Mekong Meander. Day 4: Tra Vinh to Can Tho

A short blog today. I'm in recovery. Whilst riding today I drank north of 10 pints of water in about 5 hours and still dehydrated. After 90 km I finally made it to the ferry that would drop me near my hotel and sat down very heavily, head in hands, a bit dizzy. An elderly woman came over and rubbed both my thighs with both her hands. This is her next to a generator. The generator is on the right.

Oh. Happy New Year.

Day 12: Cres to Rab

Up early for a short ride with a stiff climb to catch the Merag to Valbiska ferry. At the ticket office I stand my bike up on the kerb and see that my saddle is covered in white cream. Oh dear. That means my shorts are too and I'm walking around sporting nappy cream leakage to add to the baggy shirt\Poundland sunhat look. 

Chafing, like broccoli, is the devil's business. On long rides if you don't avoid it, then you will be in a whole world of pain when you shed skin. Since you've asked, Sudocrem is my cream of choice. Other creams are available and I receive no financial compensation for recommending Sudocrem. Always seek advice from a Consultant Dermatologist to see if Sudocrem is the right preparation to meet the needs of your bum. Seek advice from a Consultant Opthalmologist if you manage to get Sudocrem in your eye by stupidly sticking your finger in your eye when you have Sudocrem, my cream of choice, on your finger. Similar advice applies to your ear, the charger socket on your phone and your best shagpile carpet. If, like me, you manage to eat Sudocrem because it's on your cheese and pickle sandwich, stop using Sudocrem immediately. You really shouldn't be allowed on the other side of the stairgate and should only use rounded plastic scissors but not permitted to walk whilst holding them. You should also consider a career in politics. Sudocrem is in your local Pharmacist, on your local Pharmacist and on everything within a five meter radius of me.

I am in Rab having ferry hopped via Krk. I popped into the tourist office to see where I catch tomorrow's ferry to the next island of Pag. Ah well... here's the thing... it's a bit windy you see, so the man and his nine metre boat (aka the ferry) might not be up for it because it is Tuesday and September. However, if his mum needs to come over to the butchers (open on Tuesday and Thursday in September) then there's a chance the ferry might possibly run..... or not. Ok. So that's all clear. The final bit of advice is to come to the harbour at 8:00 AM and see if he is here. If he is then the ferry might leave at noon but could be earlier if his mum is disappointed by the bratwurst. Ok. Got it. I'll let you know what happens......

Sudocrem. My cream of choice. Made for babies. Worn by men.

Day 18: Trogir to Split

Last day of riding today down the coast and into Split. 

As I leave Trogir there's a queue outside the church at the end of the alleyway where I'm staying. There's a very strong Catholic tradition with new churches built where there is development. I like their simplicity.

I had hoped to make it to Dubrovnik but the storms and wind meant I had to take the island hopping route rather than the mountains. Trying to sync the ferries wasn't easy and meant a lot of down time. A lot more climbing than the last two tours in France and Vietnam as well. I think about 10 times more over 850 km in total. All this means I've been much slower than I anticipated.

Some very good luck in Split. In the second bike shop I go to the guy working there says he will unpack a new bike to give me the box. Brilliant! I can now take my bike apart, pack it up and hope the taxi is big enough to get us both to the airport.

Croatia: beautiful coast, enigmatic people, sloppy burgers.

Blog over.

Day 17: Sibenik to Trogir

About an hour or so into today’s ride I stop for coffee at a beach bar in Grebastica. Nice view of the bay and the hill beyond with a steep road zigzagging it’s way up to the top. It looks like there has been a forest fire so the trees won’t offer much shade. I’m very glad I’m not doing that climb. (Checks route on phone). Oh crap.

Ok. Let’s get to it. Perhaps it will be a gradual climb. Then I see the sign. Oh crap. Does anyone know the Croat for “Zap me again with that defibrillator! I think I felt something!” No? Thought not.

About an hour later I can see the end of the climb but it’s a false summit followed by three more of the same. It’s worth it though. There’s a cool breeze and a lovely view of Grebastica.

I’m in Trogir tonight before the ride to Split tomorrow. I was hoping to find a bar that is showing the England vs. Argentina Rugby World Cup match but when it comes to the Rugby World Cup then in Croatia you can cut the atmosphere with a week old bratwurst. Shame.

Sadly, it will be the last day of riding tomorrow. The storms early on and then the high winds mean I have run out of days and won’t make it to Dubrovnik. Bit gutted. Split will be the final destination. Time to go home.

 

Day 16: Pakostane to Sibenik

Moving south there’s been a change from maize fields and apple orchards to fig trees. Today, there are pine forests and olive groves and a Greek feel to the terrain. There are fewer German accents and more Brit and American twangs as the tourist trail becomes well worn. (They are tourists, I am a traveller, as all tourists say). The coast between Pula and Pakostane is less developed and the towns and villages are more workaday. Worth exploring that bit of coast. Sibenik even has more upmarket graffiti. This one was signed LdV. Was he ever here? (Anarchists: can you see how he fitted the whole cathedral in? Clever eh, that planning ahead thing).

Bridge of the day is back! This one, “Sibenski Most” (Sibenik bridge), looked a bit tricky with the traffic but when I got there, there was a barrier protected cycle path. Perfect for the ride into the old town of Sibenik.

I am proud to announce the release of my latest invention: The Sweatometer™. This high tech, state of the art, wellness must-have was inspired by the bioprocessing signal disc worn by the Duchess of Sussex™ that was produced by that bastion of scientific integrity Nucalm*. Just like the bioprocessing signal disc, The Sweatometer™ analyses your brain activity, biorhythms and neurotransmitters to give you, yes you, a complete picture of your body after every workout. The Sweatometer™ keeps a record of complex workout data so you can see change in you biorhythms. In the image© below marvel at an example taken over three days. Note and admire the white biotrace produced by The Sweatometer™. The biotrace captures change in your biorhythms and brain activity. In the second image you can clearly see beta wave activity displayed by the Sweatometer™.

To order your Sweatometer™ send a cheque for £49.99 made payable to AsgullibleastheDuchess to me. I will send you, yes you, a Vietnamese Poundland sunhat of the same quality as the bioprocessing signal disc made by Nucalm. Please be aware that once you have done this, you will never be allowed near Sudocrem again.

On a more sober note, on popular cycle routes I occasionally see these roadside shrines or memorials. They are usually for bikers but this one was for two cyclists, a couple I think. It was in a remote spot and Google identified the text as Slovak. “Forever in our hearts”. Quite.

By the way, this morning when I was packing up my bike on the terrace, I found a two Euro coin on the table. Glad I found it before the guy who showed me around. He would have had it away in a trice! Phew!

Onward!

*Check out The Guardian for the whole sorry story.

Day 15: Nin to Pakostane

As I haven't shaved for a bit I went full hipster last night and strode into the trendily named "Mad Duck". I was greeted like a long lost brother. Yes, I am also so very glad I came to visit you but please stop hugging me and stop crying. You're wetting my shirt. 

Might as well do this properly so I order the truffle burger described in the menu as the Sistine Chapel of burgers. I ask for chips and am told the Sistine Chapel of burgers does not come with chips but golden goodness pencil fries. The bewildering description of beers with names usually associated with rewilding projects in The Archers means I can only point at one that looks drinkable rather than plantable. OK. Bring it on.....

The Sistine Chapel of burgers arrives with the golden goodness pencil fries. The burger is taller than it is wide and lanced with a knitting needle. I know that if I remove the knitting needle, the Sistine Chapel will collapse. If I leave it in, I will lose the sight in at least one eye, maybe two. I opt for vision over carnage and stretch both hands to pick up the Sistine Chapel of burgers. A novice mistake in hipster circles. 

Here's the problem. The truffle burger has a beef pattie, bacon, onion, cheese, salad, mayo, BBQ sauce and, oh yes, truffle, between the two halves of a soft, untoasted bun. The bun begins degrading about 15 seconds after construction. By the time the waiter, sorry, gourmet guide and serving companion on my journey of taste, brings the burger, there's an accident just waiting to happen, and happen it does. As I pick the thing up and dislocate my jaw ready for a bite, the two halves of the bun become four quarters and the contents drop out and slide down my shirt, still damp from tears, and into my lap. I ask for a large spoon and a wet wipe.

The problem with the truffle burger is that truffle is a delicate flavour but you can't taste the burger for the cheese, the cheese for the onion and the BBQ sauce trumps the lot. If there was truffle in there it was lost. Whist we're here, a small circle of a limp lettuce leaf was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that use of the word salad.

Lazy day today with a bit of off-road. (The white bits on my handlebars are micropore tape to patch the foam tape on which the glue has melted in the heat). About 60 km down the coast to Pakostane. I booked an apartment and agreed an arrival of 15:00. The owner tells me I will be met by his mother in law. When I get there, his mother in law has the build of a wrestler, a moustache like the end of a stiff broom and a five o'clock shadow that was probably visible just after breakfast. Either something got lost in translation or there's an identity thing going on here. 

Whoever this is speaks English with the same competence that I speak Croatian. He opens the door and starts pointing at various things and naming them in a way that suggests they are either dangerous or not to be used. "Freedge, kittle, hair con, shoower". I'm a bit worried he's going to test me and if I mess up we'll have to start over. After the tour he rubs his thumb and finger together to indicate my Halifax Rewards card isn't going to cut it. I give him 60 Euros for the 58 Euro bill and he gestures to say he will get change. I haven't seen him since.

The cultural difference in demeanour is really noticable. There's a lack of any warmth, even if you do something for someone, such as step off the pavement to make room for a buggy, hold a door open or pick something up that someone has dropped. In each instance not a nod or smile or word. There's no animosity at all (apart from being five Euros down) just neutrality. Strangely I have seen a number of wrestler sized, broom moustached men pushing buggies in which there are dogs. Old or disabled dogs peeking out between their toys being pushed along for an evening promenade.

Best lunch spots are the roadside Pekaras. I don't have to lock my bike etc. to use these so I keep an eye out for them. Possibly the unhealthiest food you can find but pastries to die for (and probably from).

Right now I am in Konoba (restaurant) Obala overlooking the Pakostane harbour. In the outside bar area there are four tables of about 18 men who are the same age as those I saw drinking small bottles of spirits and sitting on beer crates outside of the shop in Stinica where the cafe and restaurant were closed for the off season. They are playing cards and have been doing so for the hour and a half I have been here writing this blog. There's water and coffee on the tables but no alcohol. Just saying.

Day 13: Rab to Stinica. Day 14: Stinica to Nin

The weather predictions told me that the ferryman's mum was going to be a bratwurst short of a mixed grill. No boat to Pag from Rab. Change of plan and I crossed Rab island to catch a car ferry from Misnjak to Stinica on the mainland. The plan was to ride down the coast road for a bit then take a bigger ferry to Pag and pick the route up there. About 10 minutes after arriving in Stinica and climbing away from the ferry port the plan fell apart. The wind was gusting at 65 to 95 kph. On the hill I actually went backwards for a bit. 

The village of Stinica is functional and mainly made up of German owned second homes with a few locals clinging on. I found somewhere to stay and asked about the cafe\bar and the restaurant. Both closed now the season was finished. There was a shop and I had sheltered from the wind there earlier. At that time outside the shop was a group of older men drinking a local spirit from small bottles whilst sitting on beer crates. There was a line of empties. It was 9 o'clock. When I went back at 11 there were some changes and additions to personnel and a longer line of empties. Without the structure of opening times in a local bar meeting times had stretched, the only constraint being the shop shutting. Sorry to see this. Take note Des's dad and Brenda's mum.

The shop was well stocked with booze but little else. Tuna and sweetcorn surprise for tea. The surprise bit was cheese and tomato. There wasn't much else. I shared my tea with a cat who obviously charms visitors on a regular basis. She hated the tomatoes.

A very blustery day the next morning but I decide to get going early. I'm running out of days. The BBC forecast said breezy, which I now know means 60 kph gusts. Thanks Auntie. Quick dash for the ferry from Prizna to Zigljen on the Island of Pag and then on to Nin. Long day close to 100 km and 1100 metres of climb. The 'breeze' didn't help. 

Lovely views on the Island. I thought these were salt flats (below) in the foreground and the Museum of Salt (no, really) in Nin proved me right.

Nin is a picturesque seaside town. It's claim to fame is that Branimir spent some time here. 

Branimir? You haven't heard? He invented the iphone-sword combo. Here he is trying for a selfie.

Day 10: Pula to Labin. Day 11:Labin to Cres

Two long days riding through rural Croatia and onto the Island of Cres. On the way to Labin from Pula the war memorials in villages had as many Italian names as they did Croat. There's a strong Italian heritage that goes beyond pizza with more Giuseppes than I could count on one memorial. Two were 18 years old.  Most visitors here are either German or Italian. Very few Brits. 

George Daniel's power stone that he gave to his younger brother, Seth, to help him get up Mam Tor is still with me having been across France and the Mekong Delta. Here it is in a cafe in Sisan. Thanks boys. It's working wonders!

Bit of island hopping from the mainland to Cres and then a relentless and hot climb of 500 metres over 10 kilometres. I need to keep my speed on climbs above 7 kph. Below that the mosquitoes can land and have dinner on me. Lycra is no obstacle. They look upon it as me being shrink wrapped for freshness. 

Most places I've passed through advertise themselves as the home of Croation cuisine or the place to invest in extra virgin olive oil. The island of Cres is different and tells visitors this is the homeland of Cres sheep. Apparently they speak English. Good to know.

Lovely views after the climb. Hard to capture the vista in pictures. Here's an attempt and a picture of my bike. Nice innit.

I've just spent a good hour or so calculating what time I need to get going in the morning to make the next ferry. There's a climb to do, so like this morning I should be setting out about 7'ish. This retirement malarkey isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Day 8: Umag to Rovinj; Day 9: Rovinj to Pula

Day 8: Umag to Rovinj.

Did I tell you about my introduction to Croatia? I don't think I did. I crossed the border from Slovenia and badly needed water. There was a house on the side of the road with a small open air cafe attached. Perfect. I took four half liter bottles of water from a fridge and asked how much. The middle aged owner looked me up and down, saw the sweat, the sunburn and the number of bottles and held up seven fingers. He knew he was onto a winner here. I gave him a ten euro note and he went into his house to get the change. I never saw him or my three euros again. I knocked on the door but no response. Welcome to Croatia.

Before I came away I read Brian Hall's "The impossible country" to get a sense of the Balkans. It was a harrowing account of the various atrocities carried out by the Croats, Serbs and Bosnians on each other post 1991 but not always in equal measure. The politics were mind bendingly complex with more border changes than a failing Tory constituency. It coloured my view of the Balkan states.

The combination of Brian Hall's description of mass murder and genocide and my loss of three euros made me a bit wary as I rode into Croatia. There's the eastern european disinclination to smile that always feels odd. Most conversations sound like a either a set of commands or the sort of exchange that finishes with "hold my beer". The influence of meaning confered by accent can be captured by imagining the phrase "I'll see you later" being spoken in a Northern Irish accent. Try it. You'll see.

So, full of prejudice and tapwater I left Umag, after being held up by three days of storms, and set out for Rovinj. It's been pretty flat up to now but because of the rocky coastline there are now rolling hills and then some big climbs. Lots of cyclists about on local trips and some long distance riders as well. I always nod, smile and say "hello" but unlike almost anywhere else nobody reciprocates. I know it's a cultural difference and there is no animosity but it still feels very odd.

There was a bit of this in Italy with lycra clad speedsters. Stick thin in matching shirts and shorts, shaved legs and multi-coloured glasses they always ignored a wave or a nod. I think they were not keen to be associated with an old bloke in a baggy, fading shirt that had seen better days and a poundshop sunhat. Also, I'm clearly built for comfort rather than speed these days. It's not my fault. It's caused by a problem with my feet. I can't keep them out of the chip shop.*

Big climb at the end of they day. More of these to come.

* The chip shop line was delivered by Johnny Vegas to Anne Widdicombe who inexplicably turned up to a battle of wits unarmed.

Day 9: Rovinj to Pula.

Croatian cuisine is, errrmm, uniform. Every menu looks the same. Fish and chips, meat and chips, pizza (a nod to Italian heritage in Istria). Here's a sample menu. 

So, three sizes of toast in the food section. The portions of various grilled meat and chips are huge. I try to balance this by eating only fruit for breakfast and lunch. By doing this I'm down to about half a sheep and a chicken a day. In Croatia I think that's borderline vegan. 

Lots of off-road today which is a bit worrying for the bike. It's mountain bike territory really. After the rain there is a bit of flooding that meant paddling knee deep through some murky water. It was either that or turn back. Some of the paths are made up of slippery, sticky red clay. Lovely for the vineyards but it sticks to everything including me. Riding into Pula I seek out puddles to splash through to clean the clay off. The adults look at me as if I am mad. The children don't.

Nice evening in Pula. I think I'll go for a middle toast tonight. 

Day 3: Palazzolo dello Stella to Monfalcone; Day 4: Monfalcone to Trieste to Umag

The ride to Monfalcone took me through small towns in rural Italy that are the stuff of travel. They are unremarkable and that's the point. Everyday life is there to see and be part of and small cafes in village centres are the best place to watch the world go by for a bit. I'm just having the fourth espresso of the morning when a group of women of a certain age sitting next to me start singing. They are working through their favourites with each one starting in turn then others add harmony. It's lovely until one of them turns to me and suggests I join in. No way Pedro! I feign laryngitis. It's either that or I give them the only Italian song I know that is not "Just one Cornetto" but Joe Dolce's "Shaddup you face". If you haven't heard it, get on Google and check it out. I rode on, sadly with an earworm.

Bridge incident of the day..... I'm following Eurovelo 8, a long distance route around the coasts on the Med. It's pretty good and follows bike paths and small roads that are safer. Until the Municipali get involved. I am on a country lane and there is a barrier ahead with three people complete with clipboards and authoritarianism. There's a problem with the bridge behind the barrier. I ask if I can walk over the bridge and am told no. This is a problem because it means adding about 15km that would have to be done on main roads. Not something I want to do. As I plead they turn away to walk over the bridge to their cars. I ask again and gesture that if they can walk on the bridge safely then so could I. The woman with the biggest clipboard turns to me and says "We are Municipali!" as if this explains why they are safe to walk on the bridge but non-municipali aren't. She had the look of The Donald in his mug shot and the demeanour of someone who could make the trains run on time but still I try to argue the case based on this logic but it isn't easy in Italian. My preparation for speaking Italian on this trip has consisted of adding either "a" or "ee-oh" to the end of English words. So my case falls on deaf ears. I try once more and again she says "We are Municipali!". I am ashamed to say that I lost it at this point and shouted "Municipali Mafiosi!". I thought she might appreciate the alliteration. I rode on. I will check my bed tonight for a horse's head.

In contrast, I had to find a bike shop to index my gears as they were a bit out after their trip in a cardboard box. I found a shop and turned up after lunch (16:00, now that's what I call a lunch) and found a bit of a queue at the door. There was a man and woman running the shop and they sorted everyone out with a replacent bolt, adjustments to saddles and brakes, one after the other and then fixed my gears. They also pumped everyone's tyres up without being asked. Here's the thing, they didn't ask anyone for money and refused to take anything from me. I had to really insist. Lovely to see but how do they make a living?

Fourth day was long to bank a few miles before two days of thunderstorms that means I will have to shelter in Umag and will be a bit behind schedule. I like to think this woman was admiring my bike in Trieste. Can't blame her can you?

After Trieste I crossed the border into Slovenia and then left Slovenia and entered Croatia a couple of hours later. After Trieste I could see some big hills looming but when I got to them this is what I found. Oh joy.

Slovenia is great for cyclists. Bike paths are separate from roads and of the 35 km I rode there only about three or four of them were in traffic.

I'm in Umag now and will be until the storms clear. Oh yes of course. Since you asked: unfortunately due to a long day in the heat Dayroom Yellow with just a hint of Smoked Trout but thankfully no Dead Salmon. You're welcome.

Venice to Dubrovnik. Day 1: Venice to Caorle and Day 2: Caorle to Palazzolo dello Stella

Day 1

Le Grande Depart was at Venice Airport where I unpacked my bike in the car park and spent an hour or so rebuilding it in front of a bit of an audience. First day is always tough with the heat and the extra weight on the bike and the alarm going off at three o'clock in the morning didn't help. It did mean however that I could engage in the spectator sport of Weatherspoons Watching at five in the morning at Birmingham Airport. 

Amongst the early drinkers "Dirty Des's (stag) Do" met "Brenda's Benidorm Bash" ("Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to Benidorm") with predictably entertaining results. The only bit of banter I can report without causing offence is "Phwooooar!" which was repeated by both sides. I don't think Des's dad and Brenda's mum (this information was on their t'shirts in case they forgot) will stay the pace. They were both tacking against the wind en route to the bar to order breakfast by a quarter past five so it was going to be a long day. I think they would have been happier spending the next few days together at Weatherspoons gazing into each other's bloodshot eyes over partly defrosted lasagne and soggy chips. They could have just tagged onto the back of their groups at arrivals. No one would have noticed.

Don't get me wrong. When there's a match on Gollum's sports channel, then 'spoons is the place for me. It's the breakfast drinking that I can't fathom.

First day was hot. Low 30's, direct sun, little shade. This is a problem for me as I can dehydrate quickly because I rarely feel thirsty. I have to set reminders to drink but also have a backup system involving a trip to the loo and a paint colour chart (Farrow and Ball naturally). I aim for something between Wimbourne White and Dayroom Yellow, not literally of course that would be a wierd thing to use a Farrow and Ball colour chart for, and know I'm in trouble if I am close to Barbouche or, heaven forbid, Smoked Trout or Dead Salmon. In Vietnam I once produced Radicchio but in my defence it was a very hot day and beetroot was involved. At the moment I'm drinking a litre of water every thirty minutes and I'm in the target zone but leaning toward Dayroom Yellow.

Day 2

Bridge of the day is back! This fine example, Ponte delle Balance, was just north of Caorle.

Bit of off road today on gravel tracks. Welcome shade but dust from the roads is a problem when farm trucks go by. A very fine, light grey dust is kicked up and seems to mix well with suncreams and mosquito repellant to form a paste that sticks to my skin. I look like the undead on an off day.

Graffiti of the day.  This is priceless. It's on an electricity substation and shows why Anarchists will never overthrow anything. If you can't plan ahead enough to fit all seven letters on the same wall how will you bring down Western governments?

That's the trouble with anarchists. They just can't seem to get organized.

My favourite cycling shirt is, like me, showing signs of age. It's more than 15 years old and has lost whatever shape it once had. My heavy phone in the back pocket has stretched the shirt so that it now reaches halfway down my thighs at the back. I have to remember this when sitting down. I don't sit on my phone but it can suddenly appear between my legs when least expected. (Liz: I think this explains that photo I sent you). When the phone is in the pocket it swings pendulum like beneath my bum when I walk. 

So this afternoon when I arrive at Agricola Stefani I am the epitome of sartorial elegance. The face of the undead with streaks of sweat, an unidentified object swinging left to right beneath my bum and a sunhat I bought at the Vietnamese equivalent of a down-market pound shop in Saigon. My sock/sandal combo would have completed the ensemble but some things are too precious to risk on a trip.

Despite being confronted by this frightening vision I am greeted and welcomed by Flavia who offers me somewhere to lock my bike up (very important), tells me about the restaurant that is a 50 metre walk away despite us being in a rural area, and tells me they have their own Birreria Agricola right here and soon to open. From her expression I think it's been a few years since she last saw a grown man fall to the floor and cry with happiness.

A good start to the trip and onward to Monfalcone tomorrow where the cruise ships dock. Anyone know the Italian for " Do you have anything to cure Norovirus?'. Thought not.

Mekong Meander. Day 6: Long Xuyen to Chau Doc.

Last night's meal with beers and table service came in at less than £2.50. I was 17 when that last happened and that was beer only. Egg sandwich for breakfast but as I'm allergic to eggs I mimed sickness. Not the full blown d and v, I thought that might be a bit much in the busy dining room, so I went for the hand on a fevered brow. Pho (noodles in broth) was the next choice but broke the rules so I pointed to the fruit on the counter. A peeled orange in a bowl appeared just as I realised my mistake.

To celebrate the lunar new year the orange I was now eating had been placed with other fruit in front of a Buddhist icon. It was there for the ancestors of my homestay to enjoy and not for my breakfast. In UK cultural terms I had walzed into a Catholic church, nibbled at the holy communion biscuits and washed them down with some nice wine someone had kindly left in a jug nearby. My list of cultural transgressions grows ever longer.

Last day today. I am running out of steam and the blisters are growing. When I tire I remind myself that this is my choice and think of the things I have seen and have yet to see. I don't think the guy in the picture below has that choice about his bike ride.

I thought they were fridge-freezers at first but they're only polystyrene boxes so he's actually a bit of a lightweight. May the wind forever be behind you mate.

I'm a bit reluctant to take pictures of people's homes in the rural areas. I don't want to intrude egregiously. There is real poverty evident. Corrugated iron huts, some dirt floors, hammocks, two chairs at most and open fires for cooking. Mosquitoes and dogs abound. Unlike France, the dogs run away and cower rather than chase me. I'm not sure which I prefer. Still people smile, wave and shout hello.

Just over the road from these houses a new church was being built.

The search for water today was less eventful. I was avoiding the cafes with the stunningly loud, tuneless karaoke or ear splitting V-Pop. The sound systems were huge and the neighbours were gaunt and glassy eyed. The cafes were usually full of large groups of men enjoying more than a beer or two. Big card games were played for money and the greetings were raucous. A bit unpredictable so I ride on.

Eventually I pass a small place that has a wheelchair at the front and an elderly woman in a hammock so that's the decision made. I discover salty lemon.

The ingredients list at the bottom says "Made from salty lemons". OK. Got it. The lovely owner brought a jug of water, led me by the hand to the roadside and poured the water so I could wash my hands.

Celebrations are in full swing when I arrive in Chau Doc. These mainly take place in people's homes. Most shops and businesses are shut but for the smallest traders it's just another day at the office. At about 10:00 pm I look out of my window before going to bed and can see a small, family run, roadside pho stall (70p a bowl) still doing business. I Iook out at the same scene at 6:00 am in the morning. The same family members still cooking and serving. Long days and a lot of pho.

I'm just waiting for a ride back to Saigon to meet Liz at the airport this evening. Heavy traffic apparently so should be fun in the melee and anarchic chaos on the roads.

Vietnam: bloody brilliant.

Blog over.

Mekong meander. Day 5: Can Tho to Long Xuyen

Can Tho had enough tourism to bend the food rules last night so an avocado pizza was had. Very nice too. Bit more traffic today as the main holiday ends and the petrol and diesel fumes mean my lungs are probably worth a few quid more than they were this morning. It's off the beaten track here in Long Xuyen so I'm back to fried food. I think I've ordered fried rice but it's not easy using Google's photo translate.

Water stop today was a bit odd (again!). Sat down in a roadside place and I was just starting on the second bottle when a very elderly woman came over and sat next to me and held out her hand. I thought she was asking for money but she wanted to shake my hand. I put my hand out and she took it but didn't shake it and she just held it for longer than one of us felt comfortable with. It was close to four minutes. I know this because I was in Google translate on my phone typing in "I am sorry madam but I'm spoken for" and could see the clock in the corner. Eventually she let go and wandered off. I think she just wanted to be welcoming and friendly but knew we couldn't overcome the language barrier. At least she left my thighs alone.

Second puncture of the ride today. Started to do the roadside fix and a young man came over to watch and sat right next to the bike in characteristic Vietnamese style: crouching with legs apart, hands together in the midline and his bum on his heels. I said hello but he didn't respond. He just watched and then started picking up each tool and looking at it intently. He wasn't interested in me at all and it soon became clear that he had a learning disability or was autistic. I chatted to him a bit and he looked up but didn't engage in any way. He liked the tools though and opened each on, putting them down very carefully afterwards. When I finished I offered him a bottle of water and a meusli bar (courtesy of Asda) but he didn't respond or take them. I waved goodbye and rode off. It was a nice encounter.

The roads here vary a lot. Some side roads are potholed and badly damaged and then suddenly turn into smooth tarmac or concrete. Oh joy! What is noticeable is as soon as this happens the Vietnamese flag and the Communist Party flag suddenly appear at about 25 metre intervals. As soon as the smooth bit stops and potholes reappear, the flags disappear. Dominic would like this I think.

This was a nice bit of road today. The elderly man coming towards me had one more cigarette in his mouth than he had teeth. Still managed a pretty good smile though.

Last stretch of the day and I really needed to find a bike parts shop to buy a couple of inner tubes. I'd all but given up and then suddenly Long Xuyen's answer to Halfords appears at the roadside. Really helpful, generous owner who sorted me out.

A wet end to the day when a heavy shower arrived. If I hadn't had a puncture I would have missed the shower but I would also have missed meeting those two men. Worth it.

North tomorrow to Chau Doc, my final destination on the border of Cambodia. By the way, it was fried rice for tea.

Mekong meander. Day 3: Vinh Long to Tra Vinh

At 4:30 pm yesterday I became a vegan. Last night, Yennie's mum wasn't cooking at the homestay, so I walked into Vinh Long town centre to find somewhere to eat. The huge bustling market was still going strong and I made the mistake of passing the butcher's stall. Judging by the number of hooves on display there was at least one cow on the table, now in kit form, and  I'm pretty sure the head winked at me in a flirtatious sort of way. That was when I became a vegan.

In rural areas in Asia I follow some basic rules when it comes to food. They are: don't eat meat, if you can't peel it or fry it then forget it, and never, ever look in the kitchen. That's it. So last night I found somewhere that would do me a plate of chips and some bananas. Lovely. So the vegan thing was going ok but I gave it up at dawn this morning when next door's cockerel woke up and did what cockerels do at 5:30 in the morning over here. That was when I stopped being a vegan and started admiring Colonel Saunders as a man with a vision that I shared.

First long ride of the trip today. About 65 km and it was very hot in the sun. By mid-morning, I'd already drunk a couple of litres of water and needed more. I spotted a small cafe like place ahead with a few people on the concrete benches on the large porch drinking tea and I pulled up and took a seat at an empty table. I'm used to people looking at me now and I nod and smile and they do the same. A woman comes out of the room behind us and I point to my empty water bottle and hold up two fingers. She looks at me for a bit and then turns to go back in. 

Something's not quite right. When she opens the door it looks like a sitting room with a tv and a fridge and she opens the fridge and it's almost empty. There is one bottle of water and she brings this over and then it dawns in me that I have entered someone's home, sat down in my sweaty cycling gear and demanded water. The other people there, presumably family and friends, start to laugh a bit as does the woman and I leap up and apologise profusely and start backing out. They won't have that and insist I sit down and drink the water. After a minute or two that's what I do. I try to pay but the woman won't allow that either. The whole event was really embarrassing. In my defence, it is very common for people's workplace, be it motorbike repair shop, tailoring, corner shop or whatever, to also be their home and there is usually very little furniture in homes or these small businesses and only a single room so it's hard to tell the difference.

The last time I did something similar was when I was cycling around Kerala in the south of India. I turned up a side track and at the end of it was a man bathing in the river. I should have realised he was living in the house just next to his bathing spot and turned around but I didn't and just asked if he knew where a particular hotel was. He looked surprised. Well you would wouldn't you. Imagine having a bath at home and a stranger sticking their head around the door and asking where the nearest Travelodge is. It's not what you want when you're soaking in grapefruit flavoured bath.

One other thing happened today that has really stayed with me. I didn't realise I needed to take a ferry just after Vung Liem and when I joined the queue I remembered that I didn't have any small denomination notes to pay. I tried to change a 200,000 VND note (c. £6) at a stall and got ripped off a bit. The owner would only offer 180,000 VND in small denominations and as the ferry was about to leave I had to accept. It wasn't a big deal (about 60p difference) but he was just taking advantage of me because he could.

On the other bank I queued up to pay and a woman in traditional clothing, baggy trousers and top and a conical hat, nodded and smiled. I did the same. She paid and walked off. I offered notes to the ferryman but he refused them. I thought this was about to turn into some sort of scam when he indicated that the woman had paid for me. It was 3000 VND, so about 10p. As I got on my bike I looked for the woman and found her just walking away and not turning around at all. I cycled after her and thanked her by putting my right hand on my heart, something I'd seen people do. She just nodded and carried on walking. 

So, someone who was clearly not wealthy, paid for something for me when I am obviously much more wealthy, without being asked, and they did not then seek thanks or recognition. I don't think she saw me being ripped off as she was already on the ferry so that doesn't help understand why she did this. The whole episode is still in my mind now. A random act of kindness.

Bridge of the day is back! Check this one out.

Yes it is a bit ropey isn't it. There's lots of these and on some of the steeper ones you need to approach at speed or you might stall and need to put a foot down. The bridges are very narrow so putting a foot down might result in missing the floor and ending up in the oozing mud below. The trouble is if you go too fast, you don't have time to react to inevitable holes in the middle of the bridge and then.... You get the idea.

In other architectural news here's some brick kilns. You weren't expecting those were you? Aren't they brilliant.

Finally, I thought the tombs that I saw yesterday were Buddhist but today I came across this small place of rememberance that I think is Catholic.

A lovely place to be laid to rest I think.

Today has reminded me why I love travelling. It's nothing to do with the beaches, resorts museums, galleries and tourist sites. It's the day to day contact that you have with people who you don't know and will never see again and the places you pass that local people would not give a second glance. 

I'm off to find something to eat now. I may break my food rule if I can find a cockerel or two. Noisy buggers.

Vung Liem

Mekong meander day 2: . Cai Be to Vinh Long

Short ride again today as I get used to the heat, traffic, navigation and shake off the jet lag. Three ferries to cross the Mekong: first to Than Phong island, then Hoa Ninh island and then back to the mainland. Whilst waiting for ferry number three a fight broke out between two blokes. I'm beginning to think it's me that somehow triggers these in a Carrie sort of way (see day out in Toulouse in last September's blog). Not sure of the cause but there might be a Lotto sales turf war going on. The policeman sorting the traffic watched the whole thing unfold but just carried on waving people this way and that whilst they all ignored him. Now that's a man who knows his job description and sticks to it isn't it Boris.

Trust me. There is something worse than last night's Vietnamese karaoke at midnight and that's Vietnamese karaoke at 11 in the morning sung by half a dozen drunk policemen who want me to join in when I stop for water. Tet New Year celebrations are in full swing and it's a tricky couple of minutes. I don't want to offend them and end up supplementing their pension pot for a mythical misdemeanour but I also don't think my rendition of 'Come on Eileen' will help here. It's neither pretty nor recognisable. Nobody likes to sit next to us Olivers on our rare church visits when singing might be required. We can each produce one note only and it's not the same one and curiously it never appears in any hymn or song I have ever heard. Plenty of smiling laughing and waving by me as I back up my bike, jump on and scarper. Close one.

The cycling on the islands is the most remote I have done. Mainly single tracks linking small houses that sometimes double as shops selling bottles of water, unshelled coconuts, papaya and jackfruit that looks like durian. (Jackfruit the size of basketballs below).

There's often small children and elderly grandparents (I assume) sitting nearby or in hammocks. Each house has a small garden and frequently there are tombs in the gardens. They are box-like, about three feet tall and painted white or blue. They must be erstwhile family members. Occasionally there will be a tomb that is half the usual size or smaller. There are more of these than I want to see. None would be favourite.

By the way if you haven't tried durian then count yourself lucky. One of my students at the Chinese University of Hong Kong (now known as the University of Hong Kong in the way that Irish stew is known as stew in Ireland) described it as having a 'special' smell and that's wonderfully polite. There's a video on YouTube of a cat smelling durian for the first time. It turns it's back on the fruit and starts scratching and digging the earth to cover it up. Smart cat. Durian stinks.

I arrive at a homestay in Vinh Long, the Vietnamese equivalent of a B and B. It's a shabby chic and charming antique fork for a door handle kinda place. There's cold green tea and a very cold wet towel to greet me and a gift of a scarf. That should come in handy when the temperature plummets to the high 20's later this evening.

There's also an outside solar shower beloved of us greens (Greta and I are two organic peas in an organic, sustainably grown, compostable, low carbon pod) but also mosquitoes. (Why aren't mosquitoes vegan Greta? Why? We'd all be so much happier and much less itchy and I would not smell like an overripe lemon right now.) It's lovely though and has an old wine bottle for a tap. This is A grade, industrial strength recycling at its best. 

The hosts are Yennie, whose English is better than mine, and her elderly parents, who could not be more charming and helpful. I'm hoping Yennie's mum will be cooking later but right now I can hear the karaoke starting up just down the street. Altogether now! "Too-ra-loo-ra Too-ra-loo-rye-ay......" Come on Dibble! Give it both barrels! Actually, no, wait. Scratch that.