıends are goıng to hell but ıf I'm honest I don't thınk organısed relıgıon ıs for me. But thats not to say that the evenıng wasn't ınterestıng, whılst I dıdn't agree wıth some of the poınts raısed the group were welcomıng and happy to answer my dumb questıons such as 'how would you get a Muslım to convert to Chrıstıanıty?' and 'can non-Chrıstıans get ınto heaven?' (the answers no before ıf you were wonderıng) and more pleasantly, gıven some of my prevıous encounters wıth relıgıous groups, not once dıd I ever feel as though they were tryıng to convert me.

All thıs lead for a great evenıng among new frıends and greatful for the experıence I left the next day ınto Serbıas mountaınous south and then, after a 3 hour waıt at the border, ınto Bulgarıa (now thats a proper border crossıng) and towards Sofıa. If Luxembourg s the pretty gırl who dıdn't know she was pretty, Sofıa ıs very much the kıd who shows up to class on a Monday mornıng stıll ın last weeks dırty school unıform. There ıs no tourıst centre as such and much of the scenery ıs no oıl paıntıng, but ıt dıd me for a couple of day and wıth the European Champıonshıps startıng on my arrıval I bought a couple of 2 lıtre bottles of local beer (£1.20 a pop gets my support) and parked myself ın front of the football for 2 days, my stay was summed up by a conversatıon I had wıth a couple on theır honeymoon on the mornıng of my departure whıch went along the lınes of:
'So how have you found the prıces here?'
'Well the beer ıs £1.20 a bottle'
'And how about everythıng else?'
'I haven't really bought anythıng else'

And on the road agaın, thıs tıme to surprıse some old co-workers ın Samokov. For those of you who don't know me to well for the last year to fınance thıs trıp I was workıng for an overseas property company wıth offıces ın the skı towns of Samokov and Borovets and whılst I had told them I would come to Samokov by bıcycle I don't thınk they actually belıeved me so the look on theır face when I actually showed up was one of amazement. We spent the nıght watchıng football, enjoyıng a good meal and just when thıngs couldn't seem anymore strange after a couple of beers I caught somethıng famılıar out the corner of my eye - thats a QPR badge - I'm sure of ıt! I must confess I'd had a couple of beers by thıs poınt so dıdn't go over rıght away but I edged closer and to my dısbelıeft ın a small town of 30,000 ın the Pırın Mountaıns I'd found what must be the only QPR fan ın Bulgarıa! He was as well! He spoke proudly about thıs, told me the last game he'd been to and that he also had the best claım to fame I'd ever heard of teachıng Allan MacDonald's daughter how to skı!

Leavıng the next mornıng proved hard. Not just because ın the 10km between Samokov and Borovets I would clımb 400 metres, but because ın Nıck and Kıko, my former coworkers, I had spent the last nıght wıth people I knew for what could possıbly be a year. I've trıed not to touch on the mental sıde of the trıp to much as ıt sounds lıke moanıng, but there ıs no denyıng ıts gettıng harder the further I get from home and as I descended from 1400 metres to near sea level ın an afternoon I was left wıth the depressıng feelıng of lonelıness as I headed towards the 11th country of the tour - Turkey.

Part of the joy of travellıng by bıcycle ıs seeıng the subtle dıfferences between countrıes as you move between them. There ıs none of that feelıng of steppıng out a plane ınto the stıcky heat or snowy cold, or at least theır hadn't been untıl I got to Turkey. Bulgarıa ıs home to large Natıonal Parks, ample water and tall beautıful trees. Enterıng Turkey the moment you step onto theır sıde of the rıdıculous '7 passport check' border the green ıs gone, replaced wıth sand and dust. No more glorıous forests and woods eıther sıde of the road, just fıelds of crops. No more water everywhere, just the odd trıckle of suspıcıously brown water and more annoyıngly for me the fırst town I stopped ın, Edırne, I was hassled by Gypsıes wherever I went. As I saıd before the mental sıde was gettıng tougher, so beıng hassled by gypsıes ısn't what a stressed traveller needs and ın the end I gave up, cycled out of town and slept that nıght under a brıdge, feelıng glum, dınıng on plaın pasta and my only companıon the worlds sorrıest lookıng dog whıch looked lıke ıt had been rejected so many tımes ıt dıdn't even bother tryıng to make frıends wıth me and kept a good 20 metres away at all tımes.

The road to Istanbul, where I wrıte thıs from was long and dull but the most ımportant thıng to note ıs that I made ıt, even fındıng tıme for a couple of dıps ın the sea along the way (not to mentıon meetıng several Turks who were more than happy to laugh at the Englıshman who had 'no team for Euros'.

But ıt's taken 48 days, the odometer reads 2,437 mıles, my bodıes gone from 'cuddly' to toned and now that I've got the physıcal sıde under control the mental battle wıll start over the next month as I head off along the black sea coast ınto Georgıa and Azerbaıjan, before decıdıng whether to go to Turkmenıstan, Khazakstan or to worry my mother even more and go to my preferred destınatıon of Iran.

I thought arrıvıng ın Istanbul would offer a major a psychologıcal boost for me - completıng the fırst stage of the journey and wıth no major problems. However I'm left wıth one outstandıng feelıng - thıs ıs most defınetely the end of the begınnıng.

Pictures

The first pictures from Serbia



Saying goodbye to new friends



The sun setting on my time in Serbia



See, now that's a border...



QPR fans - we're everywhere!



Plovdiv, Bulgaria



Dinner and a kip on the beach - it's a hard life



Istanul - a beautiful city

Munich - Budapest: The Race Out Of Western Europe

Thursday 15th – Wednesday 21st May

Munich was my kind of place. Steeped in history, warm people, ample beer, cycle friendly and naked sunbathers (no, really). It’s fair to say that for 2 days it was a good home to me, but dear god was it expensive. I’d looked at how much I was spending and in short it was too much, it wasn’t like I was splashing out either. I’d been camping for the last week and whilst the hostel was an indulgence, it was used as my motivation for getting there in the first place.

Something was very clear; I needed to get out of Western Europe. But the problem was that for the first time since I’d left I didn’t want to get on the bike. I’d had a good 2 days, met some great people and as I left all the safety behind I was stuck with the realization that I needed to get used to being on my own. I’d had to have the last of my inoculations in Munich, and by the time I’d left the city it was already close to 5 and the roads were packed.

I wasn’t in the mood but knew I had no choice. The target was the Danube, as I knew that after the harshness of Germany’s hills this would be an easy relaxing ride to Budapest. Of course, not wanting to make things to easy I decided on saving some money by not bothering to buy a map. I was following a river which had a famous cycle path, how far lost could I get?

With flawless logic like this I was racing towards the river, like a beady eyed child looking for the sea when driving near the beach, I finally got my target after a day and a half of up and down roads. I would do my best not to lose sight of the river until I got to Budapest, and along the flat tarmac roads I was in my element. Entirely level, well maintained cycle paths, busy with other cyclists but not over crowded and some beautiful scenery. My average speed was also up, which was nice and when an old guy on a mountain bike started racing me it was a good chance to test the legs. Neither of us spoke to each other, but we exchanged the occasional smile as we passed each other several times: Me on Tullula and her 18 kilos of luggage, him on a mountain bike. Neither of us had the equipment to race, but I knew how fit I was and judging by the size of his calves he was fit as well and over the next two hours we enjoyed a sporting rivalry and what felt like a blisteringly fast 32 miles. Racing random old men along Europe’s longest river: I think I’m going to like it here.

More of the same for the next day, the only distractions being the beavers that were moving around a bit to close for my tent for comfort before, at around 30km from Vienna, it rained. From having not seen a cloud for 2 weeks, my god did it rain all of a sudden, and it wasn’t going to stop. I’d got caught and didn’t get my waterproofs on in time, feet wet, legs wet and feeling along way from home, the final straw was falling off coming over a bridge towards Vienna. I’d had enough and I’m happy enough to admit I wussed out and went to a hostel for the night. It was a good chance to dry out (I also got a free beer with my booking, can’t complain eh?) but in truth I felt like I’d failed. The first day of heavy rain and I’d ended up in a hostel, in a city I didn’t want to be in.

Vienna is, and always will be, my ‘Pulp Fiction’. Everyone else loves it, will rant about how great it is and at times will never shut up about their love for it, but whatever it is has bypassed me. I’ve been twice now and didn’t enjoy the first time, and this time, whilst really not being in the mood, I didn’t find it much better. I didn’t see the beauty that others do, I saw rows of shops that I could get in most European towns. I didn’t see the fantastic buildings people talked about, instead as I’d come on the bike I’d seen, not to mention smelt, the eyesores that were on the outskirts. Vienna didn’t seem to like me whenever I’ve been, and in turn I don’t like Vienna.

What was even worse was trying to leave Vienna was even harder. The signposts on the cycle path had disappeared 10km before I’d got to the city, and leaving Vienna not only had the signs disappeared, so had the bloody cycle path. I spent the morning and early afternoon going down tracks that led to nowhere, paths that led to private fishing huts and roads that would stop without notice. I eventually gave up on the river, hit a main road, my frustration summarised by a sign which told me Vienna was 34km away. I looked at my odometer, I’d traveled 63.

Frustrating? Yes. A problem? No. I was on the road to Budapest where I was spending time with my friend Sophie, but she was currently studying to be a vet and had exams all week so we’d arranged for me to get there on Friday. In Vienna I’d realised I was more likely to get there on Wednesday, so I’d tried to go as slowly as possible and my main aim upon leaving Vienna was not to get to Bratislava. Even after wasting an entire morning, I was still going to fast and in the end decided to stop just 11km from Bratislava still on the Austrian side of the border.

The heavens opened again but this time I toughed it out and felt pretty good about it. I got to Slovakia at around half 9 only to find no-one on the border, and at the risk of sounding a little Daily Mail Slovakia was the 6th border I’d crossed and I still hadn’t had my passport checked. And what’s even more annoying is that most of the countries didn’t even want me to know I’d arrived. When leaving home I’d imagined ‘my trophies’ as such, being photos of me and the bike in front of big signs saying “Welcome to …..” I reality most of the countries I’d been to didn’t seem to care to much that you’d crossed their border. Belgium didn’t have a sign, Luxembourg had a sign that had the letters peeled off so you couldn’t read it and entering Slovakia cyclists were sent down a side path which meant you weren’t exactly sure where the border was and what country you were in. Come on world, I want some pride in your country (or at least a sign it looks impressive to stand next to), not a sign that’s smaller than the one you see for crossing counties at home.

After the disappointment of the border crossing, Slovakia at least, I liked. I was only there for the afternoon but the first 30 miles were spent along the river and some of the more bizarre tourist destinations I’ve seen on the trip. The River Danube Museum was housed in an odd building about 50 metres away from the road and out on its own little pier. It looked as depressed as a building can look, with absolutely no customers and housed in the battering wind and rain my only thought was ‘they’ve nicked this from the Craggy Island tour guide’.

After crossing back over I lost the river (its easier to do than it sounds), hit some roads and all the time Slovakia was growing for me. It felt that for the first time, if I shut my eyes and opened on them again I could tell I wasn’t in England. The roads were different, the cars were different and the buildings were different. It was a country that also seemingly didn’t bother with nonsense. You want to advertise a bike shop? You put up a picture of a semi naked girl on a bike. You want to advertise beer? You put up a picture of a semi naked girl drinking beer. You want to advertise a Spar Supermarket? You put up a picture of a naked girl in a shopping trolley with her nipples covered by duct tape. For the first time, coming through small village’s people didn’t seem interested and I in turn enjoyed being left alone.

In the village of Cicov, the no-nonsense approach continued. I’d sat down for a rest at a bus stop and out came a guy from a guest house opposite. He must have been around 60 and walked with a limp, smiling with his 3 teeth. He came over and started talking to me in Slovakian whilst gesturing towards his guesthouse. Obviously my Slovak isn’t great, so I said the only words I knew how to say: No thank you. This clearly didn’t register, and the fact I didn’t speak Slovakian clearly didn’t matter as for the next 5 minutes he stayed out, talking at me in Slovakian, always with the genuine expectancy in his eyes I knew what he was saying. He eventually gave up, went inside, only to return moments later and start talking in Slovakian again. Surprisingly I hadn’t learnt the language in the moments he’d been gone, he looked pretty disappointed by this. But as opposed to giving up he just stared at me. Starting to feel a bit uneasy I managed to leave, and when I got to the town of Komarno I realized just how badly my plan for not getting to Budapest was going when I found out I was 65 miles away. Hmm, can I make 65 miles last 3 days?

The answer was probably not. I called home as I knew my Dad had a friend out here and he put me through to Tibor, my Dads coworker who’d stayed with us whilst I’d been away at university and he offered to let me stay with him until Friday. I crossed another border (no sign, no pass port checking – poor show Hungary, especially as the passport control guys were huddling in their office waving people through to avoid the rain) and with the knowledge I had somewhere to stay lined up I just had the simple task of finding somewhere to sleep. I settled for going down a quiet village road thinking it’d be easy to get in and out unnoticed. Very wrong. Every house in the street had a guard dog, some had 2 and the sight of someone cycling down a dead end street at 10 at night was enough to set them all off as I went further and further down before finding a field and spending a very wet night camping (it hadn’t stopped raining since Vienna) being barked at from 50 metres away and in the morning I was on the final road to Budapest.

By now it was easy. I knew where I was going and by lunch time I had met with Tibor and was free to spend the afternoon asleep in a comfortable bed with a nice warm shower before we went out for a meal.

This was 3 days ago and it’s been good to be off the bike, letting the body recover and for the first time in over a month, having a celebratory night out (3 weeks constant exercise has done something to my alcohol tolerance levels though). Its also been good to recap as well: In just 23 days I’d made it from Banbury to Budapest, around 1,400 miles. I’ve lost 7 kilos in weight and my body is as fit as it’s ever been.

But the reality is the real challenge starts here. So far I’d been to most of the countries I’d visited before, and as far as Budapest goes this is my 3rd time here, but up next is Serbia and Macedonia, and then after that Greece and Turkey. Countries I’ve never been to before, countries I don’t know what to expect from, countries where I don’t know any of the locals. Who knows, they may end up all being the same, but stepping into the unknown is why we travel, and that, for the first time in a while, is exactly what I’m looking forward to doing next week.

Pictures!

I'm pretty sure it never stops raining in Austria



Austrian Sunset



American Tourists who thought I was German...



Bratislava



Budapest - familiar ground



I'm staying out of the argument as to whether the lions have tongues or not...

Brussels - Munich: A Lesson In Remembering Why

Monday 5th May – Tuesday 13th May

After a day’s relaxation, leaving Brussels almost ended up as hard as getting there. First my alarm didn’t go off (I know what your thinking but before anyone says anything, you don’t sleep through an alarm in a hostel when there’s 13 other people in the room to remind you your alarms going off at 7.30 in the morning) so not only was I late getting up, I made the criminal mistake of missing the ‘all you can eat’ breakfast and after eventually getting my act together ventured into central Brussels to pick up some bike spares and more importantly a map, only to find that Brussels as a town doesn’t open till 11 o’clock on Mondays.

Frustrated and stressed at 10 in the morning isn’t a great start to any journey, but things took a turn for the better when I was approached out of the blue by Vinz, a bike mechanic who was on his day off so was off to ride to Holland for the day. He came over, introduced himself and started talking about where he’d been riding. Today he was just off to Holland on a weed run (smoking weed and cycling hundreds of miles definitely sounds like a safe idea), but in the past he’d done most of Europe and had spent a lot of time in Spain, whilst last year he took a few months off to go right down the West Coast of America and he was currently looking for inspiration as to where to go next (The inspiration may have been linked with his ride today). He was a useful guy to meet, taking me to a specialist cartographer where I was not only able to get maps, but maps with all roads and cycle paths on so not only now did I have a map, I had good maps and enough to get me through the next two weeks. I eventually set off around midday, with Vinz giving me exact directions to where I wanted to go and with that I set off into another day of 30 degree heat.

It’s easy to forget why we choose to do things sometimes, and as I spent the next day and a half covering 90 miles along a very boring, not to mention dangerous dual carriageway it was very easy to forget whatever made me want to spend so much time on a bike. And then I got to Luxembourg. This tiny country of under half a million people has all a cyclist could ever want: Long meandering climbs, magnificent tall pine trees, crystal clear lakes and some flying descents – I was in heaven. The sun hadn’t stopped shining since I’d left England and from 5 o’clock onwards I had the pleasure of all the riding being done in the shade, on excellent countryside roads. If I was better at writing I’d be able to express just how great this is.

After stopping in the city for a day just to have a look around and staying at a campsite where I clearly wasn’t wanted, it felt good to be back on the road again. A 10 minute descent out of Luxembourg and as easily I’d entered it, I was out the other side and into the 5th country of the trip: Germany.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, in terms of personality types Germans are the most similar nation to the British. Undoubtedly an unpopular opinion with some of the people I’ve shared it with before but with the simple crossing of the border I was back to having abuse yelled at me for simply being a cyclist, back to drivers not giving way and back to guessing which kind of car it’d be that flattened me. Stereotypes about BMW drivers often ring true, the problem was in Germany there’s a hell of a lot more of them.

But the cycling was more of the same: Beautiful countryside, large hills and increasingly more rivers, and for the first time since I’d left home – Wildlife. Since spending time on the road you get used to seeing most wildlife in pancake form; cats, rabbits, badgers, birds, a fox, a deer, a ferret and even a snake are all animals I’ve seen ready to be used as bookmarks at the time of writing, so it was somewhat of a surprise when camping down a hillside of a road near Tholey, I was woken at 5 am to the sound of a deer going through the impromptu bin that had the leftovers of last nights meal in it just 3 yards away from the tent.

One of the more interesting ways to wake up, then it was back on the bike and back to getting abused by motorists, this time seemingly for being on the road during the school run. By this point I’d been on the road less than 2 weeks but had found other cyclists were more than happy upon seeing me to come over and ask who I was, where I was going and always taking time to tell me about their rides. In this time I’d met Vinz who’d been everywhere, Gary who was a New Yorker who came to Germany to cycle for a month every year and Jean who’d cycled from Canada to Mexico, all of whom I’d found it easy to make conversation with, shake hands and enjoy a laugh. This is what made it even more frustrating when I met Lucy and Keeanna, two beautiful German girls who were studying at Karlsruhe but had taken a couple of days off to cycle round parts of Germany. They asked questions and were really interested, hell I was even cracking jokes and using the odd bit of German! So I was kicking myself 5 minutes later when I realized I’d made excuses to leave to quickly and had also managed to depart without a) getting an e-mail address b) telling them about the website c) finding a way to incorporate them into my trip. It seems old habits, such as choking when around women, die hard.

I spent the afternoon reminding myself of the lesson I’d learnt: If you ask the hot girls where their cycling to and they say ‘Heidelberg’ and they then ask you where you’re going you say ‘Heidelberg’.

At least I had a fantastic descent to keep me company, 15 minutes spent at 30mph as I left another of Germanys excellently maintained Nature Parks, but by now the excitement of the first week had died down and I was getting firmly into a routine. Wake up, eat, cycle, eat, find somewhere to sleep, eat, eat, eat, sleep and eat. In truth I took to it, I found myself enjoying the simple life of exercise and a diet of pasta and jam sandwiches and finding a place to sleep always offered entertainment. Wild camping is technically illegal in Germany but I knew I wasn’t the only person out here, and after stopping for the night in dense wood just south of Eppingen I could hear music from the top of a hill. I had lost track of the days since being away and it suddenly dawned on me that not only was a rave going on, it was a Saturday as well. I spent the night in a well hidden area but able to hear a lot of drunk kids coming a bit to close to the tent for comfort. Some people fear violence when their camping, I didn’t. To strike myself with fear I just think back to when I was 15 and what we would have done if we were drunk and had found someone camping on their own in the middle of nowhere. Not violence, but ‘practical’ jokes such as covering the persons tent in beer, or god knows what else is what I was wary of.

Of course I wasn’t found, and I woke up (still with rave in full flow) only 2 days from Munich. My journey had fallen on a German holiday weekend, so not only was I in scorching heat, most shops were closed meaning I couldn’t get my hands on sun tan lotion that I really should have bought before I’d left, (Catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror when I finally made it to the Hostel was frightening, my sunburn making me look like a cross between Rudolph and ‘Where’s Wally’) it also meant food was harder to come by and being only 100 miles from your destination on an empty stomach is no way to go. Having not showered since Luxembourg, I was also very aware that I stank.

Onwards and upwards, the friends at home who’d asked me ‘But how far are you really going to get?’ so nearly had their answer in Giengien. Coming along through a quiet street I’d moved a bit to close to the curb, and I hit a pothole. The front tyre suddenly turned to a right angle and stopped dead, with me leaving the seat the flying over the handle bars and landing a foot in front of the bike on my right arm and shoulder. In truth, whilst the handlebars had turned a full 360 round and a front pannier clip had broken the bike was easily fixable, and walking away with just a few cuts and bruises I was glad that the biggest dent was to my pride.

I shakily got back on about an hour later, with confidence rattled and proceeded slowly. By now the weather was getting silly: I hadn’t seen a cloud since I’d left England and I wasn’t going to see one anytime soon, and riding past lots of lakes and rivers on a holiday weekend when all the locals are out swimming was to much temptation. I eventually stopped for a swim in the River Lech, which had clear pools and stone beaches at both banks. Getting into water for the first time in a week felt good, but what felt even better was a weeks worth of grease, dirt and sweat floating away from my body before my eyes. I felt partly guilty as the scum that had encased my legs floated away, turning my part of the pool from crystal clear to a temporary murky grey, but I won’t lie – it felt good.

Leaving the river I met another cyclist who was a bit to cheery when he said ‘You won’t make it to Munich’ by tomorrow night, but he wished me luck and as he watched take an hour to climb the next 2 km hill I knew he was right. I camped 31 miles outside of Munich and was more than happy to saunter into town the next day.

So that was that! From Brussels to Munich in just 8 days, covering 537 miles, I’ll be honest, I’m pretty chuffed with myself. I’ve arrived with a few cuts and bruises, but the legs are growing almost as quickly as the confidence is and I’m in the mood to celebrate, now if only I can find a place to get beer in Munich…..

Up next: Budapest!

A few of the scenes from Luxembourg





As my friend Ellen said - 'That's what I wish England was like!'

Banbury to Brussels: Small steps, but all in the right direction

Tuesday 29th April - Saturday 3rd May

So this was it. The dream dreamt up over 2 years ago was now a reality and here I was: ready to leave my friends, family, job and everything else you could care to mention for the next year to follow the stupid idea of trying to cycle to Vietnam.
In my mind I had expected the moment at which I left to be the boiling point of my emotions; the point where I realised where I`d bitten off more than I could chew, the point I realised I didn`t know enough about the bike, the point I realised I was too scared to even try. In reality this didn`t happen and I left feeling strangely relaxed; Sure I was underprepared but then again I had always known that, and the following year alone would give me plenty of time to learn all I needed to know.

No, this was it, definetely time to go and after having planned to set off around 9ish I eventually left the driveway at 12 to set off for one more trip through town, saying my final goodbyes, then off out the otherside with the destination for the day being Woodley and a night at my cousins. I had done the ride before and it would be a nice easy 60 miles to ease into the tour - oh how wrong I was. The day was an utter disaster. The moment I left Banbury the skies opened and for the next 5 hours when I´d hoped my mind would have been away dreaming of stunning foreign beaches, long hot summers in Central Asia and how it would feel if I actually achieved everything I set out to, I was instead left with the depressing realisation that the waterproofs I had which I`d bought 5 years ago for a trip to Morocco (did we seriously need those?) weren`t up to scratch and at the same time trying to work out just how far away the frequent bolts of lightning were. It also began to click that maybe, just maybe, a bit of fitness training wouldn`t have gone amiss.

I struggled through Bicester, struggled through Thame, pushed the bike up Christmas Common (to be fair its a bloody big hill) and began the decent into Henley. In the 15 miles or so leading to Henley I was so sure there was something wrong with my back wheel that I was to preoccupied to notice that my front tyre was losing pressure. Pulling away from traffic lights, just 4 miles from my destination and the tyre was gone. As luck would have it I had punctured right outisde the canoe club where James and his friend were headed, so instead of fixing it by the roadside I gave him a call and he picked me up in his truck and I was left to reflect on a day where not only had a cheated on the cycling front already, but the weather, the toughness and the bike itself had all hammered it further into me just how hard this was going to be.

After a warm shower, a hot meal and a good nights sleep all seemed right with the world again and leaving the next morning (still in the pouring rain) my spirits were back up again as I headed off on the 35 miles to Kingston. Its a frustrating distance 35 miles, not far enough to warrant a full day assigned to it but not short enough to think it can be done in an hour or so, and the day became even more frustrating when a `navigational malfunction` took me down 400 metres of the M40. I was only there for around half a minute, but even in high-vis jacket the M40 in the pouring rain its not something I ever want to do again! Eventually arriving in Kingston after 2 and a half hours, I spent the rest of the day getting my final innoculations, catching up with old friends and more importantly, buying some better waterproofs, before heading off for what should only been a couple of beers, but ended at 5 in the morning and as result left me to leave the next morning 3 hours late, a monstrous hangover and only 2 hours sleep.

I was shattered but what had to be done, had to be done and I set off for Dover. More rain, more thunder and more bike problems, this time with a mud guard which hadn`t been properly screwed on. My logic had been that as Kingston was a couple of hundred metres above sea level, getting down to Dover would be an easy downhill ride. Yet again I was proved very wrong. By the time I got to Sevenoaks at least the rain had stopped, but I was struggling with the hills and eventually gave up for the night after 72 miles, just outside of Wye, but the tests for the day didn`t end there - I needed to sleep.

The first night wild camping was, in short, petrifying. I had found a spot just up a bank where I knew I couldn’t be seen from the road, I was sure of that, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t vulnerable. I slept with one eye open, every noise amplified by a million, whilst in my mind every car that drove past was coming for me. For the next 8 hours I wished I had never seen 28 Days Later.

Of course, nobody found me and I was up and out the next morning, even satisfied with myself enough to cook a breakfast of noodles accompanied with coffee (note to self, next time I’m buying water to cook with, don’t buy flavoured water) and I set off on the final 20 miles to Dover.

The sun was out, my legs were warming to the idea of constant exercise and a part of me loved having the morning to myself. Until I then arrived in Elham, where I stopped to check my directions only to hear from the field across the road the voice of man who I hadn’t seen until he shouted across.
“Are you lost?”
“No.” In my defence I really wasn’t.
“Where are you going?” he said, as by now he’d walked over to join me.
“Swingfield”, I said, “I think its right up here into the village and then turn left.”
“NO.”
He cut in, short, sharp and with a condescending air of discipline in his voice as if I was a guilty school boy who had just kicked a football through one of his windows. Without asking he grabbed the map from my hands, me with a somewhat bewildered look on my face at what was going on and still not fully switched on as it was 8 in the morning.
He studied the map for a good 30 seconds. “Hmmm, no, hmmm, no, what you want to do is go right up here into the village, and then turn left just after the shops. That’s how you get to Swingfield.” And with that he gave me back the map and walked off.
Feeling rather bemused by it all I was back on the bike and shortly in to Dover and aboard the 12.05 ferry to Calais.

On a quick side note, in a day and age when a return train from Banbury to London costs £55, a bus in London costs £2 for a single and Gordon Brown’s Tax Dictatorship means petrol is expected to cost £1.50 by September, how great is it to get a ferry to France for me and the bike for £12?

It felt good to leave England. I’d never cycled much on the continent before but getting to France was like cycling in a different world: drivers were giving way for me, there were well maintained cycle paths along every road and instead of having abuse shouted at me for no reason, the locals seemed interested in the bike. I was in my own small part of heaven.

Celebrating the fact I’d made it out of England by stopping at the first Patisserie I saw, I spent the next half an hour basking in the sun before setting off along the French Coast, through Dunkerque before realising the map I’d bought on the ferry was pretty much useless. I thought I’d done well in finding a map which specialised in Northern France and Belgium but only after I’d made it to Dunkerque did I realise it only showed main roads, and it didn’t show all of them. I spent the next hour travelling in what I thought was the right direction, only to end up on another motorway. None of the places I was visiting were on my map, none of the roads lead to anywhere that was on my map and to top it all off it was starting to get dark. After leaving the town of Hondschoote and crossing into Belgium I was well and truly lost, but seeing lights I headed for the town up ahead. I won’t repeat the words I said when I saw the place name Veurne, but needless to say they weren't said in celebration. I had effectively drawn a massive ‘S’ on the map between myself and the town of Leper that I was aiming for, adding around 30 miles to my journey. It was now half nine, darkness was setting in and what was worse was not only was I in a town I didn’t want to be in, I couldn’t find my way out. Signposts lead to nowhere, cycle paths stopped suddenly without warning and I meandered over several level crossings before finally getting to the main road I was looking for 45 minutes later, by which time it was pitch black.

I stopped to evaluate the situation. Ok, its pitch black, your stressed and you’ve spent the last 4 hours going in circles. But on the plus side, the bikes fine, its not raining for once and, as much as you don’t trust your map, your now only 90 miles from Brussels and at the start of a road which goes all the way to the centre of Brussels meaning theoretically it’s impossible to get lost. Hell, even the grounds as flat as a pancake meaning the riding was easy.

It was at this point I made the decision to ride through the night to get to Brussels. 90 miles? At an average of 15 miles an hour? So that’s 6 hours, be there by 6 am at the latest I thought. Easy.
Of course I’m sure you can see the theme by now, and that I of course would not be arriving in Brussels for 6 am. I made it to Leper, only stopping once on the way to check the map. During this stop a local had stopped his car to see where I was going and if I was alright, he thought I was crazy for trying it but left with the advice ‘Be careful, this roads dangerous’. He needn’t have worried as for the next 30 miles I had the pleasure of a fantastically well maintained tarmac cycle path, well away from but parallel to the road and the miles were flying off the back wheel. I passed through several small towns that night, all unique in there own way but all connected by the mutual point of having a mass graveyard for victims of the two wars, a depressing reminder of the history of the area.

Shortly after leaving Menen I realised I couldn't go through the night, so stopped for an hours rest only to wake up absolutely covered in slugs. Now very slimey, cold and incredibly smelly, I found it impossible to get back to sleep so I carried on, only now road markers had appeared counting down the distance to Brussels: All this effort and I was still 80 kilometres from my destination. But still, I had no choice, I carried on as the sun rose, the breaks from riding becoming more frequent and the amount of food I was eating becoming more and more before eventually my body crashed.

I had just left Oudenaarde and was on a quiet piece of country lane and I stopped, propped the bike up against a tree and stopped for what was supposed to be 5 minutes rest. Body aching and eye lids drooping, I was out like a light. The next thing I know I was woken up by a Mum who was doing the school run. She had stopped her car after seeing a guy flat out on the pavement next to a bicylce and had ran over to see if I was ok. With me somewhat embarrassed to have fallen asleep in such a stupid place I reassured her I was ok and that I was grateful for her stopping, but not in need of medical attention.

I knew now I had to move, but my body was struggling so instead I moved into a more upright position to make it look more like I was resting as opposed to being the knackered heap of bones I truly was. It didn’t work, whilst no-one else stopped, the noise that I could hear getting closer was a siren. ‘It won’t be for me’ I told myself, but then why was it getting closer? Please dear God don’t be for me. It was. Someone had seen me, not bothered to stop to see if I was alright but had called me an ambulance. Seriously.
The siren was now about 100 metres away: That got me up, I was on my feet again and stood by the bike as the paramedics approached.
“You called the ambulance”
“No, I have no phone”
We stood for a few minutes scratching our heads, me apologising for what had happened and the men wondering who would call them out for something like this.

Needless to say, I left very quickly, an overriding feeling of guilt and shame that I’d let my own fatigue waste the time of others. But the fatigue didn’t go away. I was still 55 kilometres away before a puncture wasted another half an hour of my time and at 4 o’clock in the afternoon I was still 20 kilometres away.

These final 20 were painful. My body was aching, my eyes were tired and god knows where the sun had come from but it was focusing right on me. The earlier puncture had torn the tyre meaning on top of this I had no spares. The final 20 km took 2 hours but when I saw the sign saying welcome to Brussels there was nothing that could hide my excitement: I had made it, the first leg was over and I found a hostel and settled down for two nights well earned rest.

In just 5 days I had made the 340 miles from Banbury to Brussels. Looking back it had been a baptism of fire which had involved bike problems, extreme weather at both ends of the spectrum and the first night of wild camping, not to mention my poor map reading making a difficult journey even harder. But what excited me was that I had done it and whilst I had been pushed, I knew I was nowhere near my limits. I had proved to myself I had the stomach for this fight, I could solve the problems my bike would throw at me and I could live if I didn’t find somewhere to comfortable to spend the night.

This may have only been the first leg, but already I knew this trip would have everything I was looking for.

Pictures!

The last pictures of home



Not a fun first day....



The last time I'll see these for a while



Menen Church



The first success!