Day 23: London to Brugge. Approx 45 miles.

Up at 6am, brutal! Packed up the shit once more and headed to Victoria to catch the train. Just made it due to getting lost in South London, again! A wee nap on the train was excellent but perhaps meant that I wasn't on top of my game cause I must have taken ages to get to the boat...it left without me! Two hours in Dover then which wasn't the prettiest place I have been to on the trip. The white cliffs are still there but are slightly obscured by a massive brutal port complete with concrete and cranes and a number of rather incongrouous 70s buildings. Rank.

Anyway eventually got a boat heading to Dunkirk in northern France. Official Europe! Terror! Although I felt confident in my organisational skills in London, I realised that I had forgotten to get a decent map of either northern France or Belgium. Good times. The compass proved its worth by directing me east. Everyone seemed to think Brugge was directly east in a staight line so thats where I went.

A few hours later, in the dark, still pedalling...oh dear. Folk were now telling me that I couldn't cycle to Brugge but the hostel was booked! Onwards! Around 9pm, fucking AGES after leaving the Horse in London I arrived at Lybeers Hostel, Brugge.

Note: God knows what the employment policy is at this hostel because everyone who works there is nuts. This is one of them:

Over 500 miles done. Nice.

Days 12 to 22: London Town.

London is excellent! Sometimes I come here and I don't like it much and sometimes I think its great. This time is a good time.

Since I arrived on friday I have either been pished or sleeping. Went to a metal gig with the Horse involving a man who had 'brutal' tattooed on the inside of his lower lip. Seriously. Like this except it said 'brutal'. What an idoit.

Saturday was Brick Lane for lunch with Niall then a look about some outrageous bike shops such as this. Beers etc then to the Foundry to see Pikey. Ciders etc then got some homemade burgers and more cider. Totally wasted somewhere in Highbury. The cat escaped which caused some chaos for a bit but thankfully decided to return so I could go to bed with a clean conscious.

Sunday morning consisted of a fucking great breakfast followed by a cycle to the other side of the city. Well Kensington anyway. Back to Hackney for lunch at the Dove then pints accompanied by an Elvis impersonator. Then Tom Jones. Then Johnny Cash. Same guy, different wigs. Awesome banter.

Didn't leave the house on Monday until 8pm in order to go to the pub with Natalya and Chris. Great night, totally pished (again) but I still managed to find my way home from Tottenham Court Road sans map. Well done me!


Tuesday was map shopping and dinner at Vojtech's house. Yummy scran, loads of folk and a fucking sound workshop room! So many tools on the walls, random bike parts and boxes and tubs of screws and bolts and lots of other useful shit. Got the mudguard dealt with since it was flapping about all over the place following the ameteur repair job in Cambridge. Anyway it all works again so cheers Vojtech!

Midweek was a blur of smoke, football on the tv and mice. Oh the mice. Came in late one night, so, not wishing to irritate the horse, headed for the sofa with my sleeping bag....thank fuck I turned the light on to organise stuff cause there were three or four of them on the table having a wee scurry about! One of them just stared right at me for ages until eventually I caved and bolted (or moved as quickly as a slightly stoned slightly drunk terrified Jo can move) upstairs to the Horse who, thankfully was still awake due to a heady mix of mouse terror and the usual Horse related insomnia.


Note: Mouse control folk came soon after this event and we were more or less back in control.


The weekend. Organisation completed. Drinking can begin. Off to the Foundry which appears to have many an advantage: relatively cheap booze, lots of railings, a large pavement suitable for sitting on the ground drinking cans from the shop and its on my way home. Perfect! Lots of chat with lots of folk, too much cider and not enough dinner led to not being able to stand or focus correctly but I had a great night. Even experienced Overdrive who has his own fanclub. Also made a new friend by the name of Joe, snap.

I like London, did I say that already?

Anyway, a very quiet Saturday was had by all in the flat. Watched Ghostbusters 2 which, of course, was fucking excellent. Out and about again but this time to Portobello Road....45 minutes later still not there: London is huge! Went to see some robot animal type things made out of recycled machinery. Lots of fire and noise and excitement! Good banter. Pint and then back to the east, much better. Bagel shop in Brick Lane then to see Natalya and co. Its better in the east apparently, totally foreign sentiment! Ended up in a gallus warehouse party with my new friend... on the way thinking 'I hope this is a warehouse party we're going to and not certain death...hmmm'. But, phew! It was, and it was tres banter. Late late night followed by a cycle for AGES! Weren't even on the map anymore!

Sunday: the end of London. Good start though; breakfast of huevos rancheros, yum yum yum. Lots of snoozing meant that I didnt get to organising until 6pm. 12 hours left! Packing done, sat down to watch Bad Boys 2, which had been discussed on numerous occasions in the flat throughout the week. Especially by Murph. Enjoyably terrible is the term I think. Quiet end to an awesome week. Thanks to Ronald Street!

Day 11: Cambridge to London. Approx 60 miles.

Traffic and hills on the increase. Weather on the decrease. Hmmm...

Headed out on the original London Road through more beautiful villages. Stopped in a village I now can't find on Google maps for lunch at the pub. Loads of directional advice from lots of people which in the end steered me onto the River Lee cycle path from Broxbourne to Bow. Before I found the path I was doing an average of 20mph. I forgot that not all cycle paths are tarmac or straight or quiet. It was nice though, put some tunes on the ipod and slowly but surely made it to London. Popped up from the canal path at Bow Road around quarter to five on a friday evening. Busy!

No map of London and the new challenge of beating the Horse to Liverpool Street Station by six o'clock. After about twenty, "excuse me"s and jumping out in front of a courier to get his map, I got to Liverpool Street at ten to; just in time to phone the Bitch to ruin his bet of me not making it further than Douglas, applying the obligatory brutal eye make-up and having a fag.

Leg 1 complete!

Day 10: Cambridge.

A day of organisation and sleep.

I fucking hate folk who insist on packing every item in their luggage into the loudest strain of plastic bag and then unpacking and repacking the whole lot every morning. Grrrr....

Anyway breakfast then straight back to bed because the best time of day to sleep in a hostel is in fact during daylight hours. Up at one and out into the Daily Cambridge Bike Grand-prix. Isn't it funny how, when the number of cyclists in a city reaches a certain critical point, everyone feels the need to don their competitive cycling hats and race away from every traffic light. Most amusing.

Internet cafe for blog and facebooking then into town for luch and watching silly first years find their way in the social minefield that is university. Never a dull moment: two accidental bike dismounts in an hour and a half.

Having searched for hours last night for a decent old man pub to no avail (I had dinner at Wagamamas) I asked the man with the funny eye in the hostel. He directed me to the Live and Let Live. Awesome. Had a ploughmans for dinner washed down with a cider that wasn't Strongbow. How exotic! Met a totally gallus old man named Dave over a fag who, in the 3 minutes he spoke to me, decided that I am definately going to make it to the end of my journey mainly due to my smile.

Kudos to old man Dave.

Day 9: Thurlby to Cambridge. Approx 63 miles.

The day of dead rats. They were everywhere! According to a local in Ramsey this is due to the weather and aggressive pest control measures by local farmers. Brutal.

Into Cambridgeshire today, satisfying. More country roads and that. Slightly hillier but we ain't talking Mont Ventoux. Made some good time until a woman in St Ives directed me in the wrong direction for a bit then got lost trying to avoid an A road at rush hour on the outskirts of Cambridge. Then came the first mild breakdown. Spoke to Movie over lunch and he says casually, "any mechanical problems yet Jo?", "no" said I....4 hours later and one of the bolts that supports the rack has disappeared so its sitting on my back wheel and I can't move. Typical.

After an awful lot of faffing about which mudguards and racks and tools by the side of the road the rack is secured and away I go! Problem sorted. Although its now dark and my lights are in the bottom of one of the panniers (not even sure which one) and rush hour in Cambridge. Nice!

Eventually found the hostel, phew!

Day 8: Woodhall Spa to Thurlby. Approx 40 miles.

Woke up to a fucking puncture! Brutal. Didn't even hit the road until 10.30 due to more coffee and fags following the trauma of my first puncture. Anyway no panic because I was still in Lincoinshire (flattest county ever) and it was still sunny. Sometimes I think its not the best that its constantly flat and sunny at the moment because, lets be honest, that ain't going to last then I'll be gutted. But maybe I should just enjoy it while it lasts.

Got a haircut today, oh the excitement! The barbers shop in the wee village I stopped at looked slightly concrned when I sat in the waiting area but they shaved it nonetheless. Not very well mind you, went for a shower at the hostel and shit loads of the long stuff fell out! I wonder how long until I have nothing left....

This ended up being 'the day of the racist banter'. Met two guys at the hostel. One a fisherman from the Channel Islands and one a landscape gardener from Lincoin. Ended up in bed at 9.30! Cunts.

Day 7: North Killingholme to Woodhall Spa. Approx 40 miles.

Thank fuck! A good day full of good stuff.

Gallus cooked breakfast before setting off through country roads with no cars and especially no lorries! Got the ipod on the go for the first time which makes everything better. Jefferson Airplane coupled with sun and trees and rolling fields works exceptionally well! Today was pretty uneventful due to everything going so swimmingly. To top it all off I found a cycle path alongside a canal that took me straight to Woodhall Spa.

Arrived at the bed and breakfast- pretty fancy. Wee woman was pretty sound so chatted to her for ages then headed off in search of dinner. Although, again, never take directions from women! Ended up down a dead end residential street...useless. Anyway got to the local pub for an excellent pint of Strongbow and club sandwich (one of my favourite dinners). Sat on my own for a bit until the usual "so what are you doing then?" from one of the more inquisitive locals. Ha! Their faces! Its great telling folk that your cycling around western Europe for 6 months on your own. The folk of Woodhall Spa were totally sound. One of them gave me a tenner that said "Best of luck, hope you succeed!", sound. More pints, more chat then a stumble home.

Day 6: York to North Killingholme. Approx 70 miles.

I went the wrong way. What a gutter. It should have been about 50 miles. Anyway today was probably the worst day so far for a number of reasons:

1. Going the wrong way meant 20 needless miles.
2. Goole. This place should be called Hell but its not so that unsuspecting cycle tourers go for lunch only to find that Tesco cafe is all thats on offer.
3. Scunthorpe. The only place I have been shouted at so far. AND, by an old man on a bike of all things. Horrid, in every way.
4. The A180 which is essentially a motorway filled with massive lorries going at 80mph.
5. Drax and Keadby power stations. Not the most attractive sights to go past.
6. Immingham oil refinery. See above.
7. The wind. 'Nuff said.

Thank god the place I stayed was good. TV and DVD in my own room with a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Awesome.

Day 5: York

Total old person sightseeing today. Off to Yorkminster for a tour. In fairness it is pretty awesome and I did learn that St Nicholas is not only the patron saint of children but also of prostitutes. How nice. Bus tour in the afternoon, on which I fell asleep for a bit in true Grandpa Harris style. Ended up chatting to a really sound woman from Newfoundland, Canada, who suggested we get a curry. So we did. Typical shit looking place with hilarious (without meaning it) waiter but awesome food. She, or rather Jenn, is the manager of the Rabbittown Theatre Company (good name) and one of those people who is totally warm and cheerful and good.

After din dins Jenn went off to a concert and I headed back to an old man pub on the river I had been to yesterday. Sat outside having a few pints while a few groups of dickheads or dullards sat and then left my table. Eventually four guys who seemed totally non-threatening and a bit silly sat down. One of them told one of those "you had to be there" stories which was so bad it was kind of good. Got chatting to them: from Sheffield and Rotherham, civil servants (but not overly pleased about it), late 20s/ early 30s, had been on a stag weekend but stung it because they couldn't be arsed and the other folk were dicks (or something along those lines). Ended up getting some great chat with them and went for a visit to the minster which, of course, led to a rather interesting arguement on theology. Well, perhaps not as interesting for its profound conclusions as for its alcohol fuelled silliness. Anyway one of them makes t-shirts on the side so go look: http://www.dirtyface.co.uk/ Don't be scared by the font, its confusing but the t-shirts and the guy are quite sound.

Day 4: Dufton to York. The lazy day.

Ok folks, I got a train today. Some would say its cheating but I am supposedly doing this for enjoyment so fuck cycling over the A66: "The middle section of the A66 between Scotch Corner on the A1 and Penrith on the M6 forms one of the key trans-Pennine trunk (=massive lorries) routes and has one of the worst road safety records in the UK". No thanks.

The train plan ended up being a great idea as not only did I get to chat to the hostel warden for 3 hours, I also got chatting to a guy on the train who turned out to live just off Victoria Road, sound! Chat, or rather decent chat, is totally invaluable and difficult to find. In addition, the train went over the Pennines which, as nice to look at from a train window, would probably have lost some of its attraction when viewed from the saddle.

Summary of York: very pretty wee streets, some with gallus names i.e. "The Shambles", sound old man pubs, lots of rowers, fucking insane cathedral and A SHITLOAD OF BRUTAL ENGLISH NED STAG PARTIES. Ah well, nothing is perfect I suppose! First tinge of misery since leaving Glasgow. Friday night n all that during which I would normally be getting trollied on Strongbow at the Monkey/ in the Halt with a selection of my favourite folk whereas instead I was wandering aimlessly around York trying to avoid the Stag troops. In the end it turned out that it had pished it down at home and no one had gone out. Although some did still have "a few beers" proven by the wonderful banjo rendition complete with singing I received from Steve around 2.15 in the morning.

Day 3: Boreland to Dufton. Approx 65 miles.

Firstly I would like to say: "I fucking hate those responsible for signposting cycle routes. You are all cunts who have blatantly never ridden a bike in your lives".

Ahhh. Much better! When your already riding a few miles a day it is not fun to end up doing extra due to rubbishly signposted routes or the kind of set up that directs you across the road and back from whence you came as you have reached the "route end". Anyway I got lost for a bit as you can probably tell. Back on the right road headed for Gretna, the site of numerous secret marriages and that. Stopped at a pub for coffee and route checking. Made my first new friend. Rather shittily of me I can't remember his name but he gave me awesome directions and advice and even offered to buy me my lunch. Sound.

Crossed the border, woop! Plain sailing to Carlisle then...the A6...or rather cycling hell in road format. Contiunous hills, 80 mph traffic including massive lorries, no toilet stops and a sign detailing the number of fatalities and serois injuries in recent years. Finally got to Penrith for scran and reflection on the fact that I was still alive. Onwards to Dufton YHA which is apparently "not far".

Note: When cycle touring never rely on the advice of car drivers or women. This may sound pretty sexist and hard to achieve but it has proven itself in the past week (I'm writing this in Cambridge, day 9).

Farm , farm, farm , hill, hill, hill, village, village, village. Sun is starting to set and I still wasn't at Dufton. Uh oh! No streetlights in the Cumbrian countryside apparently! Eventually I got to Dufton asking myself the following 1. Had I bitten off more than I could chew, 2. Why I didn't give up smoking before I left and 3. Why I decided to drink, smoke and sit about at the Monkey for the week before rather than doing some proper training of some kind. Only person staying in a 30 bed hostel so decided a joint probably wasn't the best idea and hit the hay around 10, again! Rock and roll.

Day 2: Douglas to Boreland. Approx 40 miles.

Up bright and early after a fucking great night featuring surprise appearances from the Bitch and Stoofa! Chilli and champange washed down with profiteroles and cream. Good healthy start!

First stop Abington services (mildly depressing) for coffee and scran. The roadkill begins...even some recognisable kidneys still attached to each other, yeuch. Headed to Moffat on a pretty good road beside the motorway so got some lunch in "The Rublin' Tum". Good name or what. A nice lady in the cafe gave me some alternative directions to the B&B which saved some miles. Unfortunately she is obviously NOT a cyclist cause it was pretty much horrifically uphill the whole way. Had to get off and push a few times! Anyway got there in the end to the Netherboreland "Chariots of Fire Centre". Another wonderfully titled establishment. Really funny place. Total middle of nowhere. I was the only person in the place so dinner consisted of me sitting in silence in the middle of an African themed dining room being served a disgusting amount of soup, macaroni with bacon and peas, salad, chips and coffee periodically by a large friendly woman who would appear exactly on time. Early to bed partly from being unbelieveably stuffed and partly due to not being fit enough for what I'm doing.

Day 1: Home to Douglas. Approx 35 miles.

It begins! Totally surreal start to the trip: cycled out of my driveway waving goodbye to Robbie and heading for the unknown. The bike weighs a fucking ton! Two full size rear panniers (full to the brim), tent, helmet, lock, two water bottles, jacket, handlebar bag...not to mention me!

Off to see the Winker toady, excellent to have someone I know on my first night. Stopped in Strathaven for lunch. Totally paranoid about the bike getting nicked on the first day but thankfully the nice folk in Strathaven let it be. Meaty weather and some encouragement from an old man dog walker made the first day pretty easy.