Day 23 - Zelenkovac to Bugojno

Waking at 8 in my pokey wooden room, I climbed down my ladder into soft, vertical rain. I had a breakfast of tea, bread and Nutella alone in the kitchen and returned to my room to pack my things, hoping the rain would clear. I climbed down again and it had. After one more cup of tea with Jan I made my way down to the main road and back out onto the plain. The rain, I thought, had killed the wind and I made my way quick and happy down the downhills through Mrkonjic Grad, past the beauty of the Plitvica lakes through to the fortress at Jacje.

I knew I had relatively little left to do in the day. I had thought this a good thing but in fact it worked against me. Since I saw no real achievement in getting through the next twenty miles, I had no motivation to fight against the same old wind which picked up with the same force for the low gradient climb up to Bugojno. The frustrations I had shrugged off the previous evening returned again. In hindsight I am disappointed that I allowed this to happen but by way of justification I compare it to taking on burned rice with a Brillo. The task is so mundane and the outcome so lowly desirable that it is tough to make yourself turn the pad round and round and round and round until finally you see the work is done.

Highlights of the trip were the clear, blue, fast stream of the river beside me and a brief stop in Donji Vakuf to see the bullet marked belfry of the town church, another reminder of the recent hostilities.

Arriving at Bugojno post office, I was received by the staff with that same perfect impatience that I might expect from the best of the Royal Mail. I called a man who had apartments for rent and soon enough I was put up in a comfortable dorm in a sort of rural suburb, the mid sized houses parted by miniature ploughed fields. I took the time to get some healthy food in and went to bed early ahead of further climbing the next day.

Distance covered 50 miles

Day 22 - Prijedor to Zelenkovac

From Prijedor my route was drawn according to the availability of accommodation. As such, my first stop was Zelenkovac, an eco village developed over 26 years by painter Boro Jankovic. The village is situated in the middle of the mountains but not far from the good, main road which I had planned to take.

The morning was clear but the wind which had held me back between Kostajnica and Novi Grad was blowing with the same strength as I made my way south through Sanski Most to Kljuc. This made progress very slow, my speed ranging between 9 and 13 mph. The slow pace did allow me to track the changes in my surroundings. I saw several elegant village mosques and many families working land just outside their homes.

I stopped for lunch in Kljuc, at the base of the mountains, and hoped that the wind would die as the land rose. My hopes were soon crushed as a single gust roared through the town, picking up several chairs from the terrace and blowing my bike from the steady column against which it was resting. Not knowing anything of the quality of road or of the presence of roadside barriers on the slope ahead of me, I was more than a little concerned.

The company at lunch was cold at first but soon warmed when the restaurateur, Alko, discovered I was from London and quickly wrote down the number and name of his brother, Deda, who lives in London. I am now under strict orders to call and meet with Deda on my return.

Leaving Kljuc, I soon met the bottom of the slope which would take me up to Cadavica. I chopped my hourly sections down to half hourly sections and took the climb on with some relish. It was good to work hard up a slope rather than sit idly forcing my way across flat land through a constant headwind. I was pleased to complete the 400+ metre climb in just three half hour sections. At one point, a man about my age in a Coke delivery van braked hard in front of me, for no clear reason. This was a little strange. I thought, if he had any bad intentions, it was fairly short sighted to exercise them in the most conspicuous van in the country. In fact, he made room for me to come up along side him and, holding my pace, signalled that I should hook onto his open window so he could drag me up the slope. Amused, I declined as politely as my panting would allow and with a smile he drove on. His kindness did give me a boost (though not the one he offered) and soon I found myself on a broad, high plain. The wind picked up again and quickly blew away my satisfaction. I sat through the last couple of hours with frustration building, wondering whether, if you left a man on a bike for long enough, he would lose his mind.

Arriving, at length, at Zelenkovac, I laughed off my former inner whinging. I walked the bike up the stony path to the central house, wishing to avoid any punctures late in the day. Boro welcomed me warmly and I sat outside in the early evening sun with his son, Jan and two others, Tom and Juli, who were making their way from Budapest to the Dalmatian coast. The flow of conversation and the of the surrounding streams soothed the remnants of my early anger and I settled into a cosy evening in the crooked wooden house.

Distance covered 65 miles

Day 21 - Zagreb to Prijedor

I woke early on Monday with my guts tied up from the weekend's festivities. It seems that, at a Croat wedding, the celebration of eternal love between a man and a woman is of secondary importance to the celebration of meat. Every half hour new piles of meat on broad platters would appear before my nose and I would consume through hunger, politeness, necessity and bloody-mindedness progessively as the feast wore on. This left me less than comfortable even after two nights' sleep.

Nevertheless I left at around nine with the Probsts as they made their way for five weeks in Bali. Ignoring their patent envy at the fact that I was on my way to exotic Prijedor, I vectored my way out of the sparse city and onto the road which would take me to the border. The metropolis quickly gave way to familiar countryside and soon shiny German SUVs were replaced by tractors. The rural people were very friendly and I enjoyed their smiles and waves as I passed through villages of varying size. In the morning the route threw up a couple of substantial climbs that I did not expect but did enjoy, feeling physically fresh after the weekend's rest.

Lunch fell just before the border and with no town nearby I sat on my gloves between the road and a ploughed field for fruit and water. An old woman with the face of a hard life passed by with a barrow full of tools and firewood and laughed and kissed my hand in humble disbelief when I suggested a photograph. Some children on their way home from school waved excitedly from behind the dusty glass of their bus.

A short time after lunch I arrived in the border town of Kostajnica and saw the first of many reminders of the 1990s conflict. Several of the houses remained in ruins and those that were standing were pocked with bullet holes. I didn't know how to react. I knew I would see this sort of thing but couldn't hold back an inner, quiet disbelief. Crossing the river and the border into Republika Srpska I turned south toward Novi Grad. The south wind was as strong as any I had fought into and for an hour my frustrations grew and grew. I was relieved to turn east towards Prijedor.

After rounding a huge arc of a meander I could see the town a few miles off and gladly rolled out the straight road along the railway line. My host, a second Igor, came to meet me and we walked through the centre to his well sized suburban home. We enjoyed the last of the light outside as his father, a third Igor, served good coffee in ornate china. I was eager to hear about the conflict from a Serbian perspective and I was surprised by how easily the younger Igor was able to recall his everyday experiences of rifles in the street and trucks passing with canvas covers contoured by human hands. Obviously, this was well beyond the bounds of my experience so I struggled to keep my jaw from the floor as he quietly recalled his youth.

We met some of Igor's friends for supper in a nearby bar. I heard several wordperfect renditions of Whitesnake before retiring back to Igor's for a good night's sleep.

Distance covered 95 miles

Day 20 - Domzale to Zagreb

In order to arrive on time at the Geography class I had to leave Igor at 6.30am. I was not in the best of moods for the commute back into Ljubljana, especially as I was limited to slow and bumpy cycle paths, surrounded by many others making their way to work.

Arriving at around half seven, I had a short time to work out what to say before I was before a class of slightly bewildered 17 and 18 year olds. I forgave them their curious amusement, knowing that if some idiot in lycra had stood in front of me on a Friday morning in Sixth Form I would have been far worse. In fact, many of them seemed quite interested in what I had to say and I took some good questions and kind wishes before I left. Before I could get on my way to Zagreb, I had to check my email and route. Unfortunately the school's internet was down and the nearby Tourist Information Centre (TIC, pronounced 'tits' in Slovene, which is not funny at all) did not open until 9 o'clock. I was irritated by this hold up but made the most of the extra time in Ljubljana by buying my fruit for the day from the central market and enjoying coffee and pastry in a pretty Plecnik arcade.

I was on the road by half past nine and after some difficulty leaving Ljubljana I found the bank of the river Sava which would lead me all the way to Zagreb. The trip in and out of the city had been about ten miles and since this was not progress, I chopped this from my total for the record. The Sava valley trip was my favourite leg of the trip so far. The road progressed down a steady decline and I felt like I was racing the fast, clear current beside me through the jagged, wooded valley. The surface was excellent, the sun high in the sky and the birds loud in my ears to keep me in good spirits and working hard. I arrived in Sevnica for lunch ahead of schedule and sugared myself up before returning to the road and leaving the mountains to take on the plain across the border.

There was a strong Westerly wind on which I sailed at great speed and with little effort and I reached the border ahead of schedule. At last I met a border guard who cared that I was entering his country and I was elated to receive my first passport stamp on leaving the European Union. The same guard then forbade me from taking a photo of myself at the border, before mollifying to my overcooked disappointment and taking the photo himself, a number of times to ensure a good shot.

With his best wishes I set out towards Zagreb, which lay less than 15 miles away. I took the last hour fairly easily, allowing my legs to stretch and loosen out before the weekend's rest.

I found the house of Dickie Probst, the brother of a friend, without much trouble and I was quickly taken out for supper in the center of town where I was invited to a wedding at a hillside castle the next night. A perfect day's cycling followed by a delightful evening. I could not have asked for more.

Distance covered 101 miles (=111 less 10 at Ljubljana)

Day 19 - Miramare to Domzale

I woke at 6 to the sound of single scullers tapping past my window on the flat sea. The water merged with the sky in a steel grey and I lay for some time just staring at the point where the horizon should have been.

After breakfast with my Dad we said goodbye and after getting my things together I set out down the road to Trieste. Passing through the city I came out on the road up the hillside which led to the mountains among which the Slovenian border lay. The climb was not steep but it was very long and very slow. I heated up very quickly and began to sweat more than I expected I would. Either side of the border were long, low gradient climbs with a few short downhills giving a little respite. I saw more leisure cyclists out on the road and it was encouraging to have others around me suffering the climbs and enjoying the downhills.

The morning's progress was slow so I denied myself an early lunch in the large town of Postojna. This was a mistake as there was no cafe or restaurant for many miles the other side. A cruel road sign indicated the way to an eatery which turned out to be closed and the village of Planina afforded me only a small shop where I bought some bananas and sat on the road side feeling sorry for myself. I was soon cheered as the mountains opened out into a plain that would take me all the way to Ljubljana. The afternoon was quick as most of the road was on a slight decline. It was also interesting as several settlements cropped up as I neared the capital, giving me an opportunity to see Slovenians going about their daily business.

I arrived in the north of Ljubljana at around five and received directions to the home town of my host, Igor, in perfect english from several people leaving work. I then commuted out to Domzale and within an hour I was through the door of Igor's home. In the evening we returned to Ljubljana for a performance by the Copenhagen girls' choir before a walk among the buildings of Josef Plecnik to find a place for supper. The heart of Ljubljana was beautiful in the darkness and I was pleased when Igor suggested I come back in the morning to give a talk at his school, as it would give me an excuse to have a snoop around in the light.

Distance covered 82 miles

Day 18 - Treviso to Miramare

After breakfast, Marco took the time to cycle alongside me through to the Via Treviso Mare, to ensure I made my way out of the city in the right direction and in one piece. It was great to start the day riding slowly and chatting idly with Marco. I got on with Marco very well and I was sad to leave him at the side of the road to head east alone.

My original plan had been to stop at Trieste but my Dad surprised me by announcing he had some airmiles to use and that he would come and see me for the evening. The hotel was booked and so my destination changed to Miramare, a few miles north of Trieste and the site of a 19th century seaside castle.

One road, the Strada Statale 14, would take me all the way from Treviso to Miramare, and as I started on it a moderate headwind picked up. Since the road followed the same direction almost all the way, this was not a good sign. As the morning passed though, I felt the benefit of my previous work and was able to maintain a high level of effort and enjoy the resulting good pace into the wind. Further, the sun was already bright by mid morning and the scenery was a welcome distraction. Endless vineyards and freshly verdant meadows stretched out either side of me, with rickety old farm buildings artfully placed among them.

Around noon, the wind died down and I made very good time to the slightly awkward but pretty town of Latrevisa, where I stopped for lunch. Speaking to some locals, it became clear that I had overestimated how far I had come in the morning and I had about 15 miles more than I had expected ahead of me. The frustration brought on by this misjudgement lit a small flame behind my behind and I set another personal best for distance in the hour after lunch. Another good hour followed and I settled just short of Monfalcone to enjoy a drink and some of Flora’s sugared biscotti.

I had hoped that I would get onto the Strada Costiera leading down to Monfalcone in time for my Dad to pass me as his drove down from Venice. I felt that my earlier misjudgement made this unlikely though, so I found myself in a bit of a huff as I climbed the long slope to the top of said road. This slope came with its rewards and I rolled out the last twenty minutes of the day on a long downhill with a great surface, overtaking and being overtaken by several leisure cyclists as I went.

I arrived to meet my Dad at the hotel Miramare and washed away the day’s grime and irritation with a quick swim in the cold sea. It was good to be able to speak in my own tongue again without thought or hesitation and we enjoyed a good catch up over a substantial fish supper before returning to the hotel to bed.

Distance covered 93 miles

Day 17 - Verona to Treviso

After breakfast with Marco I spent an hour on bike maintenance in the cool, wet inner courtyard of his home.


Leaving Verona for Vicenza, my back wheel soon started to feel as if it was slipping from under me. Looking down and seeing the tyre spread out more than it should be, my first thought was that it may have deflated slightly over the long road the day before. I stopped at a garage and used a car tyre pump to reinflate it. All seemed well, so I continued down the road. After a further few miles, the same happened again and ended up on the side of the road removing my rear wheel from the frame, the tyre from the wheel and the inner tube from the tyre. I inspected the whole thing and inflated the inner tube on its own and all seemed well, the tube held the air and there was nothing visibly wrong with the tyre.

Putting it all back together again, I decided that if I had further trouble I would stop at a repair shop for a professional opinion. Further trouble I had and I stopped at a town whose name I forget and found a little bike shop with the requisite professional. He swiftly found the puncture I could not and soon had a new tube fitted. I took the opportunity to switch my rear and front tyres, since the former was nearly bald and the latter still nearly new.

With the bike in order and still plenty of time in the day, I set off much happier and rode hard through to Vicenza, enjoyed a whistle stop tour of its glorious architecture before stopping for a plate of pasta and a large slab of chocolate, donated by Marco’s father that morning. This fuel took me through a great hour after lunch, my best of the trip thereto. I then followed the flat, straight roads through to the outskirts of Treviso. I started to notice a problem with my left cleat and on inspection discovered the forward flange had disappeared. Thinking it prudent to sort this out sooner rather than later, I stopped off at a large bike shop just outside the city.

As I was discussing replacement cleats with the owner, Andrea, my front inner tube exploded with a load hiss behind me. This was surprising, as the bike was standing with no pressure on a flat, carpeted floor. There seemed to be no connection between the string of misfortunes that day so I cautiously put it down to coincidence and after another round of repairs I rolled into the centre to meet another Marco in the Piazza Duomo.
I had wanted Treviso to be ugly. I thought it so unfair that one region of one country should have so many beautiful old cities. The bridges over the fast course of the several rivulets which pass through the centre, the shadowy arcades and the impossibly stylish inhabitants came together to provide a further injustice and to make this my favourite city yet.

Marco’s family were faultlessly kind and I had another enormous Italian supper before Flora bake dozens of sugared biscotti for me to take along with me the next day.

Distance covered 76 miles

Day 16 - Lecco to Verona

Over the weekend, the weather had been miserable. This had made me very happy. I considered that there could not possibly be three days of bad weather in Italy, so surely on Monday the sun would be shining for my trip to Verona.


Contrary to this sound meteorological logic, it rained for almost all of Monday and this put a little dampener on what could have been a beautiful day. In particular, I was aggrieved that the view of the Alps to the north had to remain a figment of my imagination, stuck as I was in a grey box whose sides were never more than half a mile from my eyes.

The road was fair. It undulated occasionally but the surface was good and so progress was fast. I started to feel the benefit of the previous weeks’ work and I noticed that I was able to travel a full mile further per hour. Conversely, the Italian signage contrived to hold me up at every stage. Often, one sign would contradict another placed just a few hundred metres before and I was constantly frustrated by the misleading information. The distance indicators were just silly. At one point I might be 36 kilometres from Bergamo, only to find that, 10 miles further down the road, I was 37 kilometres from the same spot. This was less difficult to deal with as the signs simply have to be ignored.

I stopped for lunch in the old centre of Brescia, the first of many cities which would continue to amaze me as I made my way across northern Italy. I took great pleasure in picking my way along the square-bricked streets between old churches and roman ruins before setting out again to Verona.

The greatest disappointment of the day came as I arrived on the shores of lake Garda. Many people in Milan had told me that I should take my time on the road along its shores, as it was more beautiful even than Como. Sadly, I barely realised I was beside it until the towns picked up the suffix ‘del Garda’ and when I looked to the north all I could see was white noise and a couple of buoys.

On the final approach to Verona I neared the 100 mile mark and quickened my pace as I did. I smiled as the landmark came and went and then cooled my work rate as I closed in on the old city. Meeting Marco at the station, I walked with him through the marbled streets to his family home on the north side of the river and enjoyed supper with him and his family, eating my own weight in thick vegetable soup and chicken and pork. Marco's mother and father were both doctors and they took care to ply me with water and medicaments to ensure I was ready to face the next day.

Distance covered 106 miles

Day 15 - Silvaplana to Lecco

This was a glorious day.

I arrived at the repair shop early, where a generous Swiss realigned my wheel and declined to accept payment. I set out along the flat shore of the frozen lakes and ate up the miles, though a few frankly churlish climbs insisted on reminding me that it would not all be so easy. Soon I came to the high end of the Malojapass, which would take me down more than 1400 metres to Chiavenna. The road wound serpentine down the steep mountainside and I felt like Tiff Needell in the mid 90s as I rounded corner after fast corner and more and more road spread out before me.

I will not forget the image of the broad spread of the valley drawing me back down to earth and the thrill of reaching my top speed of 31.5 mph as I approached the Italian border. The closer I came to this next country the more signs I could see of its innate style. The villages and small towns I passed through provided hundreds of delightful little snapshots and if I had had more time I could have spent all day with the camera in any one of them.

After crossing the border, there was a brief hold up as a helicopter lifted entire pines off the mountainside onto a truck below. This sight was so impressive I was happy to wait with the long line of cars and watch in disbelief as the flimsy aircraft lifted and carefully placed down sixty foot trunks.

Arring in Chiavenna after around two hours, I stopped for coffee and pastry in the company of some relentlessly talkative elderly townspeople and I knew immediately that I would enjoy the next few days in Italy. My trip across the valley floor from Chiavenna to the lake was slowed by a persistent headwind but my mood was so good and the surroundings so distracting I didn't mind at all. Turning towards the lakeside at Colico, I soon found myself on a road that ran all the way along the shore to my planned lunch stop at Varenna.

Lake Como does not need another glittering review of its beauty, suffice to say it was a treat to ride along. There were occasional tunnels in the side of the hills but the Italian drivers were much more accommodating than the Swiss. Some of the tunnels were also lit naturally by gaping holes in the rock and so formed galleries, each gap framing a stunning landscape of the lake and the mountains behind it.

My maps had told me that the road on the east side of the lake eventually turned into a major dual carriageway so, not wishing to end up stranded as in the Mainz to Karlsruhe leg, I crossed the lake by ferry, to Bellagio. I should say that this saved me about a mile in distance but I soon payed for this in a steep climb over the headland at the bottom of which Bellagio lies. The final stretch along the west side of lake Lecco was quick and I arrived in the city of the same name just after five, looking forward to the weekend's rest.

Late in the day I had discovered by text message that my host for the weekend, Oscar, whom I believed to live in Lecco, in fact lived in a town between Lecco and Milan, around 15 miles from my set destination. In the circumstances I had to take a train to his house, fearing that I would almost certainly be lost in the dark if I tried to cycle without planning or maps. I was not altogether comfortable with this but I settled my ethical quandry by determining to set out from exactly the same spot, at Lecco central station, on the Monday morning, thereby maintaining a continuous route and affording myself no advantage in distance.

Distance covered 71 miles

Day 14 - Masein to Silvaplana

I sat at the breakfast table in an empty nervousness, failing to engage with the pleasant conversation of Bettino and Corina. Starting out at 8.30am I sped down the slope to Thusis, my body freezing as the air rushed about it. The road continued to plunge almost to the bottom of the valley and I felt bullied as I looked up at the first climb which would take me to Tiefencastel.


In fact I enjoyed this first climb. It was hard and my heart awoke in my chest, thumping warming blood down through my legs and into my lungs to snatch at the cold morning air. I began to sweat early and it cleansed me of the crippling nerves I had had all morning. After about half an hour of climbing the road flattened out and made its way along the mountainside, over waterfalls and through tunnels, to the short downhill to Tiefencastel. The tunnels are a horror show for cyclists. Once inside, you have a choice between the roadway which is dark between dull sodium lights or a narrow and cluttered pavement. When a car, van or lorry enters the tunnel with you, no matter what the distance or direction, it makes a tremendous noise which puts you permanently on edge until the exit into daylight, which may not be for more than two miles.

At Tiefencastel, I saw the first sign to the Julierpass and it sent a rush of conflicting emotion right through my body. Excitement won over trepidation and I jumped on the bike to take on the first climb. At the bottom of the slope another sign declared the pass open. Any lingering doubts faded and I allowed myself a big grin as the road began to rise. This second climb of the day was hard. I took me up a steep mountain side and soon I was well above a church steeple I had looked up at from Tiefencastel. I was in good spirits though, and continued to enjoy the work. The slope finally gave way to a flat plain through the towns of Cunter and Savognin and I delighted in stretching out my legs before the next step up.

The third climb came in thirds. The first third was very tough, taking me up steeply past waterfalls and pine rooted incredibly into the side of the mountain. My regularly hourly break came as this third ended and I had a couple of bananas and a drink, peering up through a little village which was parted by the second third, a lesser slope than I had just climbed. Rounding the corner out of the village I saw high above me the top of the dam which holds in Lake Marmorera and the steep turns back which would take me to that level. This was the final third and I determined to polish it off in one go. I regretted this determination after the first turn back and though I finished the climb as I had wished, I was a real mess at the top, gasping, pouring with sweat and damning my stubborn persistence. I rode gently along the flat lakeside to my lunch stop at the north end, looking back on the great field of ice and the dam.

My recovery time after each of the several climbs had been good and at lunch I was still in very good spirits. I ate four bananas, a couple of oranges and a slab of chocolate and changed my sodden underlayer, appearing for a few minutes like a Putin election poster, bare chested in the snowy wilderness. I knew I had around 600 metres left to climb but I felt up to it as I sat on the roadside barrier waving at cars passing by. Dark glasses in loud Audis generally declined to acknowledge my presence but I did receive a few heartening waves and kindly smiles.

Setting out after lunch I had a brief climb up to the town of Bivio. This was where the nerves started to take hold of me. The map I had in my head placed Bivio at the start of the pass proper and in the near distance I could see the perfect white slope reach ever higher as I rounded the valley corner. Skiers reached the bottom of their runs at the roadside as I tried to pull my mind together to face the slope. The first set of winding turns back were steep and hard. Very early in the day I had lost the ability to assess by sight the grade of the slope ahead of me. The blank snow around me now made it almost impossible to reckon how hard each stretch was going to be. This made it difficult to divide the slope into sections to get me through to the top. On a handful of occasions I was simply unable to complete my self allocated task and this was disheartening. Conversely, I was sometimes able to surpass my next target by some distance, giving me a mental boost to balance out the failures.

After the first big climb a fresh climb appeared above me and I forced myself to maintain the mentality that it would end when it would end and I just had to keep working. I passed this next climb with the same routine of small targets, executed with the same variety of success. During this climb, either fatigue began to set in quicker, the air began to thin or my sugars were running out as I could feel my thighs unable to produce any power at the end of the steeper sections. It was as if I could feel specific points in my muscle where the chemistry of respirations was failing me. The first practical issue this threw up was balance. With the feet clipped into the pedals, if I failed to produce any forward movement,  I would quickly lose balance. A number of times I had to snap out of the pedals in a panic to save falling into the road on one side or the bank of snow on the other.

At length I arrived at the top of this climb and as I rounded the corner the pass played its joker. At the top of a couple of turnbacks was a large stone refuge and while I tried to maintain the above mentality, a little weevil of relief burrowed its way into my brain and my body believed it was the top. Of course, it was not and, after the next climb, standing beside the refuge I could only laugh as I saw a further few corners ahead of me. A refuge attendant assured me these were the last and, with the slope losing gradient all the time, I took on the last stretch in one push, peering over the four foot snow banks to see the little blue sign which I knew stood at the top. Again, I was not able to judge when the road was flattening out so a mild panic set in as I thought I had started downhill and that the sign was buried somewhere in the snow and that I would never know exactly when my efforts had ended and when my relief could begin. The sign came, however, and I dismounted for a long break. I had not conquered the pass, but it had let me through in the end.

The way down was quick and cold and fun until a twang announced I had a broken spoke on my rear wheel. I took a while to fix this with cold hands before cautiously rolling down to a repair shop in Silvaplana where I left the bike for the evening. I then found a room at the least hospitable guest house in the world and passed the evening in a stupor before passing out under a double duvet in my wooden cupboard.

Distance covered 36 miles

Day 13 - Vaduz to Masein

My plastic hotel breakfast in the silent company of a frozen old woman came as a sharp reminder of the benefits of the Couch Surfing project and as I left the room I hoped my cordial goodbye to the waitress would be the last of the trip. After a quick walk around the capital, which is smaller in size and population than my beloved Claygate, I set out north for the border.

I had planned and was expecting an easy morning and much of the afternoon off to eat and rest for the big climb the next day. As soon as I crossed back into Switzerland it became clear that this would not be so. I had failed to notice that the road which would take me from Vaduz to Chur mounted a saddle between a large mountain and a small mountain. On the map, this had appeared a little bump in comparison to the nearby peaks but the 300 metre climb killed me, limbs cold and mind unprepared. Passing through a Swiss military camp at the crest, I could not hold back a wry smile which acknowledged that, even in the foothills, the Alps had already got one over on me.

There followed a long and fast downhill. This introduced me to two new phenomena. Firstly, the frustration of having whole blocks of work and pints of sweat undone by the whimsical friction of some long forgotten glacier dragging you back down to where you started. Secondly, the maniacal shivering of damp, unmoving limbs when travelling at high speed in cold air. I compare this to jumping out of the shower and sitting naked in a 30 mph wind for 15 minutes. The spasms in my thighs put me so off balance I had to slow right down, thereby removing all the benefit of the long downslope.

Finally I arrived on the flat and I could start the day as I had planned it. The weather was better than it had been all trip and it was bizarre to wear half as many layers in the Alps as I had in Alsace, and to be twice as warm. Chur, the oldest city in Switzerland, came and went without much of an impression and soon I was turning the final right angle of the Rhine and making my way to its source at Reichnau.

The source of the great river I had followed for three weeks was announced only by a pair of concrete bridges over its tributaries the Vorder- and Hinterrhein and a mound of bulldozed gravel. I felt more than a little aggrieved that the birth of my companion did not warrant a plaque, a park or even a tacky cafe. Putting this out of my mind, I climbed down to the bank to take a few shots of the joining of the waters and bathed my now hot brow in the cool, clear current.

Saying goodbye, I continued up the Hinterrhein valley to my home for the night, the mountainside village of Masein. When my host, Bettino Fletscher, had told me it was a 15 minute ride up from the village of Thusis, where I had planned to stay, I shrugged this off as nothing. Predictably, my day finished as it had started. I paid heavily for my gross underestimation and arrived at Bettino's - the third highest house in the village - exhausted. Nevertheless, I had made good time and had the best part of the afternoon to get myself ready for the main Alpine climb.

I had a traditional Swiss supper with the Fletschers. The conversation was various and relaxing save for one line from Bettino's father Roman, something like "I have no doubt you will make it over tomorrow, but certainly you will suffer a bit."

Oh, good.

Distance covered 38 miles

Day 12 - Stein am Rhein to Vaduz

A tale of four german speaking self governing states.


After a brief stop at the local cycle shop to buy some more substantial overshoes I was on my way along the south bank of the river. Less than half a mile from Stein am Rhein, the river widens out into the Zellersee, the lesser of the two great lakes I was to ride along for the day, the greater being Lake Constance. This is an enormous body of water, by my cycle computer nearly 50 miles in length and so broad I could barely see the shape of the land on the opposite shore.

Where the lake opens out at the northwest corner there lies the German city of Konstanz. Passing through two border stops in a matter of minutes I said my final Auf Wiedersehen to Germany, a country which has looked after me well for much of the last two weeks. 

For most of the rest of the day I stayed on a single A/B road again and this followed a similar course to that of the day before, although it would occasionally approach and even meet the shore of the lake. This variation, in combination with variations in elevation, gave me a pleasing range of perspectives on the lake. I would have liked to have had a whole afternoon to take it all in. It is difficult to appreciate a silent, placid lake when you are dipping in and out of little towns and belting down hills at 25 mph. I did take five minutes to sit on the shore for a banana but this only served to tease out my desire to come here again and relax in the overwhelming quiet of the place.

Leaving the shore of the lake, I came to my planned lunch stop, at Sankt Margarethen. I had expected this to be a quaint little Swiss town in the model of the dozen or so I passed through during the day. Sadly it turned out to be quite the opposite and I ended up submitting to McDonald's after much exploration. The Swiss product seemed better quality than that of London but I remained feeling pretty unwell afterwards. I did have a nice chat with a Swiss who checked and translated the Alpine weather reports and suggested I should be ok. This was very heartening.

From Sankt Margarethen I made my way swiftly to Kriessern and the mountains began to appear dramatically from the clouds and shadows. Excitement and trepidation mixed in a little crucible below my lungs my mind was fixed on the challenge awaiting me on Thursday. I crossed my gloved fingers and the Rhine into Austria and made my way along the East bank into Liechtenstein at Ruggell.

I am big on principalities so I felt right at home as I cycled out the last few miles to Vaduz. After a sharp telling off from a Liechtensteiner policeman for crossing his traffic line by a few feet I arrived in the pedestrianised city centre, directly below the squat Schloss on the hillside.

None of my Couch Surfing request had come back positive and though I supected several unreturnable calls from Thyssen Krupp Liechtenstein to be a last minute offer, I had to take a room at a hotel. This has not been disagreeable and has given me some free time alone to sort a few things out.

Distance covered 75 miles

Day 11 - Basel to Stein am Rhein

Schalke 04 vs Stuttgart in the Bundesliga on Friday, Ireland vs Wales in the Six Nations on Saturday and The Marching Bands of Basel vs Ken in Sleep on Sunday. These and many other things made for a refreshing weekend and on Monday morning I was more than ready to get back on the bike.

I left Basel on an A/B sort of road which ran all the way along the Rhine, mostly at a distance of a few hundred metres and so elevated slightly onto the toes of the foothills to the south of the river. For the first time I experienced regular fluctuations in the slope and I enjoyed it much more than I expected. On the downhills I was able to reach nearly 30 mph and on the uphills I was keen to force some work on my legs in preparation for the Alps at the end of the week. The former was thrilling and the latter very satisfyng. This combination helped me to ignore the miserable morning weather and work through until the sun came through close to lunchtime.

After breaking the back of the day's work I stopped off in the unpresuming Eglisau to eat. This was an unforeseen treat as the high stone and iron railway bridge and old town built into the steep slope of the valley were beautiful in their respective majesty and charm. I enjoyed a large plate of pasta on a postcard swiss village back alley before starting out again for Schaffhausen and the Rheinfall. To reach here, I re-entered Germany and then again Switzerland, a pattern I would be following for the rest of the day.

The Rheinfall was large and impressive. The noise was formidable, even from far up the opposite bank. A Swiss at Basel had told me that they were about the size of a house. I must have been talking unwittingly to a Duke or a billionaire as the falls were several times larger than any house I have seen.

After Schaffhausen I had a short trip along the north bank of the river, dipping in and out of the bordering states. I passed through a couple of fields which showed the first signs I have seen of spring evenings, with mayflys clouding around my warmed body and the sharp smell of manure in the back of my throat. This all bodes well for clear roads in the Alps.

I arrived in the 1000 year old city of Stein am Rhein. It has to be said that the Swiss play fast and loose with the term 'city'. You could throw a small flannel from the 800 year old mountainside Schloss and it would put most of the city in darkness. I quickly found the home of my host for the evening, Cristoph and he romantically whisked me off on the back of his motorcycle to the aforesaid Schloss and the island monastery and took great pains to tell me how old everything was. In brief, very old.

I cooked for Cristoph and me and he told me about his year long motorcycle tour of Europe. I started to think that I may have selected the wrong method of two wheeled transport.

Distance covered 79 miles

Day 10 - Strasbourg to Basel

After eating a few kilos of pasta, I set out from northern Strasbourg between eight and nine. The morning was cold and a heavy mist limited visibility to roughly 800 metres. Along the way, many people had stressed that the winter was unusually long and that I was unlucky to be cycling through such cold. These sentiments were of little comfort to me as the sun remained behind a dull shroud of cloud for the first four hours of my day.


The cold seemed to sap the energy out of my legs and for the first time I was aware of a slight but perpetual incline as the Rhine began to rise. These factors together killed any momentum and I was left working hard to achieve a relatively low pace for much of the day. Again, the riverside cycle paths were impassable due to the snow and as a result I was limited to the long, straight and tedious B roads which stretched out for miles through snowy, indifferent woodland. In the unremarkable landscape I was left with my cycle computer for entertainment and the day consisted of several hours of ignoring the digital screen for as long as I could bear before looking down to see exactly how far I hadn’t cycled.

This was a mental challenge and in order to pass the time I disciplined myself into fixing my eyes on the end of every straight road until I reached its end, which could be six or seven miles away. This routine was marginally less strenuous than constantly being reminded of my slower than average pace and it took me through most of the morning.

Around one o’clock the sun broke suddenly through the clouds and started to clear the mist and melt the snow in the woods and fields. There was no town anywhere near my planned lunch stop of 50 miles so I settled down to a meal of Haribo and sugared water at the side of the road. Following ‘lunch’ the slight incline of the morning became more substantial and though I felt physically well my speed was limited by the slope. The spritely current of an irrigation ditch running parallel to the road and opposite to my progress provided a constant indication of the gradual increase of the slope.

Despite the frustrating low speed I kept up a good work rate and was heartened to see the first Swiss flag flying from the stern of a large steamer after about sixty miles. This gave me a little juice to get through to Kembs, which lay just ten miles from my final destination.

Passing through Kembs in good time I made my final stop of the day on a rural back road and attempted to share my final snack, a Satsuma, with a gathering of horses. They took up my offer with some hesitation, preferring to knock the segments from my open hand to the ground before inspecting them very carefully. At length they picked up the segments with their prehensile lips and I was able to take a few photos while they were so distracted.

After a short ride over a barely announced border I arrived at Rumelinsplatz and the Nelson, a pub where the chef Hans took me in, fed me and even organised a generous whip for the Cystic Fibrosis Trust among his fellow Schalke 04 fans before Ken, my sister’s fiancee’s brother came to meet me later.

I will spend the weekend in Ken’s company resting up before taking on Switzerland and the Alps next week.

Distance covered 85 miles

Day 9 - Karlsruhe to Strasbourg

I woke to the sight of three inches of fresh snow on the balcony of Carlos’ modest apartment. Immediately, innumerable thoughts of changes to my plan shot through my head and Carlos joked that I would do best to spend the day at the thermal springs in Baden-Baden.


After an hour of studying meteorological websites and helping Carlos fit his fridge, I decided I had better get on with my planned progress, fearing the possibility of ice on Friday more than the reality of fresh snow on Thursday.

I had been looking forward to an easy, pleasant ride down to Strasbourg along the French bank of the Rhine. Many people had told me that the road was good and was littered with interesting remnants of the war. Sadly, the snow had covered these routes and I was limited to the B roads between villages. Though similar villages had been the bane of Wednesday, these turned out to be the tonic of Thursday as I was able to make my way on clear roads almost all of the way. At one point I was tempted away from the route to check that the Rhine road was in fact impassable and following an eight mile detour I confirmed that it was. This being a flight of fancy, I did not add the mileage to my total. The only benefit of the detour was to see a snowy lake filled with swans and to take some middling pictures of the wintry scene. The swans became aggressive as I stopped to photograph them so I took off before they could tear me apart (again).

Once I was back en route I belted out the 40 miles to Strasbourg with no highs or lows save for a misleading sign leading me through five miles of countryside snow. Despite this I crossed the Rhine, and the subtle French border with it (pictured left), in plenty of time. I then had a relaxed ride through the pretty, wide avenues of Strasbourg to the home of Pascal, who quickly had me fed and tucked up in a hammock to rest my tired limbs.

Looking back on the day, I was pleased with the way I had overcome my early inhibition to complete my planned work and remain on schedule. My mind was therefore at ease as I rested with Pascal in his glorious hammocks.

Distance covered 53 miles

Day 8 - Mainz to Karlsruhe

I left Adam and Mainz at 8am and made my way toward the B9, the road alongside which my cycle path had run for the past few days. To my chagrin, the B9, which had been a single lane A-ish road through the Rhine valley, opened out into more of a motorway soon after Mainz and there was no cycle path as there had been.

This being so, I had to leave my planned route and enter into a network of small villages which would take me, at length, to Karlsruhe. Unfortunately, since the actual route was so different to that which I had expected, I had no idea which towns I was looking for and so was heavily dependant on local knowledge. This was not forthcoming as several of the village people seemed to foster a parochial suspicion of the odd chap coming through on a bicycle and it took me a long time to get directions in the many villages I went through.

The cycling itself was quite good. My legs were feeling good and I made my way through miles and miles of vineyards, often on downhill/sidehill slopes which gave me extra pace. For every mile of fine cycling though, there was a half mile of frustrating twists and turns through the little villages. This was further frustrated by many Barratt-style developments on the outskirts of several of the settlements which were a maze of roundabouts and sidepaths which quickly disorientated me. This labyrinth continued all the way through to the first major city on the route, Ludwigshafen. In my mind’s eye this was about two thirds of the way to Karlsruhe and I thought that, provided I could find a decent bit of lunch, I would be fine to complete the last leg before dark. This bright prospect was soon darkened as there was nowhere but a kebab shop for lunch in Ludwigshafen (later described to me as the most miserable city in Germany) and it seemed my distance estimate was way out and I had in fact only completed about half of the day’s work.

Obtaining a map from a tourist information office, I took to the road knowing I had to be quick to avoid another Duisburg situation. After twenty more miles of bleak, winding villages (see left) I located a cycle path through a forested area which the map indicated went straight through to Worth, a town on the bank opposite to Karlsruhe. With the sun going down, I raced along the flat, scenic paths in five mile sections, stopping for water and sugar regularly in order to keep up the required pace. This plan worked and I arrived in Worth in good time. I then found my way to Karlsruhe without too many problems, arriving at the centre in darkness but without danger. Looking at my cycle computer for the first time in a while, it seemed I had complete my first ever ton without realising it. I had planned for around 85 miles. Although 15 miles extra is numerically a small figure I certainly felt the difference and I arrived at Carlos’ tired.

Carlos is a native Venezuelan who has lived in Karlsruhe for eight years and he is fiercely proud of the city he now calls his home. He rues the bombing of the city during the war and showed me the regular pattern of old house, old house, old house, new house, old house, old house, old house, new house in the centre of town which reflects the regular dropping of bomb after bomb from the same plane as it flew overhead. As he noted, you could trace the flight path of the bombers in the architecture of the city.

It was sobering to see the continuing effect of the war on the consciousness of the current generation of Germans, an effect which is generally absent from young Londoners.

Distance covered 102 miles

Day 7 - Koblenz to Mainz

The next morning it was time to rejoin the bankside cycle path through the final part of the World Heritage Rhine valley. My head was less than straight after the evening with Frankie and I spent the first hour or so feeling rather sorry for myself. I quickly shook myself into order after a brief water break and the middle section of the day was a great ride. There was a strong easterly wind but I was most often protected by the mountains and given the winding of the river through the valley, I spent as much time being helped as being hindered by it. More of a problem was the ice fostered by the shadows of the north facing slopes. At times I had to dismount and walk through tens of metres of lumpy ice which nearly had me off my bike when I tried to ride through it. Thankfully, these patches were rare and most of the roads were clear.

The spectacles along the way were many and impressive. I saw over a dozen ruined or maintained Schlossen and must have missed several more. There were fairytale villages every few miles and a host of ships either steaming quickly downstream or fighting the fast current in the other direction. I most enjoyed seeing the huge barges negotiating the tricky, tight turns, leaving behind them great patches of totally still water which reflected the boats, their cargo and the surrounding scenery like a mirror. With all this to inspire me, I arrived in Bingen ahead of time having done over half of the day’s distance.

After a barely comestible meal of dumplings and meat sine nomine, tactfully disguised under a plasma of some sort of sauce, I set out east past under the gaze of the statue of Germania on the opposite bank. The valley of the morning gave way to an open plain and it became clear that the east wind which had teased me hereto was to block my progress for the rest of the day. For the next four hours I was battling into the gusts at speeds of less than 10 mph. This was very trying on my patience and all the pleasure of the earlier scenery gave way to tedious misery. Mainz materialised in a litter of industrial estates and overpasses and I made my way to the central station, from which I navigated my way to the university to meet my next host, Adam.

Adam lifted my spirits immediately and immeasurably, cooking me two suppers and easing my mind with pleasant and intelligent conversation. After a difficult afternoon I went to sleep contented and ready for the big day to follow.

Distance covered 62 miles

Day 6 - Cologne to Koblenz

After a pleasant and peaceful weekend at the house of Finn, a Kolner student and teacher, I took to the road again at around 8 am on Monday morning. There had been snow over the weekend and the air remained cold, the sun refusing to break through the cloud all morning, despite my several requests. This, in combination with a knee-preserving low work rate, left me numb for the first couple of hours and I stopped off in Bonn after 20 miles or so to warm up. I found Bonn to be quite unfriendly. I was turned away from one café and in the second the waiter was colder than the morning frost until he received his tip, after which he would barely let me leave, having taken a sudden interest in everything about me. I was pleased to leave and soon found a cycle path which followed the bank of the Rhine so closely I was rarely more than a few metres from its waters.

The further south I travelled, the higher the landscape rose around me and the narrower the river became, poking through headlands and cliffs. The water also turned from the lazy, muddy brown of the slow lower river to a deep, dark grey blue and it reflected the now clear sky beautifully. I found new inspiration in my surroundings and made my way quickly to Andernach, stopping off briefly at the remains of the Ludendorff bridge at Remagen (pictured).

I had a brief lunch at Andernach before leaving through the ruined gates of some Schloss and making my way towards Koblenz. The final part of the journey was easy as I wound my way through the scenery before crossing the Mosel in plenty of time. I had a good 90 minutes spare before meeting my host for the evening, Kai, and I made my way to Deutsches Eck (“Germany Corner”) which is the nib of land at the confluence of the Rhine and the Mosel. This was marked by a number of flags and an enormous statue of Kaiser Wilhelm II astride his horse, which was all totally out of proportion to the barely detectable mixture of the two great rivers. A good sight to see, nevertheless.

I met Kai shortly afterwards and we had a good night together at a bar in the company of a certain Frankie, a patently drunk and aging man who claimed to have spent his life wandering between German cities surviving by a variety of undisclosable means. While we did not believe much of any of his anecdotes, he was good company and we enjoyed several good German beers as he spun his yarns before returning home to sleep.

Distance covered 67 miles

Day 5 - Duisburg to Cologne

The sleep I needed did not come easily and I woke at half six to have breakfast with Petra, having slept for only three or four hours.

After breakfast I walked down to the industrial port to take in the scale of the operation and try to get some good shots. This was not altogether successful as the port was far too large to view in a morning and much of it could be seen only from high bridges.

Returning to Petra’s at about 10, I found that no one was in the house to let me in, as I had expected. Suspecting that her kids, who had recently finished exams, were still in bed, I stubbornly rang the bell for around forty five minutes before conceding to walk to the nearest high street to find a computer and phone to contact Petra. On the walk through the quiet neighbourhood I noticed an open garage door, under which a man of about seventy was sorting and packing his various effects. In two minds, I gingerly approached the man and asked for his help. Within ten minutes I was set up in his office armed with laptop, phone and coffee. Seeing me studying Petra’s profile, the man asked her family name and on being told, announced that he played tennis with her father. The latter lived just across town and had a spare key for the house. A further fifteen minutes and I was lavishing praise on my slightly embarrassed helper and being led away by Petra’s friendly father. I packed up my stuff while he fixed the letterbox and soon I was ready to leave.

Leave I did at noon and made good time to Dusseldorf, averaging 17-18mph. The road I was on became a tunnel in central Dusseldorf so I had to find a back route. The path along the Rhine took me through parks and cool, clean riverside developments and, though slow, was very pleasurable. I came out along a track which followed the back fence of a compound which I later discovered held the higher regional court of law. A bevy of cameras and correspondents was gathered around the back gate to the compound to record the transit (in a Transit) of the ‘Sauerland cell’ of German Jihadists, who had been sentenced earlier that day. At the time I was, of course, not aware of this and passed across the background of several newscasters, no doubt spoiling the sobriety of their reports with the silliness of my spotted jersey.

The convoy of police vans then caught up with me at the junction where the track met the main road. I asked directions from the van at the front of the convoy and, apparently unmindful of the gravity of his day’s duties, the policeman happily gave me directions and pulled out alongside me, ahead of the rest of the convoy. There then followed a slapstick scene where by way of several miscommunications I played leapfrog with five police and one unmarked van as they failed to come to a common position on whether they should overtake or let me go. I can’t speak for the police or the fundamentalists but to me it was all very amusing.

Leaving Dusseldorf a little later than expected I made my way towards Cologne and the house of my fourth hosts, Barabara and Nils. They were into climbing and immediately took me to the local park to try slacklining. My tired legs failed to conquer the shaky slackline but I was quite impressed by Nils’ efforts and it was nice to let some local children play along the line as the sun set over the housing estates of north Cologne.

Distance covered 45 miles

Day 4 - Nijmegen to Duisburg

Another day, another error.

Allowing myself to be bewitched by Google maps' report that Duisburg lay just 53 miles away, I had a relaxed morning, eating toast and writing up the previous day. At length, I left Loes at around noon.

I had been told by several Nijmegenians (Nimegeners/Nijmegans?) to cross the bridge over the Waal to get the best view of the city. On this recommendation, I headed towards the bridge and directly away from Duisburg, thinking that following the north bank of the Waal and then Rhine would amount to a similar distance to that predicted by Google. This was an error and one not compensated for by the underwhelming view of the city (right).

Still wallowing in ignorance of the day to come I enjoyed the first hour of cycling along the north bank dijks and crossing a tributary by a pont in the company of a pair of friendly Algerian expatriates. With their best wishes I continued towards the German border, slowed slightly by a gentle headwind. Germany arrived unannounced but for a change in signage and a severe downgrading in cycle path quality. After a quick photo, the latter of these changes made the geographically short trip to the bridge at Emmerich-am-Rhein seem never ending. It took so long that I had to forgo a refreshment stop at Emmerich and head straight to Xanten, on the south side of the Rhine. On reaching the other side of the river, the wind picked up and began to turn the wind farms and kill my speed. I struggled through bare fields at an average speed of around 11 mph, and doubted whether Xanten would ever materialize and, further, whether I could make it to Duisburg that day. The slow progress was compounded by the German cycle signs which took me on the winding scenic route and eventually to a mud track, pushing my speed down further to around 9 mph, about half that required. I eventually made it to Xanten weary in mind and in body. I stopped off at some sort of kids activity centre where I was served a plate of bockwurst and ‘spezial’ chips along with a leaflet on go-karting. I chewed my way through two syrup thick coffees and by the time I was back on the road it was 5pm and the sun was starting to set.

Racing the sun home, I joined the long, straight and mercifully downhill B road to Rheinberg. The wind having died, I managed to rack up an average speed of 18 mph and was through the other side of Rheinberg in around an hour. At this point I allowed the German cycle signs to fox me again and shortly found myself on a flooded ferry point waiting for a distant boat to cross a turbulent Rhine. While I was waiting the sun shone its last feeble rays and I felt aggrieved that the signs had taken me from a path which may have delivered me to my destination on time.

The ferry dropped me off in the industrial north of Duisburg and I wound my way through plants to the city proper. Arriving in the first residential district, I stopped to ask directions and was advised to go to the police station just a few doors away. I rung the security doorbell and shortly a rotund man sporting unbelievable facial hair and a badged, beige turtle neck buzzed me in to 1974. Surrounded by shades of brown and cream, mechnical telephone exchange machines and flaking leather utility jackets, I waited about twenty minutes for my moustachioed friend to find a yellow pencil (?) to draw my route on a map which I tried to indicate I understood from the start. Politely indicating my need to get on, I left the police station with the yellowed map folded into my jersey and made my way through Duisburg in darkness.

I found the house of my third host, Petra, without further incident and was welcomed into her comfortable family home and treated to a supper of blue cheese and meats. Petra then took me to a local meeting of language enthusiasts and I spoke English with a Russian nanoparticular physicist, which was nanoparticularly lucky as my GCSE Russian has faded to hashed Bond villain impressions.

Returning home, I wrote up the day before passing into sleep I desperately needed.

Distance covered 70 miles