Things improve. Slightly.

Rather than learn the French for "Git orf moi larnd!" we decamped early and followed the towpath, watching the hares and herons basking in the early morning sun. Rolling in to Tournai, the cobbled streets in conjunction with our badly-battered back wheel were a test on my nerves, so we found a cafe full of beer-swigging Belgians (it was eight thirty in the morning) for a refreshing stop (and a toilet).

Quaregnon

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, with a decent mileage covered by the time we had lunch in Quaregnon. Looking forwards to a shower, we continued across countryside that grew increasingly hilly and covered in wind turbines (all facing the same way as us, which meant that the wind wasn't).

There were three problems with the campsite that night. The first was that it was just across the border back into France, and the road crossing the border was clearly disputed territory, with neither country wanting the responsibility of maintaining it. Consequently, about 3km short of the campsite, we punctured on a pothole, and had to spend some time fixing the deflation.

The second problem was that the campsite wasn't where the map said it would be. Fortunately we spotted a sign in the centre of town which led us eventually to the campsite, so disaster was averted.

The third problem was when we checked in to the campsite. The manager said something to me in French which I understood all too well but insisted she repeat in English in the hope that she would tell me something different. She handed me a piece of paper with the translation on: Unfortunately the campsite had no hot water, and the shower block was closed. They had only cold water.

Not really having any alternative, we checked in anyway, designated one travel towel as the "flannel" and had a most refreshing sponge-down in cold water, before sluicing the worst of the road grime off our cycle clothes and drinking several beers and wine.

Planned route here. Though I think we managed to cover some 98km that day.

Disasters begin to strike

The first day cycling in France/Belgium didn't go so well. The ferry wasn't due to dock until eleven o'clock, which means the best part of the day for cycling had already gone. We had initially planned an 80km (50 miles) day, which would have been a reasonable day's ride to recover from the more gruelling 150km previous day. However, by the time we'd added the 10km across Dunkirk, plus a bit of wiggling to avoid big roads and hills, it had turned into 100km.

Then it got worse.

The route-sheet I'd planned to get from the ferry port to the town sent us directly away from the town, down a dead end. We followed our nose into the centre of Dunkirk, and tried to pick up the route out. We had several false-starts before finally breaking free on the lovely smooth canal towpath which was to lead us to Belgium. There was a BANG, and the canal path was no longer smooth and our rear tyre was no longer inflated. The tyre had a snakebite puncture, the inner tube had at least twelve holes (I gave up counting at that point), and the rear wheel required percussive maintenance to make it round enough to hold a tyre.

The tyre was booted with cardboard, the old inner discarded, and we limped cautiously on for another ten or so km, keeping our eyes peeled for a bike shop. After Bergues we flagged down a pair of roadies and got directions to the nearest bike shop, about 15km away (and in slightly the wrong direction) in Wormhout. Once in Wormhout we found that we'd forgotten to bring the helpful cheat-sheet of parts-of-a-bike in French, so had to do a lot of mime and pointing to explain what we needed (the bottom bracket was also loose, so we had to borrow some tools). The new tyre was fitted, and promptly deflated while we ate lunch, because we'd pinched the inner tube when fitting it. The puncture was fixed, and it was three o'clock in the afternoon and we still had 80 km to do that day.

Eventually we got to Roubaix, and promptly became very lost. Getting in to a town that you don't have a detailed map of is easy: getting out is far harder. I think we must have cycled around three sides of the town (including some pretty nasty dual carriageways) before eventually picking up the road we wanted. It was getting late, we were tired, and looking forward to a campsite and a shower.

We rolled in to the campsite (as listed on the tourist board website), only to find a derelict set of buildings and a highly amused Frenchman who informed us that the campsite had closed ages ago. At this point, dusk was beginning to fall.

With not a lot else to do, we continued on our route, looking for somewhere quiet and discrete to pitch a tent. Eventually we found a welcoming canal towpath which was wide enough for a tent, crawled into our sleeping bags, and passed out with 130km under our belt on a very stressful day.

Bed!

Edited to add planned (approximate) route.

England's green and pleasant land

The journey from Leatherhead to Dover is a moderately pleasant 150km ride on a bike. To add a challenge, load said bike with all your possessions, and have a very fine extended lunch at The Three Chimneys, Biddenden, with a couple of pints of local 8.5% cider.

Most of the route can be done on reasonable roads (apart from one stretch near East Grinstead where Mr GoogleMaps decided to take us on a detour via the rutted and bumpy NCN rather than the empty and smooth roads), but the final stretch from Folkestone to Dover is a killer - the B-road between the two towns is the size of a motorway and so steep that we were only capable of pedalling fifty yards before then stopping for a rest, repeatedly.

When we did eventually get in to Dover, the staff at the Premier Inn next to the ferries were terribly helpful, and let us park the bike in the laundry room to save unloading it ("Bikes are far more important than towels!")

Edited to add planned (approximate) route.

Am I a bike or a car or a pedestrian?

Route-planning's a fun game. You take a map, a start point and an end point, and draw a straight line between the two. You then check where the mountains are, adjust your line slightly to avoid it, count up the number of days you have to travel, and divide the route by that. You then check for fence-post errors, re-do your sums, and that gives you your approximate daily route.

Now's when the real gaiety starts. You find yourself something like Google Maps, and tell it that you want to travel from A to B. "Easy," says Mr GoogleMaps, and presents you with a choice of motorways to take. "Hmm,"you think, and click the "I am a bicycle" button. At this point, Mr GoogleMaps will either tell you flatly that "directions are not available", or will say in the manner of an enthusiastic puppy "Oh, a bicycle! I can do that! Look, I've got a cycle track over here, it's only a five-mile detour off your route to incorporate it, and technically it's a mountain-bike-track, but bicycle!"

A bridleway which led to a Sustrans-built NCN (which wasn't any better in terms of surface)

A French (or possibly Belgian) cycle-path. Beautifully smooth - just a shame we couldn't get the bike to it!

A network of well-surfaced, well-signed cycle-roads! All praise German efficiency!

I gave up with wheels, and told Mr GoogleMaps that I was a pedestrian. Sure, this meant I was directed via steps and wrong-way-streets, but it was better than motorways or bike paths.

How to get from A to B

We all have our favourite methods of getting somewhere. For Mr S., a good journey should involve ferries; preferably the Harwich-Hook-of-Holland one. To get to France, I far prefer driving or taking the Eurostar to flying. So when a wedding was announced and we were told that the venue was Germany, the game was on!

Mr and Mrs S, naturally, declared that they would be taking the ferry from Harwich and driving down from the Hook of Holland. Mr and Mrs C declared that they would be caravanning across France: a plan only stymied by the logistic of moving their behemoth of a caravan. And Tim and I looked at the map and said “It’s only 600km across Europe. Let’s cycle!”

And so preparations began.

Firstly there was a question of navigation. If one is planning on heading down the France-Belgium border, it doesn’t do to rely on there being a helpful dotted line on the ground to follow just because there’s one on Google Maps. Fortunately, the Michelin Local maps of France have enough overlap to include all the necessary non-France bits as well, so that saved a bit of packing space. 

Because that’s the problem with a tandem – it transports two people, but it only carries one bike’s worth of panniers, so space is at a real premium. A packing list was drawn up, with superfluous items (clean socks etc) eliminated and only the bare essentials (corkscrew, crossword book, soundtrack to The Producers) on it. For off-the-bike clothing, a maxi-dress is the equivalent of an interstellar hitchhiker’s towel. You can stuff it in the bottom of a pannier where it takes up little space; it can keep the sun off your legs and prevent burning; in the evenings it will protect against mosquitoes and chill winds; the floor-length skirt hides unshaven, chainring-tattooed, road-rashed legs; and of course it looks chic enough to sit around in a continental café with a carafe of wine of an evening.

Canoodling Hippos

Thug, the pygmy hippo, lives by the sea in London Zoo with Nicky. For most of the day he snoozes, wallowing in mud, but in the evening once the crowds disperse, he frolics with his fair hippopotama who comes tiptoeing down to her love.

Note his inamorata's (red) garter!

London Zoo Photography

London Zoo run a photography course. It's really quite fun, and extremely tiring.

I need to practice my post-processing, but these are the ones I'm happy with in the unprocessed state.

Just a word of warning - don't keep bananas in your camera bag!