The Velodyssey

Welcome to the Velodyssey! The name makes sense if you know that "Velo" is the french word for bicycle. The Velodyssey is the name of the recently completed (I'd argue almost completed) cycling route spanning the west coast of France, actually starting in England, requiring a ferry ride to Roscoff and going to Irun, just over the southern border into Spain. I'm actually well past all that now but backtracking for continuity.

I believe "Maz Pusi" is french for, "Welcome, friend." - At the French-Spanish border

The Velodyssey seemed the most logical way to get north from Spain and it passes through Biarritz, a french coastal town where I was most happy to reconnect with an old friend Adam Thompson. Adam works in a YWAM DTS base there with his wife Leah. For those not familiar, it's a Christian discipleship school and Adam pulled some strings to get me in as a guest speaker, booyah, to share about song-writing. I was also very happy to stay with Alan and Jo in Bayonne, more friends who hosted me wonderfully. I've spent, perhaps, too long travelling by my lonesome and being taken into a warm home to just relax, speak Kiwi and drink wine was something I really treasured. In fact, it was such a break from the travelling mindset that I've discovered I didn't take photos with any of them. That's a shame... Here's some France then...

France and Spain weren't always so chilled out about their border...

Saint-Jean-De-Luz. France is big into their hyphens.

Y'know, golden sandy beaches and stuff.

The cycling route was intent on taking me up every cliff top for the view.
Lots of climbing then free-wheeling.

Not sure if I was photographing the sea or my bike here.

Bayonne turned out to be some kind of cross-roads for crazy travelers. It's a staging point for many for the Camino Way, so that's a big draw card, but I bumped into all sorts headed this way and that. Two Germans, in particular, I met 3.5 months in to their proposed 5 year walk around the world. Or at least Europe and the Med to Israel to start with. They do about 20km a day, which doesn't sound like much but they're lugging 50kg carts around, strapped to their hips with breaks for going downhill and not including their gear, which boasts that supreme German efficiency, they're operating on a zero budget. No savings at all. They just ask politely, juggle for coins, siphon through supermarket rubbish bins, forage for berries, you name it. They've managed to last 3.5 months already and are very happy with what they're doing. I couldn't help but feel lazy after talking to them. Look at me, all riding 100km a day just because I can, while they're walking every step of the way, dragging those things behind them instead of riding them... And they manage to blog every night!

The Germans Tobias and Gartner and Petite Mo.

The Germans' crazy carts/

Petite Mo and her dog Gerard have been walking around France for 6 years.
Now they're thinking they might give Spain a go.

Gee, crappy photo, but Alan and his recumbent bicycle.

And a family of 4, with a custom-built tandem bicycle with a recumbent front seat.
The recumbent pedals have been brought right in so the 4 year old can pedal.
No free rides for that kid. The 2 year old gets the chariot trailer.

Things were going a little too smoothly after a while on the Velodyssey. Google suggested an alternative route through the forest which would shave 7km off the 200 ahead of  me. Great! I thought... I'll do that! Never do that. Stick with the bicycle paths, or at least a quiet but established highway, or you might find yourself spending over an hour pushing your very heavy bicycle through mud and sand forestry tracks in the baking hot sun, plus a further half an hour cleaning out the breaks, gears and chain using the tap at an old church and sacrificing your toothbrush. You just might...

This flooded path is intersected by a fairly deep little river/canal. Hard to see.
The man in red ahead of me tried riding through and went up to his neck in the water.
Thankfully, I was on hand to laugh at him and photograph his misery for the world to see.
He's also just discovering that the mobile phone in his hand his dead.

Definitely a trap. I had to get past a few of these.
I couldn't help remembering a story about cannibals in PNG using the old fallen tree trick.

Sometimes the forest is quite nice.

The night where all the creatures came to visit me.

A whole lot of mud, sand and swear words.
Impossible to ride.

I wasn't just imagining things.
They've built these animal bridges over the highways so the deer and pigs don't hit cars.

I had to leave the Velodyssey at Bordeaux and catch a train to Nantes in order to see Nathan and Emma while they were visiting family friends there. I lost out on 300km cycling, but got to spend 3 days with the most amazing, loving family instead. The De Gennes. Wonderful as that was, it made continuing my journey far more difficult than usual.

You have to harden yourself to a degree to travel alone for extended periods, forgoing many comforts that people often take for granted. In the De Gennes home, I was greeted each morning and bid goodnight with a kiss on each cheek. It was a startling experience and I realised how unfamiliar I'd become with any sort of human touch. I'm used to meeting new people and sharing stories and having people like and respect me, but the mother, Veronique, went further in showing love for me and concern for me. I experienced a healthy dose of mothering and became depressingly aware of how much that was missing in my life; to have someone else care for me.

After 2 nights I went to pack up my things and leave but found myself just staring dumbly at my bike and precious but few belongings. I started to wonder is this was all an act of selfactualisation, rather than exploration; if I had changed my life circumstances to reflect the lonely, burden-laden way I've been feeling inside for a long time. Veronique came downstairs and saw me and asked if I was alright, saying I looked tired, was I sure I'd slept enough? She has these piercing, honest, beckoning sort of eyes that you can't really lie to. I told her no, I'd slept enough, but she kept probing me with this look. I tapped two fingers over my heart and admitted, I'm tired in here. Tired in here.

I expected her to nod with an understanding that there are some things a man just has to deal with alone, that life just feels hard sometimes and then quietly leave me be so I could find my strength again. But no! She rushed in and embraced me with the most loving, heartfelt cry of shared pain and something in me broke. Love is a powerful thing. I can handle being sad, but being so loved was too much and I wept tears I didn't know I had in me, pouring out volumes of unspeakable pain from somewhere deep that I bury most of that stuff. She insisted that I stay, stay another night, don't go yet. You're not ready. She was right and it was some time before I could form the words but I gratefully accepted and had one more night away from the road.

I spent a while ashamed at my weakness afterwards, as I do my best to try and be invincible. Had I never visited them I'm sure I never would have been brought to that state but there was something so touching about the way that family lives and loves each other; the contrast with my loner lifestyle left me feeling so hollow. To anyone who envies what I do in travelling and seeing the world, know that it comes at a price and if you have the good fortune to be near a community of people that love you, don't take for granted what a beautiful thing that is.

I'm back on the bike now (metaphorically too). I made my way up the Loire River to Orelans before turning north and sit in a campground now just south of Paris as I write. It took a few days, but my appetite for the journey is back. I've had to slow down, hang out in castles more, talk to more strangers and remember I'm here to explore. I think I'd fallen into a pattern of just trying to knock out distance and get to Holland but that's not sustainable for very long. I'll leave the Loire River for the next blog. Here's a few more poorly chosen photos from the coastal ride.

Just a normal daily market in a small village in France where coffee saved me.
The villages are slowly dying, aging population and youth flocking to the cities and abroad.
Roaming markets like these seem to serve them better than every village having permanent but quiet shops.

Crazy network of trees here. Must make an awesome shady area when the leaves return.
I wanted to go nuts with fairy lights, but so little time...

I couldn't work out if this was someone's house or a museum.
Why don't we have turrets?

Nantes has a giant robot elephant. I'm not even kidding.
Some kind of tribute to the imaginative author Jules Verne, a local of theirs.
Oh how I wish it would run riot and attack the city!

The De Gennes (and some Batts)

Creatures of the night

This gathering of pine trees will have to do for the night. No, it's not a gathering. They haven't come here of their own accord, drawn by nature's purpose. They've been planted in near rows by unimaginative men with a 7 year harvest in mind. Sustainable forestry. They're touted as some kind of ecological victory, man managing the earth the way he's meant to. But you know real forests. This place is oddly hollow. It lacks character. But it also lacks people and that suits you just fine for the moment. 60km is no great feat, you left far too late in the afternoon to make a decent distance, but the dark is coming and you're hungry, you're tired. Time to make camp.

As you go about setting the hammock up you realise you are not alone. It begins as a mild itch over your face and legs, perhaps from the sweat of cycling and you wipe at your salty skin to clear the sensation. But it quickly returns and becomes more than a mild itch, almost a stinging. Mosquitos? You can't hear any. Some kind of bug? You're eyes have been straining far ahead all day and it takes a few seconds to bring your focus up close. Then you notice them. Just a few at first, white and fluffy looking, but so small, hardly bigger than dust, as if a tissue has exploded into a million pieces. And as you begin to see the first few, more become apparent. Swirling around you, onto you, up your nose, into the whites of your eyes, into your lungs if you inhale too deeply. However small, there might just be a million of them and they're supremely irritating. Swatting is useless as they've sensed you. Your warmth, the grime and salt on your body is a perfect feast for them. It's not yet dark, but the first creatures of the night are out.

They are driving you mad as you walk and run to different places, trying to set your stove up, walk away, come back to light it, away to chop the veges. Brief respites but as soon as you hold still they find you. You tell yourself you could choose to ignore them, be staunch and overcome this, but they've pushed you into a frustration that's coupled with your tiredness from the day and you become a mad creature yourself, doing your merry swatting dance while trying to crouch and prepare a meal so that you drop half of it on the ground. Still good, just with some added dirt and grass. You jump around getting into sleeping clothes and bag, knowing there's refuge in the cocoon of the hammock under the mosquito mesh. There you lie panting, dirty, sweaty. You're too hot, but you know the temperature drops considerably overnight. Continental weather behaves differently. Although it's humid, you know a cold will come so you stay warm and read until tiredness becomes overwhelming. Owls are hooting and dark has almost completely taken the sky as you drift off to sleep.

CRACK SHUFFLE CRACK. You wake instantly, startled by the noise. It's close. You feel the familiar shape of the hammock around you. All is dark. Camping. Cycling. France. Near Leon. Right. You know where you are now. Took a second but you've got your bearings and heard enough to know that whatever is out there is small, it's not human and poses no threat. As it continues to move around you guess at its kind. Hedgehog? No, too fast. A rat? Maybe. A big one. Did it just go up that tree? Maybe a chipmunk, a squirrel, those are around here. Other noises, branches creaking, breaking. Just the wind? Perhaps. Owls taking flight? Hunting the rats? Definitely some kind of bird up there. Never mind. Let these critters do their thing. You're sweaty, hot, tired and ask for sleep to take you back. It does.

HRRAAAAAAUUGH. An awful howl pierces the night and brings you back. A violent screech. It sets the dogs off, you can hear them barking in the distant homes of Leon. It carries a menace, sending a bloodcurdling chill down your spine. Not the mournful wail of a wolf. You know this from London, of all places. This is a fox. It continues its mocking howl into the night, laughing at the dogs trapped behind their fences. It wants the creatures of the forest to be scared, because if they're scared they'll be running, if they're running they'll be easier to find. What does the fox say? That amusing viral internet video plays in your head, but it's nothing like the reality. The fox tells you it wants to spill blood tonight. That's what its cry says and another joins in. The fox is no threat to you. It eats the little things. It takes longer, because no warmblooded creature could fail to be moved by that sound, but eventually sleep takes you again.

CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH. Back again and your heart is beating loudly, though with a feverish excitement closer to a thrill than fear. That was big. Is big. 30 metres? Maybe closer. Hard to tell in this dank, humid air. Makes the sound carry further. It's stopped, on the slope that you can't see but know gradually rises to the south of you. You know what you think it is, but didn't think to find any here. You instincts cry out the answer, but still you run through the other possibilities while breathing silently and still through your half opened mouth, straining for, SHUFFLE, there's a bit, give me more, CRUNCH, it's too big to be a dog, fox, goat even, it's movements are too cautious. It can't be a man, there is no light. Heeaah. There it is. Your senses are wired and you've managed to make out its breathing. There's no mistaking what's our there now. You've been a hunter too long. It's a deer. A decent size, too. Bigger than a fallow. Perhaps a red, or whatever similar breed they have here. The excitement fills you with an electric buzz. It's magnificent to be so close, the deer standing almost close enough to talk to. How hasn't he smelt you and run off? Are they not hunted here? Is he a stag, large but young and stupid? He must have smelt something of you or seen your bike when coming over the hill, and so he stopped in a hurry, the sound waking you. Now he's unsure what to do. Turning this way and that. He seems to want to leave but doesn't quite know which way to go. You love this, letting your ears and familiarity with this creature paint this picture in your mind, as though you are watching him on a hidden camera. You know what the outcome will be, but it's taking longer than you expected and every extra moment he spend with you is a privilege you are grateful for. What time of year is it? His antlers will be off. You've decided he must be a young male and that only his ego is keeping him this long, as if he wants to be more sure of the danger before he'll react to it. Finally he leaves. A louder push as he picks a direction, back up the hill, and footsteps which fade so quickly that you want to believe he must still be there, nothing could move so quietly, but you've watched this happen many times before. They glide like ghosts and are gone. This one's gone. So back to sleep.

CRASH CRASH CRUNCH SMASH CRACK and it continues, overlaid with a stream of staccato noises pitched at the level of human male speech and coming right at you, carelessly fast. You've woken straight into a panic and adrenaline is firing through you. A man? Two men talking? With a dog? Feet moving fast. They won't know what they're looking at with the hammock. You reach one hand to your headlamp hanging above, the other to the zip, so you can get out quickly, but then pause, not wanting to give away your exact position too early. Weapon? Your knife is buried in a bike bag. YOU ARE THE WEAPON comes the affirming inner voice, the fighter in you. You can blind them with the headlamp. Strike with hands and feet. Over the hill lies a road to Leon should you need to run for it, but if they come for you, make sure they regret it. It can't have been more than 5 seconds from waking as all these thoughts transpire and overlap and you strain to hear words in that unfamiliar language while holding rigid and willing the adrenaline to flow. But there is no light. No torches. No men would approach so fast without torches. Now the truth shines clear and you hear those low pitched, staccato utterances for what they really are. Pigs. Wild pigs, two of them. You've heard the same back home. Did they smell the tin of fish you left out with your rubbish? Never mind. They're of no danger to you. Or are they? You have a vision of one with large tusks approaching underneath the hammock and driving his tusks up and into you. It's not a pleasant vision, but you quickly dismiss it as absurd and call out a warning growl which send the pigs scampering away. Now what? The time... 2am. And it's no longer warm. That's not good. It's only 2am. The cold out isn't getting through to you, yet, but it's a long way to sun up. You feel your dampness in the sleeping bag, your sweat clinging to you. That's going to cause a problem later on, you're sure of it. But what else could you have done? You return to sleep but this time nursing a lurking fear as you wait for the last creature of the night.

It comes at 4am, slithering like a snake. It seems silent, yet its presence gives itself away. Crawling blindly, it has sensed you here and come to claim you. It is the cold. The last one out in the dead hours of the night and who all other creatures fear and hide from. It sniffs around, weaving past every tree and object, under every leaf. It is looking for you. You try to keep still and will him to pass on, not to notice you. But the sweat and beads of moisture in your sleeping bag betray your position, crying out, "Here he is! Come and claim him!" And the cold paws its way around you, feeling around the sleeping bag for thin points and trying to get in. There on your back, where it's squashed into the hammock, it sinks in cold fangs all over and starts drinking deep of your warmth. You shudder. No! Keep still? Or pull the hood tighter? You're not sure. There are no better clothes on your bike, It's hopeless. You must just wait for down. You are exhausted as well, your body so far from wanting to move. You try to ignore it and sleep again until the sun is up, but cold keeps persisting. "Now your feet are cold!" It mocks, it taunts, it teases, it takes. It whispers stories, reminding you of every time you've ever been cold. They are one in the same. They are now. This same enemy has found you here again. It's a very long hour and more filled with fretting and turning and lucid half dreams until you finally find some sort of sleep again. It is a cold awakening too, when the light reaches through the pines to tell you, "I'm back! Let's get on with the day then, shall we? But the cold you awake to, both deep in your body and your surrounds, is merely an absence of warmth. That creature who came in the night, that hungry beast who leaves his cold damp trail wherever he goes and sought to devour you, he is no longer here. Perhaps he follows the edge of the night around the world, seeking to despair and claim others, but he won't be back here for a while. You need to start moving. Get warm again. Swap your clothes out. Eat something. Get cycling. Look for coffee. The creatures of the night have passed. The day belongs to you.

Santander to San Sebastian, Spain

Greetings from Biarritz, France. This ride here from the Ferry in Santander took four days, building back my touring fitness over some hilly but beautiful country. This mountainous region has long been home to the Basque people. Nestled between France and Spain, with a language nothing at all like either of them, these proud mountain folk put on a damn fine feed and are blessed much like us Kiwis with both mountains and sea. The ride is all a few days behind me now and I won't say too much about it. This post is basically pictorial.

EDIT: Update down below regarding the Camino Way... Which I forgot about.

Coming into Santander on the ferry.

Cantabrian Countryside (Cantabria is a region in northern Spain).

Old house, maybe...

Best gate ever.

Missed the last ferry of the day in Santona...

And was forced to camp rough. Somehow, that's all one tree.

Back at the ferry with David and Karen, an American/Danish couple.
We met on the road and became travelling companions for two days.

Very dicey getting loaded touring bikes down that ramp onto the beach.
Didn't drop any, but the bikes became clogged with sand and needed a hose-down before riding on.

Overlooking the occupied side of Laredo.

A quick note here: Upon crossing into Laredo on the ferry we went through a few kilometres of hotels, shops and restaurants that were all closed up and seemingly abandoned. It's still pre-tourist season here and it was like a ghost town, riding through so many empty streets. We wondered if we'd missed a war or a plague, but everything just closes over the winter. Finally, on the east end of town people appeared again, going about their lives normally. Thousands may flock there after Easter and June/July it may be too busy to ride a bicycle down the street, but for us it was an eerily quiet passage.

After Laredo was particularly nasty hill country, but breathtaking in both ways.
Worth the sweat.

My passage took me through mountain passes then back to the coast.

The Atlantic looks even bigger from the hill tops.
It reminded me of driving around SH35 back home, north east of Opotiki.

Pretty sweet house, I thought.

The island I swam to on my last trip to San Sebastian.
I was wise enough not to bother this time.

More of San Sebastian.

A building I love.

And a wee bit more of San Sebastian, just so you get the idea.
It's a coastal city.

UPDATE: I forgot to mention the Camino Way... The route I travelled from Santander to San Sebastian is all part of the northern route of the famous Camino Way, the pilgrims route to Santiago de Compostela. It's not the main route, which runs through the mountains to the south, but a popular and valid route, signposted along the way with special hostels for pilgrims, although none were open yet.

Of course, as I like to do things a little differently, it would make sense that as I ended up on one of the most popular walking trails in the world, I was riding a bicycle and going the wrong way. Every time I stopped to check my map, or an email, or the time, people would approach me, pulling their cars over if need be and point emphatically the other way, saying something fast and Spanish to the effect of, "The Camino is that way! That way! You're going the wrong way!" Lacking the Spanish to explain my situation, I would try and wave them off with a friendly thank you before continuing on my way and they'd yell after me, things to the effect of, "No you stupid English! You're don't understand! It's this way! This way!"

Such helpful people.

Pedalling, Pirates and Pals…

The old prison at Bodmin.

Having left London later than I intended, I found myself forced out of the train at Exeter due to track outages where a recent storm, the worst since ’62, had laid waste to a good section of rail. There was a bus replacement service for folk with ordinary luggage but I had to saddle up and ride the 18 miles to Newton Abbot where I intended to re-join the line to Bodmin and find my way to waiting friends. It seemed a simple plan, but I was about to land myself in a world of difficulty and danger, largely as a result of breaking a few of my own hard-learnt travel rules.

Don’t let the tank get below half full. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, it was 6pm and I was hungry.

Make hay (or miles) while the sun still shines. I jumped into a restaurant to refuel and wasted the last hour of light.

Time spent on maintenance is never wasted. I came out of the restaurant to find my bike lights, which run off a wheel hub generator, were not working. But rather than fix them, I carried on into the fading lights with just a headlamp and a torch on the handlebar.

Avoid the main roads. I went straight for the main highway, thinking it looked the simplest route.

Know the lay of the land. I had no idea the 18 miles went up a huge set of hills.

If all else fails, wait until dawn. (There are more but you’ll learn them later)

As I climbed and climbed at a painfully slow rate up into the hills, clueless as to when they might end, my headlamp inexplicably stopped working. Fresh batteries did nothing to amend this and I was reduced to a fading torch mounted on my handlebar that cast barely enough light to make out the road surface in front of me. I had no back light and was caught out on a long section of the main highway for the area with no shoulder. Cars roared up behind me at 70 or more miles an hour, briefly illuminating the road before streaking off into the distance while I tried desperately to hold a steady line and not weave in front of them while climbing at 5-6km/h and hoping the reflectors on my luggage bags would suffice. There were no other roads to turn off into, no going back. It had become a dangerous and exhausting ride. I should have given up, trudged to the nearest trees, set up the hammock and waited for dawn. But this was my first ride of Round 2 across Europe and I wanted to prove I still had it in me and could take on the hills. I had friends waiting for me and didn’t want to look like a failure by not reaching them that night. I told myself it couldn't be too much further even though I had no idea. So I got stubborn, stupid and just kept riding and praying I wouldn't get hit.

It wasn't the right call. Even when the climbing finally leveled out I couldn't move fast because my torch kept dimming and I couldn't see the road in front of me. It took 3 hours of frightening night-riding to reach Newton Abbot and I rushed to the train platform just in time to see the train I needed shut its doors and roll away into the night, laughing at me as it did so. It’s fair to say I had stuffed up Day 1 pretty badly, but I’m a lucky boy with some wonderful friends. Texts and calls went out and some caring parents of a man I’d met on a previous visit, flatmate to my waiting friends, came and fetched me from the railway station and took me into their home. I felt like a right chump but didn't say no to a hot plate of bacon and eggs on toast and a cup of tea to warm and relax me. It was a situation I've found myself in so many times before, jumping  from cold, exhausting danger to plush, effortless luxury within an hour, unable to get my head around the sudden transition, why I keep doing this to myself and how I keep getting out of it...

The earth reclaims the engine room of a long abandoned tin mine in Cornwall.

The dawn brought fresh energy, cold rain but clear sight and a chance to move again. I rode through some beautiful parts of Cornwall, hilly but lovely country and enjoyed being greeted by friends at the end of the day. More came down the following day from London for a mixed farewell as myself and others prepared to leave UK and head our separate ways, but it was great getting a weekend together first.

 

Visiting Kiwis joining the band at the Tubestation church in Polzeath.
Brought my banjo and harmonica into the mix.

The world famous Minnack Theatre created such a beautifully romantic atmosphere...

That this guy proposed!
We were happy to cheer and only one immature person spoiled it by calling out "EnGAAAYged."

I carried on riding through more challenging country and with some small assistance from a train, so as not to keep a host waiting, I ended up in Penzance. Yes, that’s where pirates come from! Well, not entirely, but they’re happy to milk it for tourism so I was happy to walk around believing by their accents that everyone was really a pirate, disguised as modern people to try and fool me.

The Admiral Benbow; a pub, not a ship.

But it looks and feels like you're in a ship.

Because these aren't props. All the decor has been salvaged from the many ships that have been wrecked upon Cornwall's rocks over the past few centuries. These figureheads crossed oceans on the prow of real ships, guided by ancient and unlucky men.

We're not so different, them and us...

I like to think these two down the bottom are old friends and just having a chat.

There’s a poorly named online community I have recently subscribed to called “Warm Showers”. It’s basically couch-surfing but for people who travel by bicycle. Through this site, I had tracked down a willing host in Penzance by the name of Justin Goode. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I found a warm, delicious meal waiting for me and a man who shared many of my passions. I couldn’t have hoped for a better host and we quickly became firm friends as he guided me around the area, we feasted like kings, made music by the fire, swapped stories and philosophies, laughed plenty and enjoyed a mutual respect and sense we shared much in our journeys through life. He gave my bike chain and sprocket such a thorough clean it changed both shape and colour (from clumpy black to a sleek, grey skeletal look) and we learnt a good deal about tin mining, saw fish, dehydration and a range of other obscure topics that can only come up when you both love to talk a lot.

Justin and his steed outside his home, once an old bible chapel, now a funky loft dwelling.

I was humbled by the power of nature as we toured of the coast around Penzance and the neighbouring towns, looking at the recent storm damage. Half tonne blocks of granite from the coastal walkway had been ripped up and thrown high over the adjacent retaining wall and 100 yards down the road, whole sections of ancient stone path were swallowed up, lamp shades ripped off the street lights and windows smashed and houses flooded all along the usually safe, high seafront. 10 metre wooden spars as thick as 2 men that usually protect the modest harbour of Mousehole in stormy weather had been ripped apart by the surging ocean and taken for joyrides, leaving them smashed upon the rocks. The storm had come on Valentine’s Day with gusts over 160km/h. The local council had responded admirably since and was working hard in a huge clean-up operation, but nothing of the kind had been seen in 50 years and they were coming to terms with damage previously inconceivable.

The storm grabbed the half tonne granite slabs from the walkway down here...

And threw them up over the wall and 100 yards down the road.
The council has since stacked them in a tidy pile.

All calm now after the storm. The swan agrees.

After 3 days richly spent, I said a heartfelt goodbye to Justin and rode for Falmouth. There, I had been instructed to contact some friends of friends who I hadn’t met before but our reputations had gone before us and it had been decided for us that we’d all make fast friends.  Again, I was the sudden recipient of unimaginably wonderful hospitality as I rode into town and met fellow motorcycle and adventure enthusiast Nathan Ball, a brother from another mother who chauffeured me for the next 2 days and a score of wonderful people, Sam, Liz, Phil, Hannah, the Selwoods (too many to name), Anders, who hosts one hell of a steak night and more great and fascinating people who made me feel like I’d always belonged with them, like there was a Scott-sized space they’d been looking forwards to filling and I was just the guy.

 

Steak Night at Ander's' house.
Not a great photo, but a great memory, great people, great night.

That was an unfamiliar but welcome experience for me. It wasn’t enough to derail me from my plans, however, and I had to say more heartfelt goodbyes this morning with more difficulty than I’m used to before rushing to Plymouth and boarding the ferry to Santander, northern Spain.

And that’s where I sit now, typing away while the ship lurches and smashes through the waves and stormy weather, somewhere in the Atlantic, off the west coast off France. It’s dark out and we’re a quarter of the way through a 24 hour journey. My bicycle will be straining against its ropes somewhere in the hold deep below while I’m enjoying the immense space available to me, up on the 9^th floor of the largest vehicle I’ve ever travelled in.

Scariest garden ever. After I took the photo, the one with the staff turned and looked right at me.

A little county parish along a near-forgotten road where I stopped to refill my water bottles.

Mousehole harbour. Aptly named because it's small.

Just an awesome house you wouldn't find in NZ.

Two people being walked by their dogs stop to sniff each other's bums.