tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82338379922346395752024-03-13T07:54:54.782-07:00the bicycle diariestwo years travelling by bikePaulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.comBlogger125125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-7468947964211568642014-03-27T23:17:00.000-07:002014-03-27T23:17:05.141-07:00If you enjoyed the bicycle diaries ...<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">If you enjoyed the bicycle diaries, you might like my new blogs:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">northern exposure - a cycle to the midnight sun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">the outdoor diaries - outdoor adventures in Scotland</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Click on the links to the right.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Pauline :-) </span><br />
<br />Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-14985109597765072372012-08-05T10:07:00.000-07:002012-08-05T23:25:19.281-07:00Edinburgh, Scotland - The epilogue<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“Life is like a bicycle. In order to keep your
balance you must keep moving” </span></i></div>
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<i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Albert Einstein</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I gave up a good life to undertake my world bicycle
adventure. I had a decent job, lived in a nice place and was always enjoying my
passion, the great outdoors. But I’m not one to settle into a routine and I
believe in life that you can’t just keep doing the same thing. Every now and
then you need to throw your life up in the air and see where it lands. And so,
alongside a longing for adventure, that was one of my reasons for setting out
on my bike ride in the first place. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3vjdcaGH-b0/UB2CiSGPN_I/AAAAAAAAAwQ/yy9F-1Zz0Ho/s1600/IMG_1068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3vjdcaGH-b0/UB2CiSGPN_I/AAAAAAAAAwQ/yy9F-1Zz0Ho/s200/IMG_1068.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">So now the adventure is over, I ask myself
… how is my life now and how has the trip changed me? My life does feel more
balanced by the experience. Living simply for two years and travelling by
bicycle has helped me put things back into perspective and a more sensible
priority. We worry so much about having a bigger house or nicer clothes or
getting the latest gadgets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But these
things don’t make you happy. I have lived for over two years with only the
amount of stuff that I can carry on a bicycle and have been deliriously happy.
I’ve met people across the world with very little material wealth but with
hearts of gold, like the mountain peoples of Turkey who gave me food and
shelter when I needed them most. I’ve talked to people with different
priorities to ponder such as people whose lives have been devastated by flood,
earthquake or just plain poverty. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m not going to say that the trip has
changed me … the same person who left, has returned. But everything that we do,
every experience we have, makes us the person that we are. So in that way, the
trip has added to the magic that is me! But I’ve learned some important things.
Most of all that <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>despite what we see on
television, the world is actually full of good people ready to show kindness
and warmth to strangers. When I think back about all the good people who gave
me a bed or a meal or just a smile on the road, I am overwhelmed to the point
of tears. I’ve also learned just how lucky I am to be able to undertake such a
trip and I’ve learned to always remember those less fortunate than me like the
miners of Potosi or the people of flooded Minot or crippled Christchurch who lost
everything. Through experiencing other countries and cultures, the trip has
given me a more balanced view of the world.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>“Get
a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live” </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Mark Twain</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">It was always my
dream to load up a bicycle and cycle it away to distant lands. And that’s another
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lesson learned on the trip … that you
should live your dreams … except the one<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>where you get eaten by a giant spider!</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UUvxR6G5S3g/UB2EW1hLWMI/AAAAAAAAAwc/pP9rUc2VyGI/s1600/P1020614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UUvxR6G5S3g/UB2EW1hLWMI/AAAAAAAAAwc/pP9rUc2VyGI/s200/P1020614.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Soon after setting out, it was
clear that travelling by bicycle made a whole world of difference to my
experience. I really got to know the contours of a country on a bike and every
day I lived and breathed its landscapes and elements. I was outdoors 24 hours
per day, either cycling or enjoying my camp spot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>On a bike you get a depth of experience that
you can’t achieve any other way, except perhaps by foot. When you do the whole
of your journey by bicycle you inevitably end up travelling through all the
“places in between” which are usually far more interesting than the famous
sights on your route. The delightful and friendly little towns of the American
Midwest were a prime example of this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Travelling by bicycle also changed the way
people interacted with me. First of all I was going slowly and often passing
through out-of-the-way places on the quiet back roads that don’t see many
visitors. So local people had the chance to stop me, to chat and to bring me
into their lives. I am sure the bicycle breaks down barriers as it was often
so easy to speak to people and form bonds with them. Nowhere was this more
evident than in the United States when there were so many invitations to stay
with people after chance encounters in the street or diner like the time
bumping into the Donaldsons in Havre resulted in staying with the family for
several days and being taken to an Indian pow-pow and rodeo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I will
never forget the people that showed me such kindnesses. They made a huge impact
on my journey and I hope, in some small way, I also touched their lives as I
passed through them, all too briefly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I know people back home were worried
about me travelling by bicycle but I made it back having had a wonderful
adventure and the bike wasn’t stolen, I didn’t get sick, I wasn’t robbed or
murdered … and the tales I lived to tell were all the better from the saddle of a bike!<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>“Chasing
records doesn’t keep me on my bike. Happiness does”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Lance Armstrong</i></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C5mITT1HUn0/UB2FYj2AiVI/AAAAAAAAAwk/GEAVGo902Jo/s1600/IMG_2632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C5mITT1HUn0/UB2FYj2AiVI/AAAAAAAAAwk/GEAVGo902Jo/s200/IMG_2632.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I found deep happiness out
there on my bike on the open road. It was partly the joy of living simply, of
being out in the elements and nature all day, every day and of pitching my tent
each night at a different place. The thought of something new around each
corner kept my wheels turning. And it was partly the spectacular landscapes
that I cycled through from the deserts and red rocks of the Argentinian Andes to
the simple beauty of the North American plains. Throughout the trip one sight
that always filled my heart with happiness was seeing a shape coalesce on the
horizon into the unmistakable outline of another long-distance pedaller on a
heavily-loaded bike. It wasn’t just a chance for a chat – it also felt good to be
part of a network of people travelling by bike, enjoying an alternative
lifestyle and living the same dream as me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course, I wasn’t happy all of the
time. Cycling across the Argentinian pampa drove me to tears with terrible
trucks, hideous headwinds that often forced me to walk and saddle sores that
rubbed through to raw flesh. But even the bad bits added to the sum of the
whole … I just loved the challenges, the hardships and the adventure of it all.
Heat, cold, rain, snow, hills, solitude, endless miles and getting lost … I
couldn’t get enough! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">There is an art to life and happiness, you can’t just
expect it to happen. For me happiness is about having adventures in the present
and making memories for the future … memories that will give me a warm glow
inside for years to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now when
I go to bed at night, I imagine that I am back in my cabin on Lausanne, the
cargo ship that took me across the Atlantic. I can still hear the throb of her
engine, the creak of the superstructure and the gentle roll of the ocean waves. </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RnFisFIWu20/UB2GKILIefI/AAAAAAAAAws/zbwSreAI3CE/s1600/P1040529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RnFisFIWu20/UB2GKILIefI/AAAAAAAAAws/zbwSreAI3CE/s200/P1040529.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">The only ocean waves that I’m currently experiencing are those off the beach at
Portobello as I paddle along in my canoe. I look back to shore and this sweet
little town that I called home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first
I felt desperately sad to arrive back in Portobello at the end of my journey
but soon I started to feel something else … that this was just another stopover
on a longer journey. I have never wanted to settle down to a normal life and that
feeling is even stronger now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I know
that one day in the not too distant future, I’ll load up my bicycle again, roll
out onto the road and feel the deep excitement as my tires turn at the start of
a new adventure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The End </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>New folder on Flickr capturing the photo highlights from the whole adventure </i></span></span></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-47380937574868541162012-08-01T08:33:00.002-07:002012-08-03T11:01:31.021-07:00Edinburgh, Scotland - Loose ends<br />
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The “bicycle diaries” will soon draw to a close so just
a few loose ends to tie up before I say a final farewell.</div>
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First of all ... the moment you've all been waiting for ... the result of the final "bicycle diaries" competition. I can tell you the winner is ... John Forker of Edinburgh who made the closest guess to the
correct total mileage of 16,053 miles. A 2013 “bicycle diaries” calendar is on
its way.<br />
<br />
Secondly, my warmest thanks to everybody who has contributed to my fundraising for Oxfam. I have just reached my target of £2000! The page will remain open for a wee while yet if you still want to make a donation.</div>
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Last but certainly not least, I’d like to say a big thank you to my base camp manager,
Graham, who has been a wonderful help throughout the trip and my financial manager, my dad. A huge thank you also goes out to all my
wonderful hosts and helpers on the road … and to all of you … thanks for
watching.</div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Keep reading for the
final blog …</i></b></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-75511659902847587172012-07-23T10:16:00.000-07:002012-07-23T10:30:25.966-07:00Edinburgh, Scotland - Home is where the heart is<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was another miserable, wet Sunday morning. Wind-driven
rain lashed against the big bay windows of the waterfront guesthouses where,
dry and cosy inside, the guests enjoyed their croissants and lashings of hot
coffee as they looked out over the grey North Sea. Did they see the woman on a
heavily–loaded bike cycle by, wrapped up in layers of waterproofs that hid the
shabby clothes that she wore, tattered by the winds and bleached by the sun? Did
they wonder where she had come from or where she was going? She was going home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H5ii0D7kHUg/UAwp0uIDBVI/AAAAAAAAAvk/nZYIt-TppQ8/s1600/P1040426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H5ii0D7kHUg/UAwp0uIDBVI/AAAAAAAAAvk/nZYIt-TppQ8/s200/P1040426.JPG" width="133" /></a>That woman was me on my way north up the coast of Holland. I had battled across
the horrible sprawl of Rotterdam in pouring rain the day before and was now
riding in the rain again to the ferry terminal at Ijmuiden to catch the
Newcastle sailing. It’s funny how there are key moments in life and you imagine
exactly how they are going to be but it never quite works out like that. I had
imagined this moment for some time. Although I still had some cycling to do
back in Britain to get to Portobello, stepping onto the ferry in Holland seemed
to me like the end of my world bicycle adventure. As the ferry pulled out from
the quayside I stood out on deck and, as I listened to a favourite, melancholy
tune on my ipod, I gazed to the horizon and tried to look well-travelled, windswept and interesting. But
my music was drowned out by the ferry company playing at deafening levels what
sounded like the comedy theme tune for Pathe News and the moment, as I had
imagined it, was lost. Next morning the rain was still falling as the boat
docked in Newcastle and I began my ride towards Scotland. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I cycled north up the coast and passed the seaside town of
Whitley Bay. It was freezing cold and raining and a bitter wind whipped up
white horses on the gunmetal grey waters of the North Sea. But the beach was
full of people picnicking, swimming and surfing. You have to admire the Brits
with their stiff upper lips, making the best of another bad British summer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wQsfaFA3USI/UAwqYzm03iI/AAAAAAAAAvw/Qq6lCHLJ31o/s1600/P1040451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wQsfaFA3USI/UAwqYzm03iI/AAAAAAAAAvw/Qq6lCHLJ31o/s200/P1040451.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The
sun came out briefly next day as I pedalled by the sea and along the back roads
of Northumberland but it was raining again when I picnicked below Bamburgh
Castle and cycled across the old bridge over the Tweed at Berwick. It was
pouring when I started climbing up through the Lammermuirs, the last hills to
cross on my journey. On one of the most foul weather nights I have ever spent
in the outdoors, I pitched my tent at Whiteadder Reservoir behind the sailing
club. I re-arranged some of the outdoor furniture to get a good spot for my
tent. The correct thing to do was to put it back next morning but I thought my
own arrangement had slightly better “feng shui” and I had left quickly to take advantage
of a beautiful morning, as early sunshine bathed the hills. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I had chosen this
particular route over the Lammermuirs for a special reason. Just after the last
rise, where the little road from Longformacus comes in from the left and beyond
the first bend, there is a stunning view of the Forth estuary. Today, with
morning sun and blue skies, it was magnificent. Edinburgh nestled on the shore
in the distance, the Lomond Hills of Fife provided a backdrop and the sapphire-blue
waters of the River Forth stretched out passed North Berwick Law and the gannet
colony on the Bass Rock. It was the route that I had set out on over two years
ago on a ferry to Belgium. I choked back tears as I gazed down on the scene now
and imagined an orange-painted ferry cutting its way through the blue waters and out
into open seas. I imagined I could see a Scottish woman standing out on
deck on the brink of the greatest adventure of her life. She had a bicycle
below and a big smile up top. And I thought to myself … I would give anything to
turn back the clock and do it all again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UVH4yRA85Rg/UAwrTNBeYWI/AAAAAAAAAv4/NQu6BoMU_vc/s1600/P1060842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UVH4yRA85Rg/UAwrTNBeYWI/AAAAAAAAAv4/NQu6BoMU_vc/s200/P1060842.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But there was already a small
welcoming party gathered on the promenade in Portobello so I cycled on along
the familiar routes of East Lothian and down the banks of the River Esk. Due to
the rains, much of the route was under several inches of water
but I cycled on right through it, just like Lausanne, my Atlantic cargo ship,
ploughing through the high seas. A local cyclist pulled up beside me and said
“Have you been on a bit of a tour?”. “Yes” I said, “a bit of a tour”. Minutes
later I was pedalling along the prom back to my starting point of two years
ago. The “Pauline’s World Cycle” banner that had been hung out at the start of
my trip was up again but it had been repainted from “Start” to “Finish”. So my bicycle
adventure has finished and I am back home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But I’m not sure that I am home. Home
is where the heart is and my heart is out on the open road with a distant
horizon, an ever-changing view and a colourful set of characters. And there’s
another cyclist on my road and in my heart … a rather loveable Belgian man!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Brit pics on Flickr. Keep
reading for the final installment and the competition winner.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE</span></div>
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</div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-57028487572081743682012-07-19T15:02:00.001-07:002012-07-19T15:02:28.736-07:00Edinburgh, Scotland - Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jwgpdNaVY8g/UAiDrZjn1zI/AAAAAAAAAvE/v5ovjV5RCwo/s1600/P1060826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jwgpdNaVY8g/UAiDrZjn1zI/AAAAAAAAAvE/v5ovjV5RCwo/s200/P1060826.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This afternoon, two years and two weeks after setting out, I rolled into Portobello under sunny, blue skies to complete my world cycle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Keep reading for the rest of the story ...</span></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-38534634583115409432012-07-17T04:43:00.003-07:002012-07-17T04:43:25.697-07:00Seahouses, England - Last chance to win<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jbKpssupRRE/T_06jwx0-jI/AAAAAAAAAts/4xXG83oVVp0/s1600/P1040338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jbKpssupRRE/T_06jwx0-jI/AAAAAAAAAts/4xXG83oVVp0/s200/P1040338.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Blimey, I'm back in Blighty! In celebration of two years on the road and the fast-approaching end of my trip, I'm launching the third and final "bicycle diaries" competition. There's a fabulous prize up for grabs - a 2013 calendar featuring the top photos from the tour! Tigger, my faithful navigator, is currently pouring over the maps to work out the total number of miles that I have cycled on the trip. All you have to do to win is guess correctly the total mileage and send your answer by email to symaniak88@hotmail.co.uk with your agreement to be named in the blog if you win and your postal address. Closing date is 31 July. Good luck!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">And remember to sponsor me for Oxfam if you've not already done so ... just click on the link on the right. Thank you.</span></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-13354624376699151882012-07-12T09:20:00.002-07:002012-07-13T01:37:04.861-07:00Dordrecht, Holland - A river runs through it<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s one of Europe’s great rivers, an
industrial powerhouse and a key transport artery into the heart of the
continent. It’s graced with natural landscapes, historic towns and vineyards
but blemished by urban sprawl and factories. Since I left the Alps it has
guided me north on the homeward leg of my trip. It is, of course, the River
Rhine or, as I shall forever affectionately call it, the “River Rain”. Yes … it
has been wet!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I joined the Rhine just east of Basel after I cycled out of the
Swiss Alps and it was just west of Basel in the French village of Kembs that I
was kidnapped by Bart and returned to the mountains for another idyllic month
of hiking, biking and living it up in his campervan. And so it was that when
Bart returned to Belgium he dropped me back on the Rhine at Kembs to continue my
journey home. We said goodbye on a miserable, wet Sunday morning and I cycled
away in rivers of rain and floods of tears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I pedalled downriver through forests
and pastures and pretty little villages, the rain lashed for several days, a
case of the weather matching my mood. But eventually the sun came through for a
little while and with it came the mosquitoes! I’ve slept in some strange places
on this trip from gas stations to hotel storage rooms to public toilets and on
the Rhine I found another strange spot. It was getting late in the day and I
couldn’t find a place to camp as every good spot was infested with millions of
mozzies. Then, just outside the quiet village of Reinsheim in the far corner of a sportsfield, I spotted a tent that on closer inspection was empty and
abandoned. It was one of those huge, cheap tents that people buy in Asda for 50
quid then throw in the bin after the first gust of wind blows it down. I wheeled
my bike straight in and dived into bed in one of the rooms, well out of the
reach of the mozzies! </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89HMxllwHtU/T_73YliwDeI/AAAAAAAAAuA/VHfQSjxDTgw/s1600/P1040286.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89HMxllwHtU/T_73YliwDeI/AAAAAAAAAuA/VHfQSjxDTgw/s200/P1040286.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There is a bicycle route that runs the full length of the
Rhine, all the way through Germany and into Holland where the river splits into
a huge delta and flows into the North Sea and it’s that route that I followed
for nearly two weeks. It’s a small part of an amazing network of bicycle routes
throughout Germany and Holland, all mapped and signposted. I barely ever
touched traffic. In an effort to save money, I didn’t buy a proper map of the
route and was laying my trust in the efficient signposting. Unfortunately the
signs all disappeared around the large town of Ludwigshafen in a maze of
roadworks, motorways and diversions, and I got incredibly lost. A local man
came to my rescue and cycled with me for over an hour in a mini adventure along
back roads, bike routes, farm tracks and muddy fields to get me back on my
route. I had a job keeping up with him even though he was 72! </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hUYRkXYqNvs/T_730aiDfkI/AAAAAAAAAuM/YfqnoVNd4EY/s1600/P1040375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hUYRkXYqNvs/T_730aiDfkI/AAAAAAAAAuM/YfqnoVNd4EY/s200/P1040375.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Each day I would
pass and exchange a greeting with all sorts of cyclists from locals on their
daily commute to heavily-loaded, long-distance pedallers like myself. I
especially remember two very loud German cyclists that I kept meeting. They
wore those “bib” style cycling lycras that Bart likes but then Bart has the
figure for them … these chaps did not! They didn’t even wear T-shirts on top so
their huge, bloated bellies bulged out between the braces, looking like they’d
been inflated with bicycle pumps! I never saw them without a beer in their hand
so that explains a lot. Mind you, you have to sympathise with them because you
can’t pedal a mile along the Rhine without passing a bar or café with a
waterfront terrace. It’s so tempting to sit a while and watch the barges
ferrying cargo, coal and cars up and down the river, or the cruise boats
depositing tourists at another castle or historic bridge or souvenir stall. I
took a few short cruises on the Rhine myself … each time I had to cross from one
side to the other on the little ferries. Thankfully there are hundreds of these ferries that haven’t been
replaced by bridges. They are a very charming aspect of cycling along the
river. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ci7SHksAluA/T_74Jbh5f2I/AAAAAAAAAuU/D3Pu-Uk_7VQ/s1600/P1040319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ci7SHksAluA/T_74Jbh5f2I/AAAAAAAAAuU/D3Pu-Uk_7VQ/s200/P1040319.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sun did make a few appearances. At the beautiful small city of
Koblenz I sat on a terrace enjoying a coffee at Deutches Eck where the Mosel
adds its waters to the Rhine and listened to the music from an accordion player
drift through the hot summer air. But the sun brings its own problems! My water
bottles had developed a lining of green algae and I didn’t have a long-handled
brush to clean them. Late one afternoon I stopped to ask a farmer if I could
have some water. He helpfully took my bottles away into the house to fill them
but took a long time to bring them back. I later discovered why … he had cleaned all
the algae out of them! It briefly got really hot and sweaty as I cycled through
the vineyards and orchards of the upper Rhine before I was engulfed by rain
again. As the Rhine passed into Holland huge headwinds whipped across the flat
farmland and waterways, driving the rain into my face. I cycled on along bike
routes and quiet back roads, peering through the rain for views of windmills
and pretty little villages with narrow, cobbled streets. I always wanted to linger in these places but the rain and wind blew me onwards to the end of the river.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My wet but wonderful journey along the Rhine has brought me from the mountains to the sea.
In the next few days I’ll cross the city of Rotterdam and cycle north up the
coast to catch my ferry from Amsterdam back to old Blighty! From what I’ve
heard about this summer’s weather, I can expect more rivers of rain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Photos from the Rhine on Flickr - sorry but the camera wasn't out much in the rain!</span></span></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><i><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE</span></span></i></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHwbOm9-tqI/T__eHLKZYZI/AAAAAAAAAu4/nkO_zAXcPuM/s1600/RHINE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHwbOm9-tqI/T__eHLKZYZI/AAAAAAAAAu4/nkO_zAXcPuM/s640/RHINE.jpg" width="436" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-66939527620565452882012-07-03T01:09:00.000-07:002012-07-07T00:26:53.878-07:00Rastatt, Germany - The king and queen of cols<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I pedal my way north along the
Rhine in the rain, the world’s most famous bicycle race, the Tour de France, is
underway. I never paid much attention to it myself but this year I’ll be eager
to catch the mountain stages. You see, Bart and I have just finished an
eight-day cycle tour climbing some of the highest Alpine road passes, many of
which have been made legendary by the cyclists of “Le Tour”. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HV_WuT3193Q/T_Kn3A7OGJI/AAAAAAAAAs8/F9R10_bRj4g/s1600/P1040171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HV_WuT3193Q/T_Kn3A7OGJI/AAAAAAAAAs8/F9R10_bRj4g/s200/P1040171.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Many people may
find it a bit strange to want to cycle every day up one, two or even three high
mountain passes in the stinking heat of a European summer, only to come
straight back down the other side. But “collecting” these passes, or “cols” as
the French call them, can become quite addictive! We’d loaded up our bikes and parked
Bart’s campervan in the quiet ski village of Saint Sirlon d’Arves, where it
would be safe while we were away, and started our tour with one of the most
famous and beautiful cols, the 2642m Galibier. Hours of hard climbing took us
up into the mountains and the last of the winter snows alongside hundreds of
other cyclists keen to add this col to their “tick list”. Most cyclists undertaking
these rides are cycling superlight race bikes with no luggage and some even
have support vehicles. So I was pleased
to do the climb on my superheavy touring bike with all my kit for a week on the
road and to make the top not too far behind Bart! The climb was rewarded
with spectacular views of Park Nationale des Ecrins and a bit of a party
atmosphere on top as all the cyclists celebrated their achievement and queued
to take a photo in front of the sign! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Our next famous pass was the 2360m Col
d’Izoard, a bizarre landscape of bare mountains and weathered rock formations.
As we sat on top eating our picnic, we watched with admiration as an elderly
coupled arrived by bicycle on the summit. They were probably in their sixties
or seventies! When the man stepped off his bike, he was almost bent double with
a bad back but the woman was fit and beautiful for her age with long, plaited
hair and tanned skin. We hoped to still be cycling when we were their age!
After Izoard we ticked off the easy 2109m Col de Vars which was notable for me
as there I passed the 15,000 miles mark on my world bicycle trip. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I never come
first or win anything in life but that was about to change as we pedalled on to
tackle our next legendary col! The highest road pass in Europe is the 2802m Col
de la Bonette which seems to sit on the roof of the Alps, high up in remote and
rugged mountain scenery. Bart and I couldn’t believe our luck when we got to
the final section of the long, hard climb to the col – snowploughs were just
clearing the last remnants of the winter snows to officially open the road for
2012! As soon as we could, we squeezed by the machines and pedalled furiously
to be the first official cyclists over the col this year. Forever a sweetheart,
Bart let me go ahead to reach the col first and crowned me Miss Col de la
Bonette 2012! </span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Iz6nZhJYv9U/T_Kocu1-DsI/AAAAAAAAAtE/GA-iy72Fzpo/s1600/P1040197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Iz6nZhJYv9U/T_Kocu1-DsI/AAAAAAAAAtE/GA-iy72Fzpo/s200/P1040197.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We added many more miles and many metres of ascent as the days
rolled by and we conquered one col after another. And as the temperature soared
into the thirties, we watched the world go by sipping cold drinks on the
terraces of bars and cafes in the pretty, little French towns that we cycled
through. On our final day we cycled over the easiest col of the tour, the 1367m
Col d’Ornon, and then the most difficult one, the 2067m Col de la Croix de Fer.
As Bart’s GPS gave a temperature reading of 36 degrees, we climbed a long and initially
steep approach road that dispiritingly plummeted back down several times,
forcing us to climb again all the height that we’d lost. But eventually the top
came and we cycled over the col which is dominated by the impressive rock
spires of Les Aiguilles d’Arves. A short descent took us back to the van at
Saint Sirlon and we were surprised to see it joined on this quiet spot by about
twenty other campervans. Bart and I laughed all evening when we found out that
we had parked in the middle of a campervan club reunion! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">All-in-all on our
8-day tour we conquered 14 cols over a distance of 632 kms and with 14,567m of
climbing! We may not be signing up for next year’s Tour de France but I think
we have earned our title of the “King and Queen of Cols”.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Photos on Flickr in the Alps folder</span><br />
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</div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-68853154929636594032012-06-26T08:18:00.003-07:002012-06-26T08:18:50.087-07:00Barcelonette, France - 15,000 miles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IELlEFhtiTk/T-nSrbWlFEI/AAAAAAAAAss/0QqlLktzgrc/s1600/P1040204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IELlEFhtiTk/T-nSrbWlFEI/AAAAAAAAAss/0QqlLktzgrc/s200/P1040204.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know you are watching so ... please sponsor me as I have just completed 15,000 miles on my world cycle. Bart and I are back on the bikes to take on the challenge of cycling over some of the highest passes in the Alps. Keep reading for the full story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To sponsor me for Oxfam, click on the link on the right. </span>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-76813243663666070662012-06-20T09:22:00.001-07:002012-06-20T09:22:13.354-07:00L'Ecot, France - Technical? Me?<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
You are probably all sitting at home asking yourself “what
does one pack when one is cycling for two years in various parts of the world”
and even if you are not, I am going to give you the answer. Yes, the time has
come in this blog to give you all a bit of technical jargon … at least as
technical as I ever get … which is not very technical at all! </div>
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Of course, the
first thing you need for adventure cycling is a bicycle and I’m so happy with
my Thorn Sherpa which has been strong, reliable, versatile and very comfortable
… although the old girl is a bit on the heavy side. Every now and again I have
popped the bike into a local bike shop wherever I am for a quick service and
replacement of any worn parts and the only serious problem I have had is a
buckled rear rim from riding on the appalling washboard gravel roads of
Argentina. I had to hitch a lift to the next town with a “bicicleteria” for a
replacement. I don’t carry many spares as in most parts of the world you will
find a bike shop of some description but I do have a puncture repair kit and
spare inner tubes though to date I have only had three punctures in nearly 15,000
miles thanks to my expedition grade Schwalbe tires. I do carry one of those
rather nice multi-tools with secret compartments that reveal all sorts of useless
attachments including the one that takes a week to open a tin of beans. Such
multi-tools are commonly known in the trade as “the wrong tool for every job”. </div>
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The
second most important item is my camping kit which allows me to spend the night
almost anywhere I choose and helps me save money by staying in campgrounds or
camping wild rather than paying for rooms. Most of the trip I have carried a
super-lightweight Terra Nova Laser Competition tent which packs small and light
but is still quite roomy, especially if you are my tiny size. When Bart joined
the expedition with his strong thighs and bottomless bike trailer, the
accommodation was upgraded to a very spacious MSR three-person tent – there were
only two of us but, like any couple, you never know when you might want to
entertain in the evening! Dinner parties may be somewhat limited by simple
cooking arrangements. I have an excellent Primus multi-fuel camp stove which
can burn gas canisters, white gas, diesel, petrol and buffalo dung … OK, I’m
lying about the buffalo dung. I cook with two titanium pots so I can make
decent meals on the road and one of them is non-stick for goodies such as scrambled
eggs and steaks! I also have a Titanium mug for enjoying the best part of any
day – relaxing with a cup of tea or coffee. Titanium is very lightweight and,
unlike aluminium cookware, doesn’t give you Alzheimer’s Disease. For a
comfortable night’s sleep I have an inflatable Thermarest camping mattress
which fortunately has never punctured and a down-filled sleeping bag. A silk liner for the bag keeps it clean, is
all I need for sleeping in hot climates and adds a touch of luxury to my
boudoir! </div>
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Now to my wardrobe! Mostly I have followed summer around the globe, so
shorts and T-shirts suffice for most of the day. But in the Andes, the east and
west coasts of the United States and the mountains of New Zealand and Turkey, I
cycled and camped in snow and freezing temperatures. So I also carry some
really warm clothes including a thermal vest and long johns – had I known Bart
was going to be joining me, I might have packed some sexier underwear! In the
electrical department I have a Toshiba netbook computer which has allowed me to
use free wifi, a Panasonic Lumix digital camera, a mobile phone for emergencies
or sending texts to friends when I’m bored, an ipod with some favourite tunes
and one clever device called CamCaddy that can charge all of these through the
computer’s USB port! </div>
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All of this stuff
gets squashed, rolled, pushed and forced into four waterproof bicycle pannier
bags – two on the front racks, two on the rear rack, with the tent strapped on
top. Easy peasy! Most days the total weight of my kit, bicycle, food and water is
about 37kg. And, despite devouring copious amounts of food, I still only weigh
47kg myself. Phew … no wonder I’m exhausted at the end of the day! And rattling
off all this technical jargon is also quite exhausting so I’ll just hit the
“off” button on my thingummyjig, pack away my dibberywotsit and worry about the
hole in the blubberydooda tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<i>New photos on Flickr. </i></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-5763095557714912012012-06-10T08:01:00.001-07:002012-06-10T08:12:38.315-07:00Les Chapieux, France - Kidnapped<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Please help me … I have been kidnapped
and am being held in a remote location in France. My kidnapper’s ransom demands
will follow at the end of the blog. Here
is my statement for the French police.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CfwN-JmHDUk/T9S2Mb43QLI/AAAAAAAAAro/J4M8Y2-u0-I/s1600/P1030987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CfwN-JmHDUk/T9S2Mb43QLI/AAAAAAAAAro/J4M8Y2-u0-I/s200/P1030987.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After crossing the Col du Pillon, I
cycled out of the Alps via the beautiful lakeside Swiss town of Thun with its
trendy waterfront cafes and turreted castles. The excellent system of Swiss
bicycle trails then whisked me along the course of the River Aare, whose
fast-flowing, broiling waters took me by pretty little villages of wooden
houses and through deep forests of tall pines. In most Swiss villages you will
find a water fountain of some description which is always great for topping up
your water bottles or retouching your hair which is usually matted like felt
after several hot hours under a helmet. In the village of Wolfwil I was charmed
by a dozen water fountains, all of a different design – on one you had to turn
a handle to make the water come out of a dragon’s mouth and another was powered
by a waterwheel. A local man told me that the water here comes from deep
underground and gives you great strength. I would need strength for the drama
that lay ahead.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R09OPd5fzOo/T9S2epnOQbI/AAAAAAAAArw/5C2Uo0JBWMI/s1600/P1040029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R09OPd5fzOo/T9S2epnOQbI/AAAAAAAAArw/5C2Uo0JBWMI/s200/P1040029.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">An easy climb in the rain took me
north from the River Aare and over forested hills to join one of Europe’s great
rivers, the mighty Rhine. It had been my plan to follow the course of the Rhine
north to Rotterdam to catch a boat home and so I cycled on through Basel and picked
up a beautiful cycle path along a quiet canal close to the river. I cycled passed a system of huge locks on the river that allow the long, squat cargo boats to pass the hydroelectric dams. It was here
that I met trouble. On the opposite side of the canal, parked in a picnic spot,
I spotted a large white van, with two high windows, a satellite dish and a
good-looking Belgian man. I went over for a closer look but before I knew what
had happened, my kidnapper used his charms to entice me into the van and I was
driven hundreds of miles back to the Alps. My kidnapper is now forcing me every
day to do terrible things … things such as … climbing high mountains covered
with spring flowers, cycling up impossibly steep cols and whizzing down the
other side, eating delicious homemade bolognaise, drinking glasses of wine as
the sun dips behind the peaks and snuggling under a warm duvet each night,
reliving the memories of the day. It is a living hell!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I ask my family and friends not to be
concerned as I am sure I will be released soon. But please, please send my
kidnapper’s ransom demands as soon as possible … a large bag of fun-size
Snickers and two Belgian beers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Photos of my ordeal on Flickr. </i></span></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-80377971738041570662012-05-31T10:36:00.000-07:002012-05-31T11:04:37.959-07:00Zweisimmen, Switzerland - Me, the goddess<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">After my Alpine walking break with
Bart, I’m back on the bike, cycling my way across Switzerland and feeling like
a goddess!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Throughout the trip, I have climbed
some big mountains on my bicycle – the Pyrennees,
the Andes, America’s Appalachians and Rockies, New Zealand’s Southern Alps and
now the European Alps. But today I probably did my last big climb of the trip,
the 5000-foot Col du Pillon. I must confess to feeling very smug and a bit of a
goddess when I power myself and my loaded bike to the top of these big climbs, especially
when there is a crowd of onlookers of lard-ass motorists or coach parties or lightweight,
lycra-clad racing cyclists who’ve carried nothing up there except their credit
card. I always cycle the last section of the pass as hard and fast as I can
then nonchalantly pull over at the top for a brief photo-shoot before stepping
casually back on the bike and pushing off down the other side, as if I do this
every day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The day I cycled over the Col du
Pillon it was grey and cold so I didn’t even arrive at the top red-faced, hot
and sweaty. I was ... I believe ... looking like a goddess!</span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EdW5n6T7Rxc/T8eyb1uiAvI/AAAAAAAAArc/Gd3xDeg5wAE/s1600/ZWEISIMMAN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EdW5n6T7Rxc/T8eyb1uiAvI/AAAAAAAAArc/Gd3xDeg5wAE/s400/ZWEISIMMAN.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-83372084070627754332012-05-20T04:04:00.000-07:002012-05-21T09:41:40.173-07:00Turtmann Valley, Switzerland - White van man<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">White van drivers can drive you crazy. I had one right up my
tail as I cycled through a long tunnel on the Simplon Pass, my route from Italy
to Switzerland. But I didn’t mind this time … the white van driver was Bart in his
camper!</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4EDNrDoNzq4/T7jOiKOZ2bI/AAAAAAAAAqw/SdtF_XkUWNE/s1600/P1030820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4EDNrDoNzq4/T7jOiKOZ2bI/AAAAAAAAAqw/SdtF_XkUWNE/s200/P1030820.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">Those of you following my bicycle blog will be expecting tales of the
hardships of tent life and the challenges of the long road home but be prepared
to be surprised … even shocked! As, for a short time only, I have swapped the
tent and the bicycle for boots and a campervan. One week ago, on a cold, grey
day, up in the late winter snows, I pulled up onto the 2005m Simplon Pass, one
of the few Alpine passes open at this time of year, and found what I’d been
looking for … a large white van, with two high windows, a satellite dish and a good-looking
Belgian man!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Three weeks after parting in Italy, Bart and I are back together
for a spot of walking in the Alps. Our base is Bart’s campervan … it’s a bit of
luxury compared to my tent with kitchen, a bathroom complete with a hot shower,
lounge/dining area and satellite TV so we can snuggle up and watch movies on
the cold evenings. There is a part of the van that Bart calls the “garage”
where all the play things are stored – several bikes, skis, snowshoes and
sledges. Above 2000m it’s still winter in the Alps and on our first day in this
valley we sat at the door of the van and watched as a north wind brought fresh
snow to our little camp spot and the mountains and glaciers that rise sheer
above us. But where the snow has receded colourful Alpine flowers poke up through
the ground, as do the frisky little marmots that we see everywhere. The van has wifi for internet access, no matter that
we are currently parked up in an empty dead-end valley. Don’t ask me exactly
how it works! And yes … there are aluminium chairs … though it’s been a bit
chilly for sitting outside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Before we tucked ourselves away in the Turtmann
Valley for a few days with the cupboards well-stocked with food, we took a
short detour and cycled up to the swanky tourist resort of Zermatt. The bikes
were chained up and we hiked high into the woods through gorgeous villages of
wooden chalets before putting on our snowshoes and trekking through the snow to
get a spectacular view of one of the most famous mountains in the world, the
Matterhorn. It’s sheer rock walls rose above us into a blue sky as a cold wind
whipped across the little top that we had climbed for a good view. We took the
express route back down on our plastic sledges. Here in the Turtmann Valley,
the van is parked up beside the river where we take our water and each day we
walk up into the snow-covered mountains above us. Sometimes we are hiking
through the forests alive with cuckoos, deer and squirrels and above the
forests we strap on our snowshoes to get higher up into Alpine peaks, passes
and cirques for sweeping panoramas that take in another famous mountain, Mont
Blanc. On the way back we are always looking for a good slope and some hard
snow to sledge down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And at the end of each hiking day, I can come back and
enjoy a relaxing coffee in the white van with my white van man!</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">Photos and words on Flickr.</span></i><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE</span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OUM4itRRNn0/T7pv5r7zj6I/AAAAAAAAArE/COuoHLSiGmw/s1600/BRIG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OUM4itRRNn0/T7pv5r7zj6I/AAAAAAAAArE/COuoHLSiGmw/s400/BRIG.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-69746915102597259802012-05-11T09:53:00.000-07:002012-05-11T12:20:41.198-07:00Lago d'Orta, Italy - A day in the life of ... ME<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CJSvLNvCwIk/T60-QsSWoPI/AAAAAAAAApw/WS5Frt1HsPc/s1600/P1030717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CJSvLNvCwIk/T60-QsSWoPI/AAAAAAAAApw/WS5Frt1HsPc/s200/P1030717.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>6am</b> I’m up with the
sun in a campground south of Bologna. It’s the day after I cycled over the
Ponte Vecchio and north out of Florence. Campground was cheap for these parts at
10 euros but it is right beside a highway, a railway line and another highway
under construction. Lovely! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>6.45am</b> After a bit of kit packing I’m eating
breakfast – corn flakes with sliced banana and dried fruit and nuts mixed
through, followed by a fruit smoothie made with the rest of the milk and handy
little sachets of fruit puree that you get in the shops, followed by coffee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>7.30am</b>
Fully packed, on my bike and on the road, joining a stream of rush hour traffic
heading into Bologna. Shortly after, my secondary road merges without warning
onto a stretch of Italy’s A1 motorway. Ooops! I’m off again in under a mile,
before the “polizia” pick me up and choose another road towards the city.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZjG-alDWwbA/T60-wYhHcWI/AAAAAAAAAp4/yXPS1XX0bHU/s1600/P1030719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZjG-alDWwbA/T60-wYhHcWI/AAAAAAAAAp4/yXPS1XX0bHU/s200/P1030719.JPG" width="200" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b>9.15am</b>
After an array of junctions and highway flyovers, I’ve found the right road
west and I’m pleased I’ve navigated successfully across the outer urban sprawl
of Bologna. I reward myself with coffee and a mini meringue at a “pasticceria”.
I have to join one queue to get my meringue, a second queue to get my coffee
and a third queue to pay for it all. Italian efficiency!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cllXpVlRU4k/T61AhQcmxfI/AAAAAAAAAqI/IUt3eh3sNU0/s1600/P1030744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cllXpVlRU4k/T61AhQcmxfI/AAAAAAAAAqI/IUt3eh3sNU0/s200/P1030744.JPG" width="133" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b>10.45am</b> I stop for my
second breakfast of a banana and rice cakes with Nutella and pick up things for
lunch at a little supermarket in Anzola in case I don’t pass another one before
everything closes for siesta. A local cyclist, a mature lady in full hair,
make-up and designer outfit, chats to me. She thinks I’m very brave to cycle
alone. People have said this to me throughout the trip and they say I must be
very strong to which I reply “no, just very slow”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>1.30pm</b> I pull over into a village
park in Ravarino for lunch - a stack of rice cakes with cheese and tomato,
dried fruit and nuts, some rather expensive cherries, a 100g chocolate bar and
an apple. I’ve enjoyed the morning’s cycle as I’m now rolling easily across Italy’s
plains, a welcome relief from the never-ending, steep climbs of the mountains.
The towns here may not be as spectacular but they are pleasant, homely, full of
cyclists and empty of tourists. There is always a little treasure to find when
you cycle onto a beautiful piazza or across a gorgeous old bridge. I lay out my
laundry that I handwashed last night to dry in the sun. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ED23Z_zo1h8/T60_p1vNyqI/AAAAAAAAAqA/_xJ4ckZ4BRQ/s1600/P1030725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ED23Z_zo1h8/T60_p1vNyqI/AAAAAAAAAqA/_xJ4ckZ4BRQ/s200/P1030725.JPG" width="133" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b>2.45pm</b> I’m stopped on
the outskirts of the large town I have to cross today, Carpi, trying to figure
how the roads in front of me relate to the map – they don’t really. A local
cyclist, Luca, pulls up beside me and offers to cycle with me across town to
show me the way and I get a little tour into the bargain as we weave our way
through the network of bike paths which are such a feature of towns in this
part of Italy. Carpi was another little treasure with its enormous piazza
overlooked by the castle and church, and its trendy pavement cafes tucked under
the colonnades. It’s a stinking hot day now - I drink a cold can of coke in the
piazza.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>5pm</b> After crossing more flat miles of farmyards, orchards and flooded
fields of rice, I arrive in Guastalla and buy groceries from the Co-op for
supper and tomorrow morning’s breakfast. I only buy a few things to add to what
I’m already carrying but it comes to 10 euros. I’ve been amazed throughout the
trip how expensive groceries are everywhere and I didn’t budget for that or for
eating as I much as I have. I also get as much water as I can carry on the bike
as I don’t know where I’ll be camping tonight or if I’ll have a water supply.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RR5qOSCrWe8/T61C1zszYKI/AAAAAAAAAqY/l4T7u3RCbSM/s1600/P1030741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RR5qOSCrWe8/T61C1zszYKI/AAAAAAAAAqY/l4T7u3RCbSM/s200/P1030741.JPG" width="133" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b>6pm</b>
No campgrounds on my route today so I’m starting to look for a spot to camp off
to the sides of the quiet back road that I’ve chosen for this reason. I see a
bike path heading into the trees and turn off onto it. It joins the banks of a
huge river, the Po. I’m sure I’ll get a spot along here but cycle further to make
sure I’m well away from the road access. I find a picnic table with a bit of
mown grass beside it and decide this will do for a camp spot. I cook supper at
the picnic table – a delicious medley of rice, green beans, tuna and tomatoes
followed by fruit, rice cakes with Nutella, coffee and some sultanas. I have
enough water left to wash off the worst of the day’s suncream, sweat and dust.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>8pm</b>
A local cyclist stops for a chat. I ask him if its OK to camp here. He says
there are lots of “serpentis” and there is a better place a mile further on. I
don’t need much persuasion to follow him! It’s getting dark but we cycle to a
restaurant on the banks of the river, its bright lights reflecting in the water.
Next to it there is a sort of watersports club with an area for informal and
free camping. There is a motorhome already there. I thank my second “road
angel” of the day and with a shake of hands he disappears into the night. I
pitch the tent as the sun sets over the Po, chuck everything inside and lock
the bike to an adjacent tree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>9pm</b> Write up my journal on the netbook and add up
the distance I’ve cycled today (123km or 76 miles). Quick look at the map to
note the route for tomorrow then lights out and I get off to sleep.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aDmdsSscVqo/T61mLQt-L7I/AAAAAAAAAqk/ZTdIjhFmguA/s1600/ORTA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aDmdsSscVqo/T61mLQt-L7I/AAAAAAAAAqk/ZTdIjhFmguA/s400/ORTA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-30982529215578788482012-05-06T06:38:00.003-07:002012-05-06T06:40:32.036-07:00Florence, Italy - Frenzy in Firenze<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A long time ago my
friends Graham and Andrew went on a group holiday to Florence. For years they
have bored me with their tales of that trip – “Florence this” … “Florence that”.
At last I can now bore them with my own tales! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_mGCMNsR-oM/T6P2gLd-YrI/AAAAAAAAApE/CSBEsytPSEc/s1600/P1030537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_mGCMNsR-oM/T6P2gLd-YrI/AAAAAAAAApE/CSBEsytPSEc/s200/P1030537.JPG" width="133" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;">The cycle north to this
beautiful city, which the Italians insist on calling Firenze for some reason,
was an idyllic mix of rolling hills of vineyards and olive groves, and gorgeous
little towns stacked on the hilltops … so many that I stopped taking photos or
even remembering their names. It was always “Monte-something-o”, the clue to their
lofty location being in the name. Some days I melted under a fierce sun and
other days shivered in torrential rain. On those wet days I sat out the
heaviest downpours in bars as every village has one. I had to remember to ask
for my coffee “molto caldo” or it would come at a luke warm temperature,
insufficient to heat me up after a soaking. The menfolk of the village can
always be found sitting outside these bars during siesta. The amusingly-named
village of Grotti had an electronic community notice board opposite the bar and
so the menfolk sat there for hours, watching it spell out such fascinating
facts as the pharmacy opening hours. It was the most exciting thing in Grotti.
As I wasted away from malnutrition waiting for the “alimentari” to open so I might
buy groceries for supper, I joined them. The pharmacy in Grotti is open … like
most things in Italy … hardly ever! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The last section of the ride has been most
notable for a few little acts of kindness. One evening, after a long day of
cycling and without a campground on my route, I was struggling to find a spot
to put up the tent. It’s usually not a problem – late afternoon I simply start
looking for a dirt track that heads off the road into the woods and somewhere
along it will be a perfect little place for my tent in the dappled sunshine
below the trees. But that day I just couldn’t find it. So I ended up asking a
chap who was working in his garden if I could camp in the field next door. He
said “yes” but as I was getting the tent out, came down to tell me that I could
use the empty apartment below him instead. He gave me the key and that night I
enjoyed a sofa-bed, a kitchen and a hot shower! Then there was the greengrocer
who gave me free bananas when he learned I was cycling to Scotland and a kindly
campground manager who donated milk and fruit when the shops were closed again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2mc6Gq1TwkY/T6Z5zx0GzqI/AAAAAAAAApk/-ZgX4Xn9xm4/s1600/P1030656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2mc6Gq1TwkY/T6Z5zx0GzqI/AAAAAAAAApk/-ZgX4Xn9xm4/s200/P1030656.JPG" width="133" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">A few
more miles and I rolled into Florence which was a bit of a shock as traffic, tourists
and souvenir stalls crowded the narrow city streets. These last two weeks I
have been cycling in a different world of quiet rural villages going about
their business where bent-over grandmothers sweep the pavements and old men in
flat caps poke about in the woods along the empty back roads. I’m not sure what
day it is and I’ve forgotten who is Prime Minister … though I hope it’s not
still that Thatcher woman. If you want lots of cultural information about
Florence, you are reading the wrong blog! I simply had a pleasant time on a
grey, wet day ambling aimlessly along the banks of the grotty Arno and crossing
back and forth on the famous Ponte Vecchio with its quaint little jewellery
shops. Yes, I admired the Duomo and the Baptistry doors, and giggled with the
girls at the many naked statues of well-endowed men at the Palazzo Vecchio. But
my favourite sight in Florence was Il Porcellino, a beautiful, life-size
sculpture in brass of a wild boar tucked away in the Mercato Nuovo. I placed a
coin in his mouth which is said to bring good luck and rubbed his snout to
ensure a return to Florence. Judging by its shine, millions of tourists have
done the same. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mIQyYsSVRaU/T6P3mKTK9iI/AAAAAAAAApM/f2r76fjhEy0/s1600/P1030576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mIQyYsSVRaU/T6P3mKTK9iI/AAAAAAAAApM/f2r76fjhEy0/s200/P1030576.JPG" width="200" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">I know this is an
outrageous thing to say about one of the world’s most famous cities but I
wasn’t blown away by Florence. A couple of days before I had cycled through a
tiny town to the southwest of the city called San Gimignano. With its ancient
towers and narrow streets reaching into a blue sky above a delightful Tuscan
scenery of red-roofed farmhouses amongst rolling hills of vineyards and olive
groves, I thought it oozed much more charm and magic than its more famous
neighbour. But what do I know? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">I do know this … that my friend Andrew wrote a
funny story about that holiday to Florence all those years ago and he’ll be
peeved that I stole the title which was … Frenzy in Firenze!</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">To see new photos on Flickr - click on the Flickr link on the right then on the Italy folder!</span></i><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uRXxp3nu2SU/T6VyQTt--AI/AAAAAAAAApY/v0lOaUAsqKE/s1600/Florence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uRXxp3nu2SU/T6VyQTt--AI/AAAAAAAAApY/v0lOaUAsqKE/s400/Florence.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-7019733856932214922012-04-25T07:03:00.000-07:002012-04-25T15:02:30.705-07:00Barrea, Italy - I smell ... therefore I am!<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Since arriving in
Italy by ferry from Greece, campgrounds, and therefore showers, have been quite
hard to come by. And so I think that maybe … if you were to stand too close to
me … you might say that I smell! </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BTUaEGfPnDE/T5gDza-XlDI/AAAAAAAAAos/WNa4p1hI2ZU/s1600/P1030466.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BTUaEGfPnDE/T5gDza-XlDI/AAAAAAAAAos/WNa4p1hI2ZU/s200/P1030466.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">The first day of cycling in Italy for me and
Bart was a dreary ride up the ugly coast north of Brindisi, where our ferry
arrived. But at least on the first night we found a lovely camp spot and put the
tent up inside an old cow shed in an olive grove. I do mean lovely! It was a
beautiful old building with a large arched doorway and all its original
features … except the cows! We soon left the coast and cycled up into the hills
that form the spine of Italy. Here we found attractive old towns with sunny piazzas
overlooked by grand churches and old men sitting outside cafes. We cycled up
higher into the hills where the little villages became clusters of flat-roofed
buildings stacked precariously one on top of the other on vertical
mountainsides or, annoyingly for the loaded cyclist, on the very top of the hills,
like the pretty old town of Melfi. I must admit that we did get a shower in
Melfi as we stayed in a hotel – a treat from Bart at the end of our time
cycling together. Bart is now forging ahead of me to catch his plane back to
Belgium. Already I miss him and snuggling up in the tent together but we’ll
meet again in a short time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Cycling solo again, I battled headwinds across the
ugly but appropriately named area of Benevento where the only place I could
find to camp was behind the football pitch above the small village of San
Salvatore. I laughed to myself in the evening as I thought I had found a quiet
spot but didn’t count on football practice starting and the floodlights being
switched on full-beam! Next day, I started cycling big climbs over 1000 metre
passes up into the spectacular mountains of Abruzzo, Lazio and Molise National
Park. My efforts were rewarded by views of pretty villages at the foot of
snow-covered mountains and quiet roads that wound their way through spring
woodlands awash with wildflowers – I recognise the yellow primroses and purple
cyclamens – and resounding with the calls of cuckoos and the drumming of
woodpeckers. I found a beautiful camp spot on a grassy ledge above the village
of Pizzone with the mountains all around. I’d been looking for a spot to pitch
the tent in the late afternoon but the mountainsides were so steep that my tent
would have slipped down like butter off a hot knife. At last I came upon a
small farm with surrounding woods and terraced fields. I asked the farmer, who
was chopping wood and tending his goats, if I could put my tent up for the
night. He said yes with a sweep of his hand across the landscape that seemed to
say “help yourself to any spot in Italy”. The view was gorgeous down the
valley, especially after dark when the lights of the villages twinkled like
those on a Christmas tree. Even the smell of manure overwhelmed my own smell on
another evening without a shower! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Today I am in an idyllic mountain village
called Barrea but I have the triple delights of a campground, internet and a
shower! So tonight I do smell again … but at least I smell of roses! </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">Photos on Flickr - again, not many as the weather has been mostly grey and wet.</span></i><br />
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</div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-46186073640571258822012-04-16T07:23:00.006-07:002012-04-16T08:41:36.661-07:00Igoumenitsa, Greece - The silence of the lambs<div style=" text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Let’s get some things straight. I don’t do fashion or make-up; I don’t do babies and small children; and I certainly don’t do dancing. But somehow, at some point cycling somewhere in Turkey, I promised Bart that I would do traditional Greek dancing once we got to Greece. As we neared the ferry port for our boat to Italy, I thought I had got away with it!</span><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">As soon as our ferry from Crete had docked at the port for Athens we jumped on our bikes in the half light of early morning and started cycling north, eager to make a bit of fast time. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">But the weather had other plans and again and again over the next few days we found ourselves cycling through heavy downpours when we couldn’t even see the road for torrents of muddy water. We warmed ourselves in dark, smoky roadside cafes where the old men of the little villages we cycled through gathered in the mornings. We even checked into cheap hotel rooms a couple of times to escape the wet. </span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NMgWvXG2UOs/T4wsds3WeDI/AAAAAAAAAoY/umGmZxbypKo/s1600/P1030439.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NMgWvXG2UOs/T4wsds3WeDI/AAAAAAAAAoY/umGmZxbypKo/s200/P1030439.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732005314506946610" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">As we cycled on through misty mountain towns we noticed many households were killing and skinning sheep as gunshots rang out across the valleys, silencing another poor sheep or lamb. We soon learned that Greece celebrates Easter one week later than Western Europe and that mutton is the traditional dish served on Easter Sunday. We also learned that on Easter Sunday every shop and every gas station and every restaurant is closed! And of course … we had no food … only the smell of roasting mutton drifting across the road. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=" ">On empty stomachs we pedalled north then took a quiet road along the coast where we lingered over the map beside a campground that looked closed, trying to decide our best options for finding food and a place to pitch the tent. Within seconds we were being ushered inside to join the family for a traditional Easter lunch!<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">A whole sheep was roasting on the barbecue and the stereo was belting out Greek music as bottomless glasses of wine were pushed into our hands. Then the traditional meal was served - the sheep entrails were difficult to stomach but the mutton itself was delicious. And, of course, the Easter celebration wasn’t complete without some traditional Greek dancing and, with a bit of tuition from our hosts, I was able to fulfill my promise to Bart! <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As we board our next ferry across the Ionian Sea, I’m now looking forward to picking up some Italian fashions!</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-style: italic; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">More photos on Flickr – not many but it’s been too wet to get the camera out!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-style: italic; text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=" ">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--hTauvdDVA8/T4w9D5GyGPI/AAAAAAAAAok/-Gok5u4TTwo/s1600/IGOUMENITSA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 374px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--hTauvdDVA8/T4w9D5GyGPI/AAAAAAAAAok/-Gok5u4TTwo/s400/IGOUMENITSA.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732023562813970674" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-66791435488253956412012-04-08T06:30:00.008-07:002012-04-14T06:36:08.594-07:00Crete, Greece - A day in the mountains<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">After a few days of cycling along the pretty south coast of Crete, it was time to return to the north coast and cross the peaks that form the backbone of the island. It was time for a day in the mountains!</span></span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">We woke early in the cheap room that we had found above the taverna in the quaint mountain village of Amoudari and Bart popped out on his bike to get fresh milk for breakfast and croissants from the bakery. </span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vi_uNQbwUIg/T4GTqb1KiGI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/yT7ePrLUWaM/s1600/P1030378.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vi_uNQbwUIg/T4GTqb1KiGI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/yT7ePrLUWaM/s200/P1030378.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729022558226516066" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">We left most of our bags with our landlady, a grey-haired old Greek woman dressed in black, and only took with us what we needed for a day in the hills. We started our day in the usual way of cycling on Crete...with a long, steep climb on a gravel road! We rode up through pine forests that thinned out to snow patches and rocky ridges, giving us beautiful views of the snow-covered mountains above. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yes ... you read correctly ... snow-covered mountains on Crete! We chained the bikes to a tree and started walking, picking our way through dense bushes with vicious thorns and across boulders with holes in like Swiss cheese and then finally up steep snow fields. We climbed to a top at 2135m for views across the snow-plastered Askifou Plateau and tried to eat a snack as we were blasted by a strong, cold wind. We made a quick descent, running down the snow and then cycling back down the mountain, to enjoy a cold drink back at the taverna late in the afternoon. We picked up our heavy bags and a few groceries from the little supermarket before cycling over another mountain pass as we scoured the countryside for a camp spot.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">We eventually found a gorgeous little spot for the tent beside a small chapel, tucked in olive groves below the mountains. The chapel was unlocked and in the evening people came to light the candles inside. We cooked supper in evening sunshine and looked back up at the snow-covered peaks with a feeling of deep satisfaction from a great day in the mountains.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><span style="font-style: italic;">Photos from Crete on Flickr - click on the link on the right.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RXBfgwftNFI/T4Gy7UE5eLI/AAAAAAAAAnc/Ex7FIFq1Iis/s1600/Crete.jpg"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE</span></a></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6olxkYQlhnM/T4cq37a18yI/AAAAAAAAAno/wuMw5lDHg8I/s1600/Crete.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 181px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6olxkYQlhnM/T4cq37a18yI/AAAAAAAAAno/wuMw5lDHg8I/s400/Crete.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730596191183696674" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; line-height:normal"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;font-family:Calibri;" > </span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-28145109909761539512012-03-31T09:02:00.010-07:002012-04-01T06:17:30.945-07:00Rhodes, Greece - Off-road Rhodes<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I have cycled through more beautiful, off-the-beaten-track places than I can count on my bicycle trip so when Bart and I cycled south down the west coast of Rhodes through the ugliness of mass tourism, I wondered if we had made a mistake coming to a holiday island. But we quickly discovered that the secret to happy touring on Rhodes is to go off-road.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Our ferry from Turkey arrived on the Greek island of Rhodes as it was getting dark and we had a fun evening cycling madly through the narrow, dimly-lit alleyways of the medieval town trying to find a room for the night. Next day, after a morning of wandering around the beautiful cobblestone roads </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4r1vWvvW5Fk/T3hGpBIe9fI/AAAAAAAAAnE/2QWEdAsuUsA/s1600/P1030300.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4r1vWvvW5Fk/T3hGpBIe9fI/AAAAAAAAAnE/2QWEdAsuUsA/s200/P1030300.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726404596694185458" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";">and narrow passages, we cycled through the gates in the ancient city walls to pop out into the modern town and start cycling down the west coast with its endless strips of bars, cafes, restaurants, ugly hotels and partly-built resorts. Fortunately we found a pleasant escape route as we picked a dirt trail that climbed up into the mountains. What a change! </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Soon we were cycling through lemon and orange groves and up through little terraced plots of vegetables as farmworkers downed tools and finished their working day. We pitched the tent that evening beside an olive grove and listened to the tinkle of the bells on the goat herds as the setting sun cast a peachy light on the rocky mountain above. Further meandering along the quiet off-road trails of Rhodes took us up into the high lands, past deserted monasteries that looked out over the hills and sea and through little mountain villages. At one village we stopped for lunch in a small café as we had been unable to buy any food that day. We wondered if we had somehow offended the owner as she scurried off across the street after we gave her our order … but she quickly returned with potatoes freshly dug from the field and in ten minutes we had delicious, fresh, home-made French fries!</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">We came back out of the hills to enjoy a relaxing day in the picturesque coastal town of Lindos with its typical skinny streets and whitewashed buildings. In the morning we walked through the village which, like most of the island, was deserted awaiting this year's first influx of tourists. In the afternoon we sipped drinks at a little bar right at the edge of the crystal-clear, aquamarine sea – I had always imagined doing this on a Greek island one day – and raised our glasses to riding off-road in Rhodes!</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: arial; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";">Photos in the Greece folder!<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: arial; text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">CLICK MAP TO ENLARGE</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FKCdNl9t4qA/T3dC-iCRDZI/AAAAAAAAAm4/qsdQyUWdci8/s1600/RHODES%2BMAP.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 389px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FKCdNl9t4qA/T3dC-iCRDZI/AAAAAAAAAm4/qsdQyUWdci8/s400/RHODES%2BMAP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726119093280509330" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-21227062933473344242012-03-24T06:41:00.006-07:002012-03-25T10:13:02.152-07:00Marmaris, Turkey - The lost world<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our bicycle adventure across Turkey has come to an end in the out-of-season, seaside resort of Marmaris. Turkey has given us some brilliant cycling and wonderful experiences with the Turkish people. Last Thursday was a typical day cycling in Turkey. It went like this ...</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />We woke with the rising sun in a woodland high above the river with snow-capped mountains around us and the sounds of the morning call to prayers from a village mosque. After a couple of hours on the road we pulled into a small village to buy bread and cheese and drink Turkish tea. </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8MAujoaSNvI/T23U0vw0mgI/AAAAAAAAAmg/yCsbN7bnCJU/s1600/P1030249.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8MAujoaSNvI/T23U0vw0mgI/AAAAAAAAAmg/yCsbN7bnCJU/s200/P1030249.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723464704097294850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">We cycled on following directions we'd been given in the village but before too long we seemed to be a little bit lost in a maze of dirt roads with our food supplies dwindling. It's funny how sometimes things go wrong but end up for the better! We popped out into a slice of paradise in a place that felt like a lost world -red-roofed buildings were stacked on the hillside beside terraced fields being worked by hand, mountain views were all around and we cycled passed blossom trees covered with flowers and orange trees heavy with fresh fruit.<br /><br />We pulled off the track to make a picnic lunch and had no sooner sat down than we were invited by a young woman, Tazjen, to come to her house. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It was a simple house but comfortable and homely. Tazjen gave us a lunch of eggs, bread, yoghurt, olives and vegetables. You may think that there is nothing unusual in that but as she showed us around we learned that all the food had come from the family's plots adjacent to the house - wheat grew in the terraced fields which they milled themselves to make bread; chickens provided fresh eggs every day; four cows produced milk to make yoghurt and cheese; olive trees yielded delicious green and black olives; and fruit trees provided bananas and apples. We were so impressed by Tazjen's traditional skills and warm friendliness to two strangers.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">After lunch we continued to pick our way over steep climbs and twisting descents on gravel tracks before eventually finding the dam that we should have crossed early that morning. It was late now with just an hour before dark so we threw the tent up on an exposed, rocky shelf above the dam - not a pretty spot but the stars and planets were spectacular after dark and we slept well after another great day cycling in Turkey.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">We are now waiting in Marmaris to catch a boat to the Greek island of Rhodes for the next chapter of the adventure.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j7JmcgZZppc/T29RP1BhXZI/AAAAAAAAAms/kuSnMYV0w94/s1600/Marmaris.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 368px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j7JmcgZZppc/T29RP1BhXZI/AAAAAAAAAms/kuSnMYV0w94/s400/Marmaris.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723882983784537490" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div> </div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-47444933699028536872012-03-18T08:52:00.006-07:002012-03-24T06:40:48.115-07:00Pammukale, Turkey - Landing on our bums in butter<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">You may not know the traditional Belgian saying “landing on our bums in butter” but I’m assured by Bart that it means you have been very lucky with good and kind hospitality. And so it was that we applied the expression time and again to our first week cycling south through Turkey.</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Like us, you may imagine Turkey to be a hot and sunny country but after we sailed away from Istanbul across the Sea of Marmara we cycled up high into freezing, snow-covered mountains. The first night we pitched the tent in a little wood and woke to heavy snow falling gently through the branches. We cycled on up huge climbs and down chilling descents in blizzards of snow, passing through little towns and villages tucked in the h</span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u5PMNKDjac4/T23Or5Uk1cI/AAAAAAAAAmU/kG-isBTsaLc/s1600/P1030193.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u5PMNKDjac4/T23Or5Uk1cI/AAAAAAAAAmU/kG-isBTsaLc/s200/P1030193.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723457954974586306" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">ills. In this wintry weather we were really lucky to experience wonderful kindness and hospitality from the friendly Turkish people. In Harmancik we got a room in the house for visiting school teachers – though we had to convince the manager that we were married to be allowed to stay in the same room! Then in Dagardi we had only to ask about a room at one of the many cafes where we stop on the road for warming, traditional Turkish tea and within minutes a phone call was made and we were led to a gorgeous little room with comfy mattresses and a wood-burning stove. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">The people even insisted that we stay for free. Then there was our first experience of a Turkish campsite. For no charge we pitched our tent on a wooden terrace in the trees with a view to snow-covered mountains and the proprietors even ran us a hot Turkish bath in the evening! It’s not all been rough living though - in the hot springs resort of Simav, for the princely sum of £13, we treated ourselves to a room in the “thermal hotel” whose natural hot spring water heated the bed and even the floors where we laid our laundry out to dry! Countless times on the road we are called over to join people for tea and we were even served lunch by a friendly group of road workers – Bart is still talking about how delicious the meatballs were!</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">It’s fair to say that most of the time in our interactions with local people, we have no idea what is going on but it always seems to turn out that we land on our bums in butter.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";">More photos on Flickr.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9WuMPkzH78/T2Yr4IiwLYI/AAAAAAAAAmI/PJtDZ52IHPY/s1600/pummukane.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 368px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9WuMPkzH78/T2Yr4IiwLYI/AAAAAAAAAmI/PJtDZ52IHPY/s400/pummukane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721308619986709890" border="0" /></a></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;font-family:Calibri;" > </span></span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-59751428640051048462012-03-08T02:22:00.005-08:002012-03-09T07:53:49.896-08:00Istanbul, Turkey - Counting cats<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 134px; height: 200px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717479113430364018" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XafdhfZxYdA/T1iQ9g67b3I/AAAAAAAAAlw/vrEsnQL9p7M/s200/P1030049.JPG" border="0" />The sun is shining but the air is cold and the wind has a winter's edge - it's early March in Istanbul. We wander the narrow alleys of the Grand Bazaar, wake and fall asleep to the muezzins calling Muslims to prayers in the mosques, gaze over the waters of the Bosphorous from Topkapi Palace, scoff hot chestnuts in the square wrapped up in our winter woollies and count the stray cats catching the weak rays of the sun. In Islam cats are revered so the strays are fed and cared for - they can relax. We, on the other hand, can't relax but must get on our bikes and start pedalling south through Turkey. I'm using the word "we" again. You remember I met Bart in New Zealand? (<a href="http://www.symaniak.blogspot.com/2011/12/oamaru-new-zealand-alps-to-ocean.html">click here</a>) Well, we are together again for more cycling adventures that will hopefully bring us some "Turkish Delight".<br /><br /></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><em>Photos from Istanbul on Flickr - click on the link.</em></span></div>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-91702487318063990822012-03-02T01:08:00.007-08:002012-03-04T06:12:32.673-08:00Sydney, Australia - Dances with dingoes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:relyonvml/> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> 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priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} </style> <![endif]--><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">“You wanna get yourself a big stick, luv” was the advice from the grey-haired, old man who appeared mysteriously out of the bush in the gathering dusk of Myall Lakes National Park. Mine was the only tent pitched at a lonely national park campground and I’d just cooked and eaten supper inside my mosquito net that I’d hung from a tree – the little biters were out in their millions again. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5VMbeUAesU/T1COymUEyKI/AAAAAAAAAlA/KNObYrlVlvM/s1600/P1030008.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5VMbeUAesU/T1COymUEyKI/AAAAAAAAAlA/KNObYrlVlvM/s200/P1030008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715224927062509730" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">I took the old man’s advice and before it was dark I found a big stick. This was not to beat off the men, as you might imagine … or </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">as I might hope … but to beat off the dingoes. I was slightly </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">alarmed when the man said there were five or six hanging around and that he had been attacked by one but thought he was probably just trying to impress the tourist. But sure enough, as darkness descended, a dingo wandered into the camp on the left and another appeared on the right, both much bigger than I had guessed dingoes to be. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve dealt with domestic and farm dogs chasing the bike throughout my trip but a pack of wild dogs stalking my tent was an altogether more frightening prospect. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I waved my stick and shouted in a loud, gruff voice </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">“get away” and they disappeared into the shadows. But I still felt a bit nervous so there was only one thing for it – </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">I </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">moved myself and my belongings into the long-drop toilet, which was quite roomy and not at all smelly, and slept there. Unfortunately I did have to share it with a rat that ran over my head during the night and a rather scary looking spider whose huge web took up more than its fair share of the bed!</span></span><br /></div><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">I’d stopped at Myall Lakes on my cycle tour along the coast of New South Wales, a trip where I’ve mingled with the surf crowd on golden beaches, cycled through eucalyptus forests resounding with the maniacal laughter of the kookaburras and hopped on and off little ferries that potter back and forth across the bays or through channels in the mangroves where pelicans hang out in large flocks. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a0mVxwybl7c/T1CPNr-MYrI/AAAAAAAAAlM/0hQS7t39584/s1600/P1020909.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a0mVxwybl7c/T1CPNr-MYrI/AAAAAAAAAlM/0hQS7t39584/s200/P1020909.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715225392437813938" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">I arrived in Sydney from the appealingly-named suburb of Manly on another ferry that gave me a spectacular view of the famous Opera House and Harbour Bridge as it chugged into the city. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Sydney is a swanky, modern place and seems to be populated entirely by people who look like they just stepped out of a fashion magazine and by beautiful, tanned women who saunter serenely along the waterfront promenades in floaty summer dresses. I, meantime, stomp around in my rotten trainers that smell like a possum died in them, feeling not at all beautiful, just hot and sweaty.<br /></span></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Extreme heat is the name of the game here so I’m always happy when the day’s cycling is over and I can slip into my thongs. Before you start picturing me in a type of skimpy underwear, let me explain. In Britain we call them “flip-flops” but in New Zealand they are “jandals” and in Australia they are “thongs”. They are that ubiquitous and classic piece of cheap, airy footwear much loved the world over except in Scotland where you’d likely loose toes to frostbite if you ventured outside in your thongs!<br /></span></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Australia is hot but it’s not always dry, as I discovered when the continuation of my cycle trip south of the city was brought to a premature end by monsoonal rains that brought unprecedented levels of precipitation and flash flooding, clearing the famous beaches of their beautiful people. So, on a rather damp note, my brief tour in Australia is over, as is my time pedalling down under. And as the days and months on the road accumulate while the trip budget diminishes, it’s time for me to fly back to the northern hemisphere for the final leg of my bicycle journey and the return ride to Scotland. Keep watching as I cycle home across Europe from the exotic, eastern city of Istanbul.</span></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Portobello here I come!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Calibri;" ><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Photos on Flickr - click on the link to the right and click on the pics.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Calibri;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vebwf8g17jc/T1N0HIMHBVI/AAAAAAAAAlY/1RCZSilApDs/s1600/OZ.jpg"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""></span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5YjNm0kSG0Q/T1N4FeOcolI/AAAAAAAAAlk/0rURb2jwnoQ/s1600/OZ.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5YjNm0kSG0Q/T1N4FeOcolI/AAAAAAAAAlk/0rURb2jwnoQ/s400/OZ.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716044387471630930" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;font-family:Calibri;" ><br /></span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-848691623543321152012-02-24T16:32:00.004-08:002012-02-25T00:30:03.886-08:00Bateau Bay, Australia - Food, glorious food<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> 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New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Food! It consumes half my daily budget and even when I’m not eating it, I’m usually thinking about it. Whenever I roll into a new town in whatever country or whatever continent I’m cycling in, my first thought is to hunt out groceries.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">My favourite grocery experience was probably in South America where I enjoyed shopping for fresh produce at the fruit and veg stalls, and buying a nice piece of meat to fry from the “carniceria” hoping to boost my iron intake for the thin air of the Bolivian Altiplano. But I also enjoyed the huge variety of foods available in the States and pulling off the road to make little picnics in the town parks along the way. One thing I’ve enjoyed in abundance is avocados. I started eating them by the barrow-load in Argentina where they were cheap and delicious then loved adding them to my salads and tortillas in the States. Mind you, nobody would want to be cycling behind me after I’d had a few ripe avocados! And for the gluten-free traveller, New Zealand came up trumps with wide availability, even in little towns, of delicious gluten-free breads, cakes and other goodies.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Of course, one benefit of this bicycle trip, apart from all the nice scenery and stuff, is that I can eat what I want with impunity. My sister will vouch for the fact that I was eating three breakfasts per day when I arrived at her house in Portugal and in the States I frequently enjoyed the MacDonalds’ 1200-calorie afternoon snack of large fries with a chocolate milkshake! There’s always plenty of fruit, veggies and salad in my diet but unfortunately the calorie count is usually bumped up by chocolate, biscuits and ice-cream. So when my bicycle trip is over and I’m not riding over mountains every day, somebody PLEASE remind me that I can’t eat as much as I am now.</span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233837992234639575.post-80499894484338645612012-02-15T23:17:00.001-08:002012-02-24T19:35:47.273-08:00Christchurch, New Zealand - Shaky quaky<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span style="">You’re all probably aware that in February 2011 the city of Christchurch suffered a devastating earthquake. As well as taking many lives, it destroyed the historic centre and thousands of homes in the suburbs. But you may not be aware that earthquakes are still rumbling away in Christchurch on a weekly basis. I felt two large earthquakes centred on the city at Christmas time when I was in Dunedin; on my first night camping on the Banks Peninsula, a 4.1 quake shook the ground beneath me; and just last night another violent quake shook the city. It was with a little trepidation therefore that I accepted an invitation to stay in the earthquake red zone at the house of Sean and Sharon, a lovely couple that I’d spent time with in Little River.</span></span><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify; font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-drCPvAt-Sws/Tzy4sX8PZ2I/AAAAAAAAAkc/R7tf9LExKLM/s1600/P1020883.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-drCPvAt-Sws/Tzy4sX8PZ2I/AAAAAAAAAkc/R7tf9LExKLM/s200/P1020883.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709641500079384418" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">I cycled into Christchurch expecting to find a city almost back to normal but I was in for quite a shock. The historic centre remains closed off with high, wire barricades all around. You can peer through the wires into a post- apocalyptic scene of tumbled down buildings with rubbish blowing through the deserted streets. I cycled on to Sean and Sharon’s house along cracked, pot-holed roads through ghost towns of abandoned homes, some sitting at alarming angles or sunken into the ground with windows and walls cracked open.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I chatted at length with Sean and Sharon who helped me understand just how devastating an impact this disaster has had. There is no end in sight to the frequent aftershocks so people can’t rebuild their lives and move on, and the psychological impact on people is immense – they have to live with a constant sense of dread and unease, worrying when the next big quake will come and where their loved ones will be when it hits. They told me that many households now </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">sleep with lights on so they can move quickly should another big quake strike during the night but also for some sense of comfort during the dark hours. And so many people are caught up in protracted wrangles between insurance companies who decide that a house can be repaired so they only pay out repair costs and the council who say the same house is unsafe and has to be demolished. It’s been a very sobering few days for me!<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9SX7nJeDOYQ/Tzy6DbaAQII/AAAAAAAAAko/PmgpJFbfRZM/s1600/P1020842.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9SX7nJeDOYQ/Tzy6DbaAQII/AAAAAAAAAko/PmgpJFbfRZM/s200/P1020842.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709642995658145922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin">Christchurch is the last stop on my bicycle tour of New Zealand. In nearly four months of meandering around the country there have been some great highlights – the spectacular scenery of Mount Cook National Park; cycling the quiet tracks of the Otago Central Rail Trail; exploring the former gold-mining communities of the beautiful west coast; some great wee camping spots; catching up with old friends in Auckland and Dunedin and making many new ones – but it’s been tough riding with hard hills and horrible headwinds! And there has been a downside too - New Zealand doesn’t half attract holidaymakers with no brains! Every day I’m passed by thousands of tourists in motorhomes spending </span>every waking minute driving hundreds of miles to ensure they don’t miss any sight that their guidebook tells them they must see on their once-in-a-lifetime, whistle-stop tour of New Zealand. But they end up being processed at speed through New Zealand’s rather well-worn and overly packaged tourist trail. Then there are the young backpackers and gap year students who are whisked around the country on special buses that stop long enough so they can experience such life-enriching activities as jet-boating or bungy-jumping or hitting golf balls into a floating hole in Lake Taupo. Then it’s off to the pub to spend the rest of the time drinking. Some gap year! The most notable gap is between their ears!<span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin;">This may sound like me being grumpy but I’m not – I’ve had a great time in New Zealand and I’m very sad to leave. But I’m not finished down-under just yet … so keep reading as I eat my tucker by the billabong and waltz with Matilda on a short cycle tour in Australia.</span></span></p>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14893037362362564351noreply@blogger.com0