Viva La France: Zen, and the Art of Cycling Solo

Pounding Kilometers Paris to Lyon

In the beginning, I was just pounding kilometers. I'm sure there was lots of lovely stuff to go and look at, but I just wanted to prove I'm a good cyclist that can go really fast and far for weeks at a time. Mainly prove it to myself. Despite the Olympics and the romantic streets of Paris, I got a quick pic with the Eiffel tower, then started flying down The Seine. There was no time. I did at one point hit 96km in just under 6 hours of riding and think, "Am I having fun right now?" And of course, I was, the lovely feeling of being strong and pushing on and eating up the road. 

Truth is it only really goes wrong when you compare yourself to the other cyclists around you. When you start doing that you really can't win.  Those going slower are losers that need to get on your level. Those who cycle faster and farther are tryhards that need to chill out. And of course that's really just your own insecurities you project onto everyone else, who don't give a damn how fast and far you go.

So the first half of the trip was just me getting that out my system, so I could let go of the kilometer count and just vibe with it. I did slow down to ride with a few people, all who reminded me a little bit more about what cycling alone is really about - meeting people and chatting absolute rubbish about everything.

First was Stephen, who saw me chugging past, but sped up to catch me and have a chat. 53, just hitting a real sweet spot in his life where he's loving everything and doing what he loves. His enthusiasm was absolutely infectious, and I got absolutely swept up in it, so spent the afternoon geeking out on canal engineering. I mean he was cycling by the Loire purely to look at the locks. In the afternoon we saw an ancient 7-lock canal that took 42 years to build. "What a miracle - and they did it all without GPS, not even a calculator!" I couldn't help but agree.

A great lesson in slowing down to look at stuff, and diving head first into your special interests. Also in just taking a chance and speaking to people. He got me thinking - if he hadn't sped up, and said hello, I'd have ridden the afternoon alone, both our lives far less enriched and full of connection. I vowed to follow his example.

Then four Parisian Architect students, with basic mountain bikes, clothes and food hanging out of open bags, or books strapped down with random bungee chords. Room for an 8 pack of lunch beers. Time to stop at the market and get cheese. They had started the tradition a few years back, each summer mooching about on the bikes, 50km a day, stopping at every chateau and church on the way. In stark contrast to the full-kit-wankers with the newest and sleekest bike-packing gear, they were there to hang out and have a good time. Live a little. Buy some fruit. Look at buttresses. I left them, plotting how to convince my friends in Leeds to join me on a little tour to Liverpool along the canal. 

Finally, Damien, with all the kit, and all the enthusiasm, but no one to ride with. His English was as bad as my French, but we made do with a translator app, passed between us when random words and gesturing didn't do the job. He saw me at the campsite alone and just knew I wanted someone to talk to. The textbook extrovert, he'd talk the bark off the trees if they'd only talk back. The next day we rode out together - often in silence which must have been killing him. Still, we both agreed that the kilometers pass much quicker with a friend to share them with, even if you can't much speak to each other. 8 days, 1030km, go team.

Paris

Lost in the woods of Fontainebleau

Stephen telling me about boats

Camping

French Fudge at the coffee stop

A Chateau with the architects

Beerz with the Boyz

Swimming at Nimes

Nice Sunset

Lunch with Damien

Through the mountains, big mistake, go up to Macon and down to Lyon

Lyon: A Love Letter to a Fountain*

I love cycling fast and far as much as the next deranged endorphin junkie, but even for me 8 days straight is a lot. Even God rested on the 7th day, but the arrogance of man knows no bounds. I found myself covered in every sort of bite, bruise, and burn, dripping from the afternoon sun all over a lovely modern hostel floor.

"Bone jaw.

How is your English?

Thank goodness for that, because I for some reason thought it would all come back to me from my C in GCSE French 15 years ago.

Get me to a shower, mercy buckets."

Every French person I speak to is desperately convinced they can't speak English, then 10 minutes later are explaining the intricate differences in the production of cheese. Or sausage. Or anything French really. Pride overcomes their shyness given the chance to brag about French stuff.

I spent the night sitting by myself in the Hostel, drinking one too many celebratory beers, building the confidence to initiate conversations and start chatting rubbish.

***

There was always the danger of falling completely head over heels from the moment I hit France. Something about the nonchalance of the women, a look that says, "Of course I look good, it's nothing new." I didn't predict I'd fall for a fountain though. 

All good solo travellers know, the first thing you should do is go on a free walking tour.** Heading to the rendezvous, I rounded the corner of the main square only to be greeted by an absolute masterpiece: the Fontaine Bartholdi in all its glory.

I don't think I've ever been moved so deeply by a sculpture. A completely naked woman drives a chariot led by 4 wild horses, frantic and straining at the bit. Two cherubs cling to her, terrified. She looks down to comfort them, calm, strong, in control, as if to say, "Don't worry chickadees, I've got you. Everything is fine." I think that's when I fell in love.

The sculptor Frédéric Bartholdi is better known for another of his designs: the even more imposing Statue of Liberty in New York. Clearly, he had strong female role models in his life (and after a bit of research I can confirm - he was raised by his mother alone from the age of 2.) There is also a fountain with his name in Washington D.C. where, get this, three strong confident women hold up a chandelier of street lights and water spouts.

I was told moments later by a hyperactive skinny French man in shorts and arty glasses that the woman here in Lyon is France, Liberté, riding on her 4 great rivers. I had come to know 3 of them already, ridden beside their frantic currents - The Seine out of Paris, along the unpredictable Loire, then over a horrible mountain pass to Lyon, perched between the Rhône and some other river, a peninsula of culture and art. I'm only missing the Garonne that flows through Toulouse, starting in the Spanish Pyrenees. Think I'd need a whole separate tour of its own to see that one properly.

Bertrand, the guide, knocked the rest of the tour out the park. He landed all his jokes, had us hanging on every word. Typically French - sarcastic, pessimistic, full of pride, constantly exaggerating the Lyonnaise hate for Paris ("That dirty little village in the west didn't even exist when Lyon became the second capital of the Roman Empire!") As you walk you can see the history of the city through its architecture - the roman amphitheater, the Venetian yellow on the hill from the renaissance, and of course the Canut.

The Canut is the name for the silk workers, who with the invention of the Jacquard Loom*** that automised production, went from skilled artists to factory laborers overnight. They formed the 2nd ever trade union (after Manchester of course!), revolted and took over the city thrice only to be put down brutally by the French army each time. Think cannons being fired down tight alleyways at people with bedknobs for weapons. Engels credits the Canut to be the first working-class uprising in the Industrial Revolution to seize the means of production - even if they didn't hold on to them for very long.

I spent the next two days wondering around looking at art, inside and outside, on every available bit of wall. In the evenings, banding together with the other lonesome souls in the hostel bar to go out and take on the city night. Lyon is a lovely place and you should definitely go if you have the chance.

*It's day 11, my last day in Lyon, and I was suddenly struck with the motivation to write something - a feeling so few and far between that I knew I had to act instantly. I've been keeping a journal, replacing morning chess with writing, and it's working. I'm finally starting to sound like myself again. I'm in a French public library battling with a keyboard where the a's w's m's and q's are all in the wrong place. And I have an hour limit on the computer, so this section is a bit of a rush job. Désolé!

**Learnt this last summer in Croatia. Great way to find your feet, know what you're looking at, and maybe find someone to eat lunch with if you're feeling chatty. 

*** Jaquard Loom, the precursor to modern computing! Each pattern used a punch card of on's and off's (1's and 0's) that inspired Babbage when designing his Analytical Engine. Then, from what I gather, the rest was an automated process where the Canut just pushed heavy arms to make the loom weave.

"Ive got you bby"

In all her wonder

Bertrand Telling us about this wall

The Queen

Fine art

Girl with flowers

Germany gave away a last minute penalty and saved it to win

The Mural de Canut, a 3d mural on a flat wall, you have to see it

Dude at the market selling tea, he's family has been doing it for 400 years apparently

Following Signs on the ViaRhone

I saw a comedian tell a joke once about the difference between a scientist and an astrologer. The scientist looks at the universe, its vastness and beauty, and thinks "What mysteries I can uncover!" The astrologer looks at that same bigness, the stars up so far away, and thinks, "Yeah but, what does this tell me about me? A star speeds through the universe a billion light years away, crossing the sky, and that's why I'm always late to things!"

A girl I met in Lyon was very into it all. I'm not so convinced the movements of the heavens have too much of an effect on our decision-making, but I think the comedian had it wrong - the astrologer is looking anywhere they can for signs, an openness to the idea that the universe may have a bigger plan for you that you can see right now.

I found myself following all sorts of signs for the rest of the trip. Heading out of Lyon I took the amazing ViaRhone, a well-trod cycle path starting at the source of the Rhone and following alongside in the river valley all the way to the sea. I've never been on a route so well signposted that I basically put my phone away all day. It's like an adult treasure hunt - sometimes a sticker on a tree, or a stencil of a cyclist on the floor, or a signpost. My favorite - spraypainted VR's on the side of buildings or trees where someone has gotten so annoyed with getting lost, they've gone back and made sure that no one else will be led astray.

And sometimes you go for big big stretches where the temptation to get your phone out to check you're going right is visceral and all-consuming. The moment you do, when you need it most, there it is, a little sign, ViaRhone this way. O ye of little faith.

I finally managed to catch some Olympics, the Women's football bronze medal game at the Parc Olympique Lyonnais Stadium, and as a result found myself setting off from Lyon a little later than expected in the middle of a 38°C heatwave. It was hot. Too hot, even for the lines of sunflowers, wilting from too much of a good thing. I've never seen it before - an almost autumn-like covering of brown crisp leaves on the floor, but dropped and frazzled off green trees struggling in the heat. A crunch as you cycle over them.  My usually sweat-soaked top suspiciously dry, replaced with a new pattern of salty white crystals. The sun threatens to suck all the moisture in your body out of your mouth, so you have to breathe through your nose (a challenge when you are racing to get to the next bit of shade).

The first day I ignored all the signs and tried to cycle on through. By 4 pm, the peak of the heat, my overclocked body could do no more, so I stopped for 3 hours to swim in the Rhone and spit some sunflower seeds while the heat subsided. It was clear I needed a new way of doing things.

At the campsite that night I spoke to an old pro Elina - they're always from Switzerland or the Netherlands, 60 plus with a farmers tan built up over decades of solo tour cycling. Always telling you to go at your own pace and enjoy it, but cycle 100km a day like it's nothing. They usually plan very little and just feel it out on the day, listening to their body. Following the signs. 

She told me off for forcing it. "Mon dieu, don't fight this heat, you'll lose!", helping me to re-frame my day. And with it, I found a new routine. Go to bed with the sun, and get up as early as possible. Pack up quick and set off. Go to the boulangerie and get a pastry, coffee, and baguette, because you are in France, and it would be rude not to. Then you are in a race with the sun, getting the most out of the day you can in the comparative cool of the morning, then lunch, roll into a campsite early, and sleep through the heat of the day.

Then more advice, this time from Camille. French guy with a mad scientist spray of salt and pepper hair, jam jar glasses, all teeth and gums, a bicycle repair man who'd spent every summer for the last 20 years cycling around Europe.

We were speaking about the sort of Zen you can reach while cycling - you're consciously attending to where you are going, following the route, looking for the way, avoiding running into things. But in the background all sorts of thoughts and memories jumble around, connecting together, putting themselves in their right place. Sorting out the past.**** Camille had to disagree a little though. we were passing through farm country, and he'd spent the day very much in the present. He described it as an endless buffet, every field he passed an opportunity to stop and sample the local produce, constantly on the lookout for the next treat.

The day after I gave it a go. It slowed me down, made me more focused on what was around me. And constantly eating. An apple, some brambles, peaches, tomatoes, figs so ripe they'd split themselves open in the sun. Green french plums, that I'd been buying the whole trip, there, fallen from the tree, ready to eat. And Grapes. Grapes of every colour and size, sweet and tart. Bursting with flavor.

At first, I felt guilty, like a naughty school kid from the 60's pinching his neighbour's pears. Then I looked down the row and saw hundreds of grape vines, rows upon rows, as far as I could see and felt less bad. 

I remember in China cycling through an apple region. I stopped to take a picture of an older man harvesting, and he insisted I take some apples with me, as many as I could carry, too many (I had them spilling out of my open panniers by the end). If he could be so happy to share in the midst of authoritarian repression and pitiful wages, surely the French farmers in this land of plenty wouldn't mind donating a grape or two to a good cause. And if they did mind, they were probably the type of people I'd be happy to get one over on regardless!*****

I was really starting to slow down and enjoy myself, but time was running out, and for the last 3 days, the famous wind of the Rhone Valley, the Mistral, had started to blow. No matter how much I wanted to hang on to the last sweet dregs of the cycle, I was carried in great gusts and before I knew it 400km had flown by and I was in Montpellier.

**** Honestly cycling is like therapy, especially when combined with writing, I cannot recommend it enough, go buy a bike.

*****I am in no way condoning stealing and promise I only took a little bit to try everything!

Swimming spot on the Rhone

Up before the sun

Arty renewable nuclear energy

Looking at the sun

Too hot for sunflowers

Autumn dead leaves in summer

The lunch of champions

Stolen Grapes

The Signs

See, so many grapes, they won't miss a few

Bridge art

Bursting Figs

Me and Derick on the Beach

Heavy Metal in Montpellier

My Uncle Allen is a very special individual. The way he just walks into any social situation, self-assured, ready to talk the ear off of anyone and everyone who'll listen. Some of the best nights of my life I've spent following Allen around as he accosts people with his company. Talking to the weirdest and wonderfullest people. Usually on the wrong side of 5 pints.

For some reason, I never thought I could be that person. The real big growth for me this trip has been overcoming a sort of mental block I've always had, even on the big cycle through Asia. If someone initiates conversation I'll jump right in with anyone. But it takes a special type of bravery to take the leap and initiate. At some point this trip I just decided to channel my inner-uncle-allen and wade right on in.

Turns out as always it's about changing how you frame things. Most of the time the fear of rejection gets in the way. But actually, most people do want to talk! And so you talk, and connect, and both of you walk away with a more enriched or at least more interesting life. And if they don't want to talk who cares? You already won by trying. And I'm usually good for a chat. If they don't fancy it, it's their loss. As I say to the kids at school - "You can be the juciest, tastiest, bestest peach in the whole wide world, and some people just don't like peaches." And so you move on, knowing you did something good being brave no matter the outcome.

I spent most of my time in Montpellier accosting people with my company, chatting absolute rubbish with anyone and everyone. One night I decided to go see some live music, got chatting with some women at the bus stop who were also going, and spent the next 3 hours moshing with the French to heavy metal and hardcore punk. My night ended at 3 am listening to French rap in the park, legs hanging over the edge of the viaduct with an eight-pack between four, talking about the essence of being French. Which I'm told is le flemme - slang for "I just cannot be arsed". Also some choice swear words if I ever need to start a fight in a boulangerie. A night that wouldn't be if I hadn't been brave and made the jump. So thank you, Uncle Allen, the role model I never knew I needed so much.

Then France was over, I'd run out of time. I spent a whole day on slow local trains, 6 hours in total from Montpellier to Portbou, Portbou to Barcelona where I met my lovely family, and thats where I am now on a stolen morning between Gaudi tours and excellent tapas. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. Viva La France. 

Albums of the Trip
Against All Logic - 2012-2017
Joanna Sternberg - I've Got Me
Berurier Noir - Concerto Pour Detraques

Books of the Trip
On the Road - John Kerouac

Chess Lessons From a Champion Coach - Thomas Engqvist 

Jean Jaures, Montpellier hero, protector of the right to strike

The most beautiful street in Montpellier, it won an award

Heavy Metal ✌

Graffiti, apparently everyone carries a pen in Montpellier

Montpellier vs. Strasbourg

Cool trams, each line has its own pattern

Train to Portbou

Portbou

Specialized, give me a Job

Made it to Barca

The Fam and PC Turtle

Interlude

I am currently sat in a library in Lyon, raring to write about all my new adventures. Got completely distracted though when I found this drafted and edited, ready to go. As it leads nicely to what I want to write next, I thought I'd finally put it up. Voilà.

26/03/2024 

We are back and feeling good, two days from the end of term, the day after a excellently normal birthday. My 33rd birthday, the beginning of the "3" era, and everyone knows good things come in threes. Had work and netball so did literally nothing out of the ordinary. Opened my presents the day before, except for a few surprise tangerines* from my students. Zero birthday pressure. Didn't even tell anyone at netball.

Which I'm absolutely loving (after the first few games where I was constantly being called up for rules I didn't understand). Got into netball with Flo and have been playing in a mixed league. Exercise is fun, and it is making me feel good, and I'm eating loads to make up for it. My cycle in and out of work helps me let go of all the exhausting teacher stuff through the day. I wish I could cycle every day, but my fitness and energy levels cant take more than 4 times a week right now. Maybe "4 on, 3 off" should be my pattern if I ever was stupid enough to cycle again for weeks at a time.

Which I think I am. And is also why I'm back writing. There's big(ish) cycle is on the horizon.

Stop all the Clocks

I had all but sworn off doing big trips again. Buying a new bicycle brought me out of my existential funk, but honestly it was just too tragic what happened.

We had spent 200 odd days through half the stans, the deserts of China, the packed streets of Istanbul, alone and cold with no one to hold but my dear Mary-kesh, the steed more legendary than Sleipnir himself. A bike without equal. This is her eulogy.

She'd slept safe and sound on hotel roofs, every ditch between here and Khorgas, in a herd of sheep, in abandoned buildings, on the beaches of 4 different seas. I thought her untouchable, invincible, she'd carried me further than any car could.

She'd survived being strapped to vans, taxi roofs, stuffed in buses. She'd spent 4 nights on a completely different train as I impatiently awaited her return in Urumqi, sick with worry. She'd always come back in one piece, saying again and again, "If you're still in I'm in".

It was my fault for neglecting her. In the 4 years since I abruptly finished the big one, she'd only seen the occasional run up a hill or trip to the shop. A bike like that deserves better. She needed to be free.

As Flo and I moved across flats in Wakefield, she saw her chance. The new garage was tricky, and even though I swore I locked it right, I must have done it wrong. With the help of some lowlife thief, she made her escape in the dead of night.

I like to imagine you are out there plowing the country lanes of some beautiful hinterland. I hope whoever found you loves you like I did. I hope you still climb mountains. Please come back to me. 

The police were rubbish. I needed urgency, a chase scene, some CCTV footage, anything. Instead, a portly old community support officer showed up a day later and made a good show of dusting for prints. No one seemed to realise the love of my life was running away. 

Then Flo and I broke up, which is NOT a pattern, more of a coincidence, but of course now I'm in the midst of planning a big(ish) cycle. Turns out if I have large amounts of time to myself, this is what I like doing with it.

The Big(ish) Cycle

The details aren't super worked out, but the aim is to cycle from Paris to Barcelona over the summer holidays, because of course, I made it, I teach Maths now. Seems a shame to waste the 6 weeks off I get on anything but cycling a long way. Getting qualified has been a journey of its own - dealing with 150 hormonal teenagers problems every day is exhausting, and that's before you even start trying to explain how subtracting negative numbers work.

I moved schools in the summer though, which helped me put work stress into perspective. And I've taken my first class all the way from year 9 to graduation. Shout out to 11X1 for smashing their Maths GCSE. I may never have a class again who consistently meets my level of effort with more. I hope you think of our classes fondly. I hope you all find your own mountains to climb.

I'm still early in the planning phase, so please give me advice on getting to Paris, routes or places to stay, anything at all that will help me survive the summer heat. I've been stringing together some old worn out camp-gear, and bought a bike rack, slowly building the list of things I wished I'd had last time. I've also been diving into some old journals, rekindling my old nomadic spirit. I want to write about it again, but there's a job that's been hanging over my head for the past 4 years that I need to finish before I do. So here is my half promise - I will finish the end of the story about the big one before I start the new one. Watch this space.**

*I've got this bit where I'm obsessed with tangerines, making the kids see them as valuable currency. Then with each class I give out top tangerine of the week to the student who has impressed me the most. Teaching is all about having bits. Unfortunately, I am now a bit too obsessed with tangerines.

 ** Spoiler - I did not keep my promise.

The Grand Finale Part I - Istanbul to Thassos

For those of you who haven't heard yet, the grand adventure is over. I'm back home, and I'm safe, and everything is fine. 

Looking back even to my last blog post in February, the virus was hardly on my radar. I had a couple of people warn me to maybe avoid Italy, but in my usual optimistic fashion, I figured it was all a load of media hype hysteria, and that by the time I got there it'd all have blown over. But by the 16th of March, things had gotten so ridiculous, it seemed I had no choice but to give in and get out. The world went a little crazy and it just seemed like the best place to be was home.

With all the craziness, I'd gotten extremely far behind on writing. Even my personal daily journal had a big month long gap that needed filling it. I've finally caught up, but have so many stories to tell about my last month on the road that I've decided to break this last post into three. The first, a few tales from my romp through Turkey and Greece. The second, my enlightening stay in a Greek squat. The third, my daring escape on the last flight out to the UK, as the national borders closed in around me.

Obviously I'm writing now on the 7th of February, but will date the posts at the point where each part ends.

4th of March 2020, Day 204 - 7050kmish (+ a ferry from Keramoti to Thassos and back)

Day 193 - Traffic too hectic to get a picture during, but here's a pic I took in the morning before setting off

The first challenge was to get out of Istanbul. Despite setting off bright and early on a Sunday morning, I quickly found myself in the thick of it on a main road, next to lines and lines of traffic speeding by, my body melting under the roasting hot spring sun. So hot, that for the first time in 5 months I shed my layers and rode in shorts. In the end it took me two days to escape the winding complicated mess of overlapping motorways and endless river of cars. The coast road stretched before me, finally free again from the sprawl, the Greek border beckoning me back towards home.

But not before meeting the Cat Ladies of Tekirdağ.


The Cat Ladies of Tekirdağ

I'd found a host on the warmshowers tour cycling app, an adorable 53 year old primary school teacher. Zerrin had just started to learn English, and was looking for a way to practice, so her son had set her up an account as a way to meet travelers.

Day 194 - The cats quickly took ownership of the bike

I walk in the front door to be greeted by not 1, but 4 different cats, all going crazy about the big strange bike taking up most of the hallway. I'm not sure if it's a particularly Turkish thing, or just good common sense, but as Zerrin lived alone she'd specifically asked to host couples or women. Sending her my blog to look at convinced her I was legit. But just to be on the safe side she had some of the ladies round from work, with one spending the night. She'd cooked up an absolute feast, turning what I'd thought would be a quiet night into an impromptu party.

Day 194 - After dinner tea and cake

Now, I've had a fantastic time talking to all sorts of people in Turkey, but all of those people have been men. The public social spaces here, like the mosque or the tea houses, are all so male dominated that I've hardly had the chance to speak to women.

It was enlightening to finally get the female perspective on Turkey. The men tend to think that Turkey is the greatest country on earth. To put it lightly, Zerrin and the girls were far less impressed. Turkey is a secular country, but with the new highly conservative and religious President Erdoğan, they are afraid things are starting to go backwards. They find Turkish men aggressive and possessive, expecting women to take a backseat at home. Almost all the women dreamed of leaving Turkey to find somewhere they could be treated like equals. I didn't have the heart to tell them how few and far between places like that are in the world.

Almost all of them had given up on men, instead opting for far more palatable feline companions. I spent most of the night looking at pictures and videos of their cats.

Day 195 - Quick shout out to Zerrin, who was so kind in letting me stay, inspirational in starting to study English at 53, and has quite possibly turned me into a full on cat person.

In the morning it was time to say goodbye, but not before Zerrin stuffed me with breakfast, and gave me a cute little cat coin-purse to remind me of my time amongst the disenfranchised women of Turkey.

Winds of Change

From there I had to cut inland to get to the Greek Border station, surrounded by rolling hills adorned in the green and brown checkerboard fields of Eastern Thrace. I'd been unsuccessful in getting any more hosts, so resigned myself to camping for the foreseeable future.

Over the next 3 days, the wind slowly picked up from a tiny breeze to a blustering gale. As did my growing anxiety about the Coronavirus. Northern Italy had become completely closed off for non-essential travel, meaning some big diversions to get to the other side of the Alps. Maybe there's no point going to Greece? Am I just cycling into trouble? Should I be heading north through Bulgaria towards Austria instead?

Day 196 - Forming a barrier so the wind doesn't blow out the stove

By Day 197, both the wind and my anxiety reach a climax. I decide to go to the town of Ipsala, right next to the border, and plan out my new route. Maybe it's time to give up on Greece and head north. The cross-winds though are so strong, that I can't move on - the strongest winds I've faced to date, well over 50 km per hour. Every time I lift my feet up to pedal, I'm instantly blown towards the sloping drop into the ditch below.

I give up on cycling and just start walking, my body and the bike both at a 45 degree angle, forming an unsteady upside-down V, pushing against each other to brace against the wind. I consider sticking out a thumb to hitch hike, but every time I move a hand off the handlebar, the bike starts suicidally swerving towards the murky ditch water. With 15km to go till Ipsala, I'm starting to lose hope. This is gonna be a long walk.

Suddenly, a beat-up dusty white pick-up truck pulls over in front of me. An older guy jumps out and offers me a lift. He speaks almost no English, not that we could even hope to hear each other over the roaring wind. We get the bike strapped down in the back, and can finally talk in the truck.

Day 197 - The absolute gem of a man who picked me up off the side of the road

I explain I'm heading towards Greece, and would love a lift to Ipsala. He indicates it's no problem, he's going that way anyway. But something gets lost in translation, and we fly past the sign for Ipsala, right up to the border station, where he drops me off, and drives back the way he came, leaving me just as far from Ipsala as I started. Guess my decision has been made for me. I'm going to Greece.

Thrace

Greece it turns out is absolutely beautiful. I'd always idealised it, and was so glad it lived up to expectation. As bicycles are not allowed on the motorway, I was forced to take it easy on the B roads and country lanes, winding through the olive groves and newly plowed fields, finally free of the traffic.

Along the road, small shrines that look like mini churches, with some pictures of a saint or two and an oil lamp. Apparently they are built to commemorate someone dying in a traffic accident, or on the sites of old pagan shrines. A holy spot to provide travelers with a moment of rest and prayerful reflection, organically merging ancient beliefs with modern practices. (see this article  for more detail)

Day 198 - The Shrines

Day 198 - Inside

The smaller back-roads have their own challenges though. All the villages are very small, most not even having a corner store to pick up food. And no more gas stations or cafes to take a break and charge my phone. I found myself constantly running out of water with 10% on my phone battery, desperately searching for a way to re-fuel.

Day 199- In Greece they drink nothing but cold frappe's, so still looking for a good Americano! The gent in the background is a 72 year old Greek Turk, who traveled the world on cargo ships in his youth.

When I did find places though, I was overjoyed to discover the locals spoke Turkish. This area, Thrace, once stretched all the way from Istanbul to Bulgaria, so there's a lot of cultural continuity with it's neighbors. In fact, I found it to be even more Turkish than the European side of Turkey had been. The villages here have their own mosques, they still play the call to prayer 5 times a day, and most of the women wear head scarves.

Day 200 - The mosque tower sticking up in the middle of an otherwise very Greek-looking village

Day 199 - Grandma enjoying the morning sun

Gathering Intel

By now I was feeling well ahead of schedule, so figured I had wiggle room to enjoy myself. Instead of the usual b-line towards home, I could take my time, going here and there through Europe as my fancy took me. I had spotted a national park nearby on the map, and had decided to take a detour to go and see it (East Macedonia and Thrace National Park).

Day 199 - Outside of the Coffee Shop

Day 198, the road cut in off the coast, so I spent the afternoon climbing a deserted mountain back road through the Olive groves. As I get to the peak, I spot Clement and Aurore, two tour cyclist from France in matching red pullovers having a picnic. I join them, adding some oranges and sunflower seeds to the spread.

Day 198 - On the B road above the motorway

When tour cyclists meet, there is always an initial sort of one-upsmanship that goes on. Not always a full on... trip-measuring contest, but you wanna see where you stand. How long have you been traveling for? How many km do you do in a day? Do you usually camp? What's your km total? By now I usually win this contest as I smugly reveal my stats.

This couple's way of getting accommodation surprised even me though. They have a tent, but say they hardly use it. Instead they just go from door to door until someone lets them stay for the night. Much braver than me. I wouldn't be able to take all the rejection. Clement and Aurore say it gets easier the more you do it. The worst someone can say is no. I've heard of this sort of ballsy approach before, but I have to be offered a place to stay or it's not gonna happen. For me, forcing people into being hospitable kind of sours the whole thing.

Day 198 - My bike doesn't have a stand...

Then there's the all important exchange of information - good places to stay, roads to avoid, that sort of thing. They suggested I shouldn't bother with the National park, it mostly just being farms and little villages unless you go right down into the wetlands on the coast. However, I had a sneaking suspicion I'd have a good time there, and I was curious about the big island you could get to by ferry on the coast.

They do mention something though which has my curiosity piqued. Some thermal baths, with a squat nearby where you can stay, a few days ride down the road. You have to check it out, they say. You'll love it.

Crazy Homeless Bag Man

Day 199 - Vistonida Lake, just off Porto Lagos

Day 199 - Beautiful sunset off Porto Lagos. Notice the weird mulchy packed ground, it felt almost like a sponge.

I decided to trust my gut and went right down into the wetlands on the coast. Porto Lagos, the first stop in the National Park, was absolutely beautiful. A huge lake full of every sort of bird, all taking refuge here on their own pilgrimage to warmer climes.

Day 200 - Turns out these are bee boxes, with two big bags of sugar inside for food. Which I found out when I took the lid off one, running away from the disgruntled half-asleep bees just coming out of hibernation. Thankfully managed to get the lid back on

Then I ride back up the valley to the river crossing, and down to the port in Keramoti, just in time for the late ferry. I had no idea, but the island, Thassos, is sort of a big deal around here. I was expecting some tiny village, but from the swanky resorts, restaurants, and sailing clubs, I can tell I'm about to get well out of my budget here.

Day 200 - I'm a terrible camera man, I swear the sunset was much redder in person!

Day 200 - Again, couldn't quite capture it, but you get the idea

I go up to the deck to see the sunset, which is absolutely spellbinding. The sun, a deep blood red, mirrored in the sea below, lighting the water aflame. The island itself is like a half submerged mountain, rising sharply up into the clouds, painted pink by the sun to form a glowing halo.

Mid revelry, a group of 6 greek guys come up to the deck and start taking pictures. So many pictures. But not particularly of the sunset, more of them selves, from ever more imaginative angles. At one point, a guy is literally laying on the ground taking a photo of his friend sat up on the rail. I cannot fathom why. Maybe to make his shoes look big? Every one of them is wearing brand new clothes, clean and sparkling.

I cannot help but giggle, and one of the boys looks at me. Suddenly I become extremely aware of how I must appear. I'm sat there with three plastic bags of food around me, my whole travel pantry spread out on the chairs. A chunk of cheese in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other, alternating a bite from each, covered in crumbs. Today is my 6th day without a shower, sweating under the Greek spring sun, camping every night. The trackies and jacket I'm wearing haven't been washed since Istanbul, so are carrying every colour of dirt and mud Thrace has to offer. And my beard. And my hair. 7 months on the road, and for some reason I decided to not shave the whole way.

I have never felt more like a crazy homeless bag man in my life.

Day 200 - Earlier that day, Crazy Homeless Bag Man makes a cat friend

Thankfully the photo-shoot doesn't last for long and I'm left in peace to enjoy rest of the sunset.

Thassos

I arrived rather foolishly in Thassos at 8pm with absolutely no where to stay, but thankfully the woman at the ticket booth rang around to find me a place. I spoke to the owner on the phone, and managed to argue the price down from 30€ to 20€ by promising to stay an extra night. The room was perfect. A queen-sized bed, kitchenette, and most importantly, a warm shower. After that first shower in 6 days, I felt reborn, like a snake that's just shed a crusty old layer of skin.

Day 201 - The Bay of Thassos

Thassos is simply stunning, a beautiful little old port town nestled in the bay below the mountains. Every bit of Greece overflows with history. As you walk through the cobblestone streets, there are ancient archaeological ruins, dating back to 600 A.D., just casually strewn about between the cafes and shops.

Day 201 - If you look real close, you can see an old man in the middle of the rock fishing

I spent the day hiking around the northern tip of the bay. Clearly there used to be a well cared for footpath there, with signs and chain fence lining the walkways. Even lamps for night walking. But at some point in the 90's with the Greek economic recession, they'd run out of money. Now the ruins were joined by artifacts of a different era, all rusted, broken, and covered in moss. At one point I had to scale a huge fallen tree to keep going.

I'm glad I did though. Eventually the path opened up to the Acropolis of Thassos. What surprises me is how nothing is fenced off or protected. It feels as if you are the first person to stumble across the crumbling towers and walls, hidden away in the forest and undergrowth. I guess they have so much old stuff here, they don't bother looking after it all.

Day 201 - The path up to the Acropolis

It was supposed to be Carnival weekend, but all the festivities had been shut down by the government. It was starting to dawn on me that this Corona thing was maybe a big deal, and that people were taking it seriously. Or should have started dawning on me.

Instead, I met two gristly 60 year old British guys who came to the island in the 80's and never left. Apparently they'd spent that whole time in bars, because they then proceeded to drink me under the table.

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Bonus Photo Dump of Thassos

View of the whole town from the top

Some of the old engravings still remain. Here is Hippocrates healing a boy and a horse. You can vaguely see the snake and staff  in the man laying down's hand.

Like I said, you can just walk right up and touch buildings that have been there for centuries and centuries

The view from the top looking the other way

I took a selfie using my phone timer!