2019 - Ze Résistance - Tandem Stories

We had a bit of a dip. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the somewhat disappointing beginning of the trip. Then again, it was getting more and more beautiful and we know the best is yet to come. Last night during dinner we discussed the options and came to the conclusion that dryer feet would make a big difference. It may seem silly, but wet feet mean cold feet and cold feet mean feeling miserable. Today we pass through Inverness, probably the last “big” city we’ll come across for a while. Our mission, if we choose to accept it, is to find overshoes. It first we have breakfast in our tour bus hotel. It is a tour bus breakfast, in the sense that when we get to the buffet, everyone has gone already and it looks as if a bus has driven through it. We manage to pick up the good pieces and get ready to set sail for Inverness. The route goes again along the National Cycle Network, NC 7 this time. The stretch to Inverness is a nice one. This is the end of the Cairngorms, after a small initial climb, we litterally drive down out of it. We get a few drops, but nothing too serious. As we get to Inverness, traffic get busier and the road to the Outdoor shop is hell. Once in a city we noticed, it is very hard to know whether there is a cycle path or not and on which side of the street it is. Then when you think you’ve finally found it, it stops. If you’re lucky there is a sign “Cyclists on Carriageway”, if you’re not you just bump down from a high curbstone and your back in regular traffic. Apart from that, finding the Outdoor shop in the industrial estate was not really a mission impossible. We make our way to the bike area and find a wide selection of overshoes. We’re a bit hesitant which ones to pick until a young shop assistant spots us and suggests to try them on. Bien manages to find a pair that fits, my shoes seems to big for any of them. The helpful assistant suggests waterproof socks. It still makes your shoes wet, which is annoying when you only have one pair, but at least they’re supposed to keep your feet dry, which was the most important problem we were looking to solve. I was not even aware of the existence of waterproof socks. When I try them on, they feel a bit like neoprene surf boots, but thinner. They fit ok and are 30% off, so I don’t hesitate too long. We are one pair of overshoes and two pair of waterproof socks richer and £100 poorer. It’s lunchtime. I had spotted a cycle repair cafe on google so that’s where we’re headed next. These cycle places are always a bit “alternative”, as if when you’re riding a bike, you need to be an eco-animal loving world changer. Now off course we love animals and Mother Nature, are for peace and understanding, equal rights and what have you, but don’t necessarily make a lifestyle out of it. But hey, they offer great vegan food and it’s a nice place. Most of hipsters that are there seem to the minding their own business, so no real story exchange or anything. We drive through Inverness. It looks cosy enough, but don’t really take the time to visit it. As mentioned before, cities always are a bit alien when you’re travelling by bike. Riding out of Inverness it goes over the Kessock bridge, further in the direction of Dingwall. Past Dingwall we climb a bit and follow the hillside with a great view on the river Conon estuary and the bay that lies beyond it. We get to our destination Evanton, and once again, as out tent is set up, it starts raining. It’s been a very nice day and while it’s raining outside, we treat ourselves to a lovely dinner in the local pub.

While we got rain most of the night, we get to break up camp dry. We actually have managed pretty well to keep our gear dry. Ok so we cheated now and again and stayed in a B&B when weather was at its worst, but we’ve also had quite a nummer of rainy nights where the wind was our friend dried the tent and tarp pretty quickly by the time we needed to leave. From Evanton it goes further in the direction of Tain, again following the NC1. There is a climb to start, the route goes through a rural area with cows and sheep, and then goes down to Tain. Just as we get into the village, our back wheel feels very wobbly. We take a closer look and the side wall of the back tyre seems to be torn. I probably took one of the potholes on the way down at too high speed, not to say that we are probably also slightly overloaded. We brought a lot of stuff, but I did forget the work gloves. Fortunately we just stopped in front of a DIY store where I buy a pair of lovely green gardening gloves and we set up shop on the other side where what we believe are members of the local parish are selling second hand books, probably for charity. I ask the lady behind the book display whether it’s ok for us to repair our bike next to where she has het little books stall. “I don’t know”, she replies. The answer strikes me as somewhat weird. You either think it’s ok, or it’s not. I don’t care, just tell me. So I insist and ask whether she would allow us to repair our tyre on the curb next to her. “That is not my decision to make.”, she replies. I am flabbergasted. Off course it is not her decions to make whether it is legal or not, but does she mind? Would we be in her way, that is the reason of the questions. She is allowed to have an opinion, no? Social media are full of crappy opinions, have one, get one for free?! Until a couple of years ago, I would have turned around and found another spot, to make sure not to offend anyone. Not anymore. If it is not her decision to make, I will make it for her. Long live democracy! We get stettled and start the change tyre routine. Unload, put gear to minimum, disconnect the gear from the wheel, take out the wheel, change the tyre, and pump, pump, pump, then do all the previous in reverse. The pumping is the hardest bit. Getting the right pressure with a small hand pump is not easy. Finally it’s time for lunch. We have a very tasty soup and toasty at the Sunflowers Cafe. After lunch we wander a bit aoround the village trying to find a bicycle repair shop or at least a decent pump, but in vain. I add some more air with the hand pump and we’re on the road again. At first we ride along a very busy A9. At the pub last night we had asked a local whether it would be worthwhile riding to John O’Groats via Wick. He had warned us about how busy the A9 was and how much heavy traffic was on it. He was right and we had already decided not to go further North East to John O’Groats but to go to Tongue and then go west and South again. Past the next roundabout, we’re back on a small.er rod in the direction of Lairg. The sun is more and more present, the road is not too hard, until the moment the route guides us off road on a very narrow path between a fence next to the railroad and a tree line. A bit scary at first, but hey, a little adventure within the adventure. Then the path ends. In front of us the railroad continues over an Industrial Age bridge, while we have to take stairs down, then cross a pedestrian bridge built next to the main one. The stairs are very steep and while there is small stroke to take you bike down on the side, for us it means offloading everything, taking everything down, crossing the bridge to the next stairs and repeat. The fact that the entire construction is made in this metal see-through grid, doesn’t make the crossing any easier. Once we’re back on the road we continue the final stretch to Lairg. Unfortunaltely the day does not end dry. As we’re preparing dinner the clouds that moved in, are loosing their water. The omelet still tastes as nice as it should.

We wake up under a grey sky, again. Looking at the radar there is rain coming, so we decide to break up camp quickly. We manage to keep things as dry as possible, again, and have breakfast is the “games room” of the camping, a shed turned into bar, turned into games room. These are never the most glorious moments, when you sit on a worn out couch in a cold shed. However once on the road, the wind clears the sky a bit. We ride through a beautiful rough landscape. We make it to Crask Inn, a place on the map, called that way, th because there is an in, called the Crask Inn, surprising no? The reason why it is on the map is because it is probably the only building with living souls in a 10 mile radius. Not just that, they serve food (and let rooms). As we walk in there are three other men, owners of the three bicycles outside. One going North to John O’Groats, the other ones going South to Land’s End. For us continentals, this might be less known, but as many we would go to Compostella, the Brits do LEJOG or JOGLE, that is from Land’s End in the South West to John O’Groats in the North East of the island, or vice versa. It’s more sporty than it is religious, but there are quite a few “seekers” on the journey. After soup and toasty we hit the road again. A beautiful ride along Loch Loyal and Loch Craggie to start a final climb over the hill to Tongue. As we are nearly at the summit, we see cloud coming from over the hill and feel a few drip. I am optimistic; it will pass. Bien insists on putting on the rain gear. First it is not really raining. As we reach the top, there is a rain curtain coming our way and as we start the decent towards Tongue we get the full hit. It is a pretty steep decent, we we pick up good speed, at the same time I can hardly see because of the rain. We miss the small road that provides a shortcut to the village and continue down the main road. As we reach a junction the turn in the direction of the village we stop, and set foot in the river of water that is flooding the street. A final decent at full speed. As we enter the village, the is a hotel. I hit the breaks, we get of the bikes and enter. It is as if the world stops. Seconds ago we were going at high speed in pouring rain and all of a sudden I am eye in eye with the manager of the hotel in a quit hotel lobby. In a bright moment, I realise what we must look like and ask the manager: “Are we allowed to come in?”. “If you take off your rain gear and put it the hanger there, that’s fine.” Released we do as we’re told and move to the bar. “You would not happen to have a room available”, I try our luck. “Just let it to these folks.” He points to an older couple in the bar, but there is a B&B just down the road. He calls the B&B and manages to secure us a room. Rather than having tea, as we through we would as we got in, I get a beer and Bien a cider. The riding day is done. We have a chat with the elderly couple. They’re from Australia. They think we’re very brave, but don’t get is why we Europeans do all these strange things. “We have German girls hiking in the outback, all by themselves. Why? It is dangerous.” We try to explain to them that it is a far fetched way to find themselves or maybe even a boy/girl friend. But they think it is outright silly. They may have a point.

It is sunny as we leave Edinburgh. During the night we had left the heating on in the room and we had used the hairdryer to dry our shoes, so everything is back to normal. Getting out of th city, is easy enough. And we make it quite easily to Queensferry. There is no ferry anymore at Queensferry, nor did we spot the Queens, but there is a huge bridge over the estuary of the river Forth. The bridge is under maintenance, which makes it a very easy ride for us, without any heavy traffic, only pedestrians and cycles. A bit north of Dunfermline the surroundings are starting to become somewhat interesting. So far we have been underimpressed by where the road has taken us and we hope that is going to change. What for sure is changing again, is the wether. After sun comes rain. We stop to shop for food for the evening in Kinross and as we hit the road again, water comes pouring down again. We make it to the campsite a bit further north, which turns out to be a members only site. Fortunately the manager makes no fuzz and allows us to pitch our tent. It’s actually a caravan site, which makes the facilities basic. It continues to rain all evening and throughout the night. The location of the camp spot was also poorly chosen, just next to the M90, which made me listen to passing trucks in Dolby Surround all night long.

We’re deviating from the NC1 today, taking the NC 775 in the direction of Perth. Perth doesn’t seem much as we ride through it. The road to it, through it and beyond, still isn’t much either. Past Perth we follow our own route, the A93 in the direction of Cairngorms National Park. At first the road is quite busy but the further we move away from the city, the quieter it becomes. We hope to make it to Breamar today, which is very close to Balmoral. No, not the nineties club in Gent, rather the summer residence of the British Royals. When people ask us where we’re going, we’re replying: “Late night tea with the Queen”. We stop at a strawberries selling point turned into to a cafe. When the owner sees us come in, she welcomes us and says: “I saw you on the way up. I felt so sorry I was nearly going to offer you coffee”. Notice “nearly”, as she didn’t. We buy ourselves some soup and a sandwich. It goes further to Blairgowrie. It starts raining,...again. The scenery is getting nicer, but with the rain, it not always easy to appreciate. Cold and wet, all of a sudden we see a sign “Hot coffee/tea and selection of cake”. I hit the breaks. Let’s warm up a bit. As we go in and ask for tea and cake, the selection of cake turn out to be, well very selective as there is none. Just tea then. As I check out where we are and how far we still have to go, I check out the website of the the place where we are. The Bridge of Cally hotel. Rooms at £50/night. I look at Bien, we might as well stay here. We both look outside, rain, look at each other and don’t even blink. Screw late night tea with the Queen. We’ll go for a real roof over our heads and a warm, soft, dry bed. We check into the hotel. I even have a bath. I have a bath every five years or so. I am not particularly fond of baths, but when you’ve been out in the rain, and are cold,....amazing. We threat ourselves to a lovely dinner in the restaurant and as outside it continues to rain all afternoon, evening and night, we convince ourselves over and over again that we made the right decision.

In the morning the sun is out. We’re loading our tandem together with the motor bikers that also stayed at the hotel last night. As we set off we ask them to be gentle when the pass us. Again, we’re happy with the decision we made yesterday. As we are entering the Cairngorms the scenery is becomeimg more and more beautiful. With yesterday’s weather that would not have been as obvious. At the Strawberry place yesterday, we met two other cyclists they told us the road to Braemar would be easy. Except for the skimountain. That is the Glenshee Ski Centre. It turns out to be indeed quite the climb. The first one on this trip, however after a week and half of pedalling it actually goes quite well. We never race up the mountain. It mostly is a long and slow process but once we find the right rhythm we get there. We get some soup at the cafe at the top, before preparing to go down. We both put our jackets on and put on my clear glasses. It looks silly, but I am past the point of street credibility. I have had too many insects in my eyes and even without them because of the speed and the tears as a result, I have been in situatutions where I could hardly see on the way down. So no risks, rather silly glasses. This is one of the reasons why we love cycling so much after more than an hour of climbing and slowly creeping up that hill, we get to go down like on a rollercoaster. In no time we reach Breamar. We stop again, now for a real lunch. Breamar is a coasy little village. Smaller that what I expected. But the perfect spot to discover the Cairngorms from. When leaving Breamar I was expecting more climbs, but the road follows a river valley. The sun has been out all day, but partially due to the altitude, partially because the road crosses the forrest, we’re never really too hot. A day late, we arrive at Balmoral. The estate does not seem to be open to the public, but we’re right on time for afternoon tea, so we think. However as we ring the bell at the gate, neither Phil nor Lizzy respond. Somewhat disappointed we continue our journey. As we reach Ballater, we’re the last tent to be admitted to the camping. A super equipped spot, with great warm showers. We even manage to do our laundry as we go grocery shopping. Perfect timing. As I start to prepare dinner, clouds come in quickly and before we know it, the sunny daytime is washed away.

The morning is bright and shiny again. It did rain most of the night and our gear needs some drying before we leave. Ballater is more the Balmoral village. It is where the station used to be for the Balmoral visitors. The local butcher is not just butcher Sheridan, but H.M. (Her Majesty’s) Sheridan. It makes Bien laugh as it reminds her of the sitcom “Keeping up appearances”. So that’s where Sheridan ended up, she smiles. But also the local garage and quite some other shops have big signs on their front. It’s funny as normally the suppliers to the court are the big companies, here it’s all these small shops wearing their shield with pride. I had hoped the road would continue more or less along the same lines as the day before, relatively flat, over a bridge, through a forest. However going out of Ballater we immediately get to climb. The stage is set for the rest of the day. We go on the old military road again and also that goes up steadily. After the decent to Colnbaichin we stop for soup and sandwiches again. We’ll need them as next is the climb to the Lecht ski area. Once we get back down to Tomintoul, I thought we were done for the day. One straight line to our goal for the day Boat of Garten. Nothing is less true, first as we leave Tomintoul it starts raining cat and dogs, as in streets become rivers again. Then, as the rain calms down we get treated to a couple of 20% climbs. We’ve tested it. Up about 15% we can handle, after that the bike is simply to heavily loaded, we need to get off and push ourselves and the tandem up. As we reach the end of one of the slopes there is a tourist bus waiting on a viewpoint. We get applause from the entire bus. I don’t really get why as we didn’t pedal up, but walked. We finally get to Boat of Garten after the rain and the climbing we’re ready for a real bed and a room again, but no vacancies here. We continue to Carrbridge, where a rundown tour bus hotel is able to accommodate us.

The farm camping we stayed at in Kildale at looked very idyllic on paper, but without one square meter of flat terrain, nor a decent hot shower, it wasn’t all that great. What is worse, the lasagna and chips I had for lunch the day before, do not seem to have completely digested. We have breakfast, fill our bottles and take off in the direction of Middlesbrough. We’re leaving the Yorkshire Moors and re-entering a rural, industrial area. Although that the city centre of Middlesbrough seems to have undergone and is still undergoing some decent freshing up, the outskirts are miserable. I can’t help thinking that there is thoroughly wrong with the social infrastructure here. Housing, just to name the obvious, is appalling. In many of these neighbourhoods with what I guess is social housing, where there are block of small, poorly maintained houses, Dickens never seems very far away.

Once throughout the city centre we go through the hatbour upstream along the Tees over the Tees Barriage Bridge. We stop at a big ASDA to buy some heartburn medicine and stop in Stockton-upon-Tees for lunch. I am not sure what to get as I feel that whatever I have, I might throw up again. While we’re inside, outside it starts raining. We have lunch, I take the heartburn medicine, gag, but manage to keep the food inside. Meanwhile it has stopped raining and we’re once again on our way. Once we get past the outskirts of the city we hit again an old railroad track through Wynyard Woodland Park. It starts raining just a bit, but we’re protected by the trees. Off the track, back in the villages like Wingate or Wheatley Hill, it is not a pretty sight. We make our way to the Strawberry Hill Farm Camping, which, on Google, looked like a great site. What I did not notice is that is sits along the very busy A181, just where it is a dual carriage way. Trying to avoid to have to do a big detour, we risk our lives crossing and climbing up the road while cars are passing at 100+ km/hour. Arriving at the site, it looks as loveley as on the internet, except for the noise of the flying by cars of the busy A road. Arrived at the tent area, we immediately spot a Dutch couple. As usual, they think we’re Germans. I am starting to think the Germans should pay us for indirectly promoting their country. Since last year we’ve noticed at least all Dutch people, think we’re Germans. The English guy a few tents further has just a bit more culture and did read the Belgian flag right. He is a big cycling fan, even has been to the “zesdaagse” in Gent. We have a chat and move on to making dinner. Pasta with broccoli and salmon on the menu this evening. I was looking for something relatively light and nutricious at the same time. After having swallowed three spoonfuls, by stomach decides to give it all back to nature. The heartburn medic he clearly did not work very well. Our English neighbour bring us earplugs. We did not use them, but should have.

It rained during the night, but has cleared out by the morning. I am still feeling a bit under the water and we’re considering our options. Going over Newcastle, we don’t have too many options. We have breakfast first before making a final decision. I finish my breakfast and take the heartburn medicine. My breakfast decides it wants to be free again. Without fuel, it will be hard to ride a long way. Bien suggest to take the train, something I had not event thought of strangely enough. Durham is about 10k away and gets us to any destination Northbound. As, except for the Yorkshire Moors we’ve been quite disappointed with the surrounding so far, we decide to train all the way to Scotland, to Dunbar, famous for it battle as you all know and the birth place of John Muir father of America’s National Parks. We follow the signs to the northbound platform and I purchase tickets. Two people, one way, one bicycle. “Only one?”, the lady at the counter asks. “Yes, its a tandem”, I reply. She gives me a bit a strange look, but just issues the tickets. We’ve got about a two hour wait before our train arrives. I drink some water and have some yoghurt and manage to keep everything inside. About every half hour another member of the station staff comes to see us, to ask us about the bicycle. Where we’re going, telling us we need to report to the platform and train manager. All very helpful. About 15 minutes before our train arrives, another staff members comes up to us. “You guys are going to Dunbar, right? Well then you need to be on the other platform.” So no one had consider this before? We rush to the other side and report to the platform manager. No worries, the train is late anyways. But that tandem, that might be an issue. Anyways, just get on, and you’ll see. When the train finally pulls into the station, that is exactly what we do. We get in the “bicycle carriage” where we find to single bicycle spots. One is filled with a stroller, the other one with garbage. We clean out the garbage one, squeeze in our tandem and find ourselves a seat. When halfway the journey the train manager passes to check the tickets, he is not happy. “I’ll have to report this.” Fine, as long as we get to our destination, which we do. Off the train, we make our way to the Dunbar campsite just outside of town. It’s a great site with an amazing view on the sea. Considering the stomach problems, we decide to stay two nights.

The following morning we wake up under a blue sky. It’s laundry day. However what took us half a day to a day last year to get done, we now finish in under two hours. Plenty of time left to go discover. We take the tandem for a spin. Always a bit of a strange experience without the luggage. We had noticed a lighthouse not too far from the campsite and decide to pay it a visit. It make a nice little ride and walk along the beach. After that we ride to Dunbar. It isn’t much, but it has all the facilities you need and is actually quite cosy. We have lunch outside on a terrace, enjoying the sun for as long as it lasts. Tomorrow we have a short ride planned to Edinburgh. About 50k, but the weather forecast looks really bad. We go to bed early to be able to leave early.

Ninth of August. Our birthday. It doesn’t really feel that way and in all honesty, we care less, and less. The weather report got it right this time, no presents for us today. We wake up with the sound of rain on the tent and a terrible wind. We were mentally prepared for this. We break up camp from the inside out and take everything to the laundry room. We actually manage to get most things more or less dry. As we have breakfast I. The laundry room, a less fortunate father, and not so happy camper son, walk in to use the tumble dryer. Their tent basically collapsed during the night leaving everting soaking wet. They did get the front view pitches through ;-). Again the weather forecast is spot on. As we leave Dunbar, it is pouring rain. We’re singing “Blue skies”, just to keep the moral high. It slows down a bit after a while, but as we get to Musselburgh, roads are turning into creeks again. We have decentralised gear, bit our feet our drowning in our shoes. We decide to stop at a pub to take shelter and have a hot drink. “We don’t serve hot drinks, luv, but you’re welcome to have a pint with the rest of the lads.” It is just before noon, we still have about 20k to go, no beer for us. Bien stick to a Diet Coke. Still trying out whatever is local I have an Irn-Bru. “It used to be the best medicine against hangovers, but they changed the recipe”, the bar lady declares. Whatever, I guess. As we sit in the bar waiting for the rain to pass, my phone starts acting weird. It doesn’t want to launch certain apps, types on its own. Just in time, I manage to make a hotel booking in Edinburg before it hardly responds at all. In today’s day and age, that phone is our life line. It’s our satnav, weather forecast, travel guide, everything. I’d love to go back to the good old times, but if you look at the pictures I posted from the maps we used over two decades ago, they would not have survived this kind of rain. Fortunately we’re on the national cycle route and that is pretty well signposted. As we approach Edinburgh, the clouds disappear.

Blue skies
Smiling at me
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see

We settle into our hotel room. Find the nearest Apple store to get my phone repaired. While it’s great you can have a dives purchased in other country repaired somewhere else, it remains increadible timeconsuming. We manage to see some of Edinburgh, but as the Fringe festival is taking place, it is a bit too crowded for us. When you’ve been riding a bicycle, even just for a week, it gets a bit alienating to enter a city. We manage to find a nice place to have our birthday dinner. And as we get back to our room, all our gear has dried. Ready to hit the road again tomorrow.

So here we are, august 3rd 2019 all packed up and ready to go. The first stretch should not be too difficult. Gent to Zeebrugge, 61km. Goodbye’s are never easy when we’re gone for a longer period of time, and they remain seldom dry. But after a couple of individual hugs, a family hug and drying the tears we’re on our merry way. There are few routes in and out of Gent we have not taken, still is is always a bit strange to ride through your hometown fully packed. All of a sudden you seem to be a tourist in your own city. We go through the city centre, along the Brugsevaart to Vinderhoute. Twenty six years ago, when I was cycling with my friend Niko to Schotland, we decided to stop here and pay his friend Klaas a visit. I had not met the Bullynck family yet, nor had I experienced their hospitality. “Saying hello”, typically means being invited in for lunch or dinner and drinks. So when Niko and left about four hours later we were far from sober. Long story short, on the way to Zeebrugge I lost control of the bike and hit the concrete hard. When we got onto the ferry, the friendly staff gave us a cabin instead of the seats we had book and all’s well that ends well. All this to say that passing through Vinderhoute without stopping, was kind of challenging. However we decided to be strong now and not allow ourselves to be invited in. We said hello to Ginette, exchanged some quick memories and continued our route to Zeebrugge. First hurdle successfully taken ;-).

We continue our journey along de Lieve and het Schipdonkkanaal, het Leopoldkanaal then skimming along the Dutch border in the direction of Zeebrugge. The road is flat, there is slight headwind, but nothing serious, still after about three hours my legs feel weak. The result of virtually no training I guess. We take a break the De Groene Wandeling, a local bistro, giving a last sample of Belgium. The public consist of grandparents with grandchildren eating their ice cream, cyclists and motorcyclists stopping for a Trappist, tourists from Brussels enjoying a exuberant lunch and discussing the language issues they are experiencing visiting Flanders. You can actually already see the beginning the port of Zeebrugge from here. After a croque monsieur and a lemonade we get back on the back to wrap up the last part of the day. With our trip to Norway last year, we’ve gotten some experience getting on ferry’s with the bicycle. It looks more challenging then it is. As we advance to the queue there’s an English family of five in front. The father and the boys on a triplet, mother and daughter on a Helios tandem, not exactly like ours, but still close enough. They’ve been biketravelling with the kids since they were little. The kids seem to think there is no other way to travel. Great to see. With last year’s luxurious experience of the ferry from Hirshals to Bergen in mind, the Zeebrugge-Hull ferry is like an episode from Back To The Future. I’ve taken this ferry for the first time when I was sixteen on a school trip to Yorkshire, then a couple of years later with Niko on the bike trip to Schotland. While probably a lot has changed, it seems like nothing has. Everything looks increadbly nineties. The deck staff is virtuall all Eastern European and in The Lounge, one of the two bars on the boat, there a guy behind the piano playing Michael Bubblé songs while making jokes with the barmen. I get a bit of a zoo feeling, where I am not sure who are the visitors and who are the animals, however just observing the crowd is an entertaining experience for a while. Also the all-you-can-eat dinner that we ordered when booking the tickets is in the same line. It is more civilised than the self service restaurants in some of the entry level Disney hotels, but the basic principle is the same. Take as much as you can, then see what you eat. The food is what you would expect on a ferry to the UK: dry meat and watery peas. Ok I exaggerate, there was a dry wannabe Chinese dish, and watery broccoli and some other wet and dry combinations, but nothing compared to the fresh salmon and other delicious dishes on the Bergen ferry. I guess the price was also different (about double). After a passage on the deck, we hit the sack for what turns out to be a great night’s sleep.

We wake up at around 6.45 and are getting ready for breakfast. 45 minutes later a voice through the intercom announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now 6.30, breakfast is being served”. Right, the UK, we have to turn the clock back one hour. It gives us plenty of time to quietly have breakfast and look how the ferry is docking in the Hull harbour. We’re the last ones to get of the boat as two other Belgians had placed and locked their bikes against ours. Off the boat we get in line for border control, we try skipping the line, but no favours for cyclists here. They’d rather have you dry from asfictiation from the car and motorbike fumes. “Get in line as everyone else!” The warm welcome is appreciated. As we finally pass the border control, I am humming “Land of hope and glory” in my head. When about one kilometre later we get out of the harbour to the first neighbourhood there is little glory to be spotted. Passing an obese mother, with what I think is an 8 year old obese kid in a stroller, all the hope disappears as well. But no worries, Boris, is going to make Britain Great again. Past that first sample of urban Britain, we actually get immediately on one of the national cycle routes. Not the NCR 1 as originally planned, but the 65 to Hornsea. I wanted to get as quickly as possible to the seaside and while I did not check the elevation profile of the NCR 1, the route we take has the advantage, as is quite of the the case with these cycle routes in various countries, of being an decommissioned railroad track. That mostly means any elevation difference is very smooth. From Hornsea it goes further, this time along the regular road to Bridlington. Along the road there is one caravan parc after the other, each marketed slightly differently from deluxe, to cosy, to well,...marginal, Onslow-like. We take a lunchbreak in Bridlington. A nice little town where we find a quite bench under the cathedral. From Bridlington it goes further over the Natioal Cycle Network to Bucktom, over Hunmanby to Cayton, ending our first day in the UK in Scarborough, a Victorian seaside resort with (yes the former queen has her statue here as well) with Hercule Poirot style hotels and even a tramway that will take you from “up town”, the full 20 meters down to the beach. We make it to the campsite just outside of town. From the point of view of the Camping and Caravanning Club this camping belongs to, cyclists are considered backpacker, probably because they get so few of either one, they decided to put them all in the same categories. What you see here mostly are camper vans, motor homes and caravans. The tents that you do see resemble more small houses than an actual tent, with TV, inflatable couch and what have you. The manager is a bit shocked herself from the backpacker price: £21. But we knew that camping in the UK is not cheap, and that the Camping and Caravanning Club sites are mostly outstanding. Moreover £21 was still nearly €30 a couple of years ago, now that about €22, thanks to British politics.

We felt really good after the first 100k. It gave us confidence for the days to come. Also the weather seems to be on our side, no rain the first day just until we got to bed. Then all hell broke loose apparently, but we did not really notice as we slept like a log. In the morning the sun is shining and our tent dries quickly just when we’re all packed, it starts raining and while we have breakfast in a little hut on the campsite the rain has passed as we’re ready to leave. On the program today, the Yorkshire Moors, aparently soon the scene for the world championship cycling. The initial part is quite easy, a gradual climb along an old railroad track again. It starts raining slightly again, but we’re covered by the trees. All of a sudden, the climb and the threes are over and we arrive in Ravenscar at Robin Hood’s Bay. The sun is shining again and even in this tiny little place there is commerce. A cute little tea room. We stop for morning tea, trying to intergrate and everything. The track continues in the direction of Whitby with beautiful views on the bay. The road downhill is unfortunately in less good condition then the one uphill, it is super bumpy, not allowing us the get a speed advantage. Not too bad con side ring the ever beautiful views. We see Whitby Abbey on the right, but turn right upstream of the River Esk. Nice and flat at first until we ride out of Briggswath. There is starts going up. We pass a French cycling family and encourage them as we ride past. But then we need all of the oxygen and power we need to keep going. And just as we thought it couldn’t get steeper the road adds a couple percent. We give up, get off the bike and start pushing. The hard road ends and it seems to be less steep so we start peddling again until the next corner. Same level of steepness, on a gravel road. We don’t even try, get off and start pushing again. Even that is hard. At the end of hill also ends the gravel road. We cruise along the flank of the hill until we get to Egton. We decide to stop for lunch at the local pub. The great thing about rural UK is that people are very accessible. They’ll always ask you where you’re from, where you’re going, if there is anything they can do for you. Sometimes that is inconvenient, like this time when the two gents sipping away from their pints stop us before we get in. We’re hungry, need to go to the bathroom, but still tell them the story. “If you think it’s hilly here, wait until you get to Schotland”. Very encouraging. We manage to go past them and order well deserved food. The owner spots us immediately as Belgians. “Belgium is the best country for rugby”, he says. I thought that was New Zealand, Australia or even France, but certainly not Belgium. He turns out to be a rugby referee and is invited to Dendermonde, aparently the best Rugby team in Belgium, holding a yearly tournament. “As a referee I am paid from the time I leave home until I get back, I am super well lodged and get free beer for the entire time I am there. Best tournament E-V-E-R!”. So, there you go, Belgium is famous in rugby,...thanks to its beer. We continue our journey north-west. Contrary to the longer climbs, and corresponding descents, we had in Norway, here the road goes up and down. Which actually seems more tiring, certainly as the are gettting steeper, to 25%, and have a curve at the bottom. So you push your way up for 15 minutes, speed down in one minute, hit the breaks to take the curve and then try to get up again in the lowest gear. Those of you who will be watching the world championships cycling in Yorkshire soon, will wonder what I am talking about, however these are trained athletes on ultra lite carbon race bikes, not just husband and wife on a tandem full of luggage. We do get, again, some really nice views. We end up at a farm camping with less mileage than expected but a beautiful sunset.