Day 1 of a Mekong meander. Cai Lậy to Cái Bè

We're off! Well I am. Man and a van, with me and my bike in it, from Saigon to Cai Lay in the Mekong Delta to avoid the madness that is driving in the city and nearby. There is but one rule of the road here: get out of the way of anything bigger than you. That's it.

There are hundreds of motorbikes on the road with us, all fully laden carrying whole families to Tet New Year gatherings. We've (very close) passed a guy on a moped eating a bowl of noodles (we were that close to his breakfast/lunch that I could see it was noodles with beef), someone with a kitchen sink on the back (really, but not plumbed in obvs) and numerous families of four on motorbikes. On one bike there's a toddler sandwiched between mum and dad and a slightly larger toddler hanging on to the handlebars between dad's legs. On the back is a crate of coca cola and a crate of beer. Soooooooh irresponsible. I mean Jeez..... who would risk beer like that? 

The highlight of the ride is a van on fire on the edge of a three lane motorway we are hurtling down alongside the total population of Saigon. The smoke is thick and drifting across the motorway and when we drive into the plume visibility is about one metre, two metres tops. We don't slow down at all and nor does anyone else. Sensibly, given the smoke, people on motorbikes closed their eyes. We emerged unscathed but I am now verging on adopting a deity. Anyone will do.

At Tan An the road changes and we are cruising through paddy fields and orchards. I'm dropped of just south of Cay Lay on a small cinder track side road following the east bank of the river Song Ba Rai. The driver clasps both of my hands to his chest with both of his hands and says "good luck". Oh dear. Does he know something I don't? Almost certainly but hey, let's crack on.

The side roads are very quiet and safe and children shout "Hello!" and give the v for victory handsign. Interestingly, older people (north of 70 say) smile more broadly than other people and wave. They are old enough to have lived through the war and it's sobering to see them. Every 30 metres or so there's a communist flag in the middle of the road or next to it. I guess just reminding everyone who won that war. 

Enough maudling! A lovely but brief ride was had, apart from a puncture. I needed to get the pressure in the replaced tube higer than I could manage with a hand pump and so stopped at  a 'garage' to beg for the use of the airline. It was basically someone's house with the three generations of a family sitting at a table outside. They couldn't have been more helpful and welcoming and offered me water that I gratefully accepted. Lovely people. 

I'm just supping a beer at the Mekong Lodge and watching the sun go down over the Mekong River. On this trip I brought with me a 'powerstone' that also went across France with me last year. It was left in our cottage in Tideswell by George Daniel the younger brother of Seth. Seth had given George the powerstone to help him climb a hill in the Peak District and here it is now on top of a beer can enjoying the sunset over the Mekong. Thanks boys!

Time to eat but I can't decide between "Deep fried elephant ear fish" and "hot pot with ingredients". Nigella, you've really let yourself go. 

I really hope that beer arrived home safely.

Day 19: Beziers to Montpellier 98 km. I hear Rwanda's nice

Much better day today. Smoother tracks and between Agde and Sete I saw a smudge on the horizon that turned into the Med. That was a very good moment. I followed the coast through sand dunes, along cliff tops and beside marshes. White flamingos with pink bottoms added a lovely splash of colour. The French long distance cycle paths are brilliant. Bikes are separated from other traffic and everybody's happy (apart from the bloke I called 'Le Knob' for cutting me up). I have arrived in Montpellier and here I shall end this tour I think. Time to go home.

I've cycled for 18 days and covered 1,562 km (976 miles) from the English Channel to the Atlantic Ocean and then to the Mediterranean Sea. The last time I cycled this sort of distance I was 12 years younger and it took me four days less (Land's End to John O'Groats). So I'm 19% older and 28% slower. Oh dear. I think my assault on the round the world record might be in danger of becoming a permanent pipe dream. I need another tour to plan. I hear Rwanda's nice.

On the plus side I have burnt about 19,000 extra calories. That's about 200 bananas or one Big Mac with medium fries (hold the shake). I have, of course aimed for calorific balance and in seeking that goal I am now on the outside of a pint of cold Ciney. A beer sharing the name of my Grandparents' retirement bungalow. I think I'll have another one to toast their memory (and address this awful calorific deficit).

En route today (I am sooooh French) a guy passed me with the biggest load I have seen so far. He had four panniers, a bar bag, a rack pack and a trailer with a huge duffle bag. The one thing I have learned about these trips is to take the absolute minimum. There's less to lose, find, go wrong, pack, unpack, break and carry. He had a thousand yard stare and the look of a man who has overdone it on the emergency dried apricots. Good luck mate.

I can sense your anticipation for the Bridge of the Ride Award. Well, take a look at this bad boy. A contender surely. Multi-arched and running alongside an aqueduct. Cobbled path though and we all know that means less points. And what do less points mean.....

I must announce that there was a late entry today in the sub-category of traffic bearing, concrete construction (ornate metal railings permitted), Brutalist architecture, 18m to 25m span, 1959 to 1969, closed for repair, completely unusable and a waste of space. I didn't allow it to be entered. Call me a stickler for the rules if you must but it was seen at 16:01 so clearly well outside of the permitted time window........... I think it's definitely time to go home.

The last challenge is to get home. Isn't it wonderfully reassuring that the current cause of travel problems is the French air traffic controllers' strike (a national pasttime) and not a global pandemic. I will sort a train journey tomorrow. 

Oh, yes. You're right. I forgot to update you on my bum. Well, let's put it this way. When I get home, I shall sit down to my breakfast porridge in my dressing gown and sand the kitchen chair at the same time.

Day 18: Carcassonne to Beziers: 108 km. a bumpy ride.

Struggled a bit on the bumpy towpaths and my average speed for the day dropped below 16 kph for the first time. Seven hours riding to do just north of 100 km is a bit too slow. Canal du Midi was as good as it gets with lots of Brits and Americans on the 'pleasure' boats queueing to pass through the locks. I can't see the 'pleasure' in the 'pleasure' boats. People are mostly swabbing the deck or looking a bit bored. They wave at me a lot and I ignore them. Seems like the right thing to do.

So far, I've had to master four types of coffee machine, six types of washing machine (including one that insisted I operate it through an app) and more shower tap configurations than is reasonable. Everywhere I stay seems to want to announce its individual and unique character with some little quirk when it comes to everyday objects. Last night it was towels. That's right, towels.

I had a shower as soon as I arrived at the 'compact' studio in Carcassonne. It really is the best bit of the day for me, just ahead of starfishing on the bed. Oh joy. Anyway, I reach for the towel and start to dry off. Well, this is weird. It's stretchy. The towel is elastic! Try drying your back with that! As you pull it to one side it simply stretches so you can't actually rub yourself with it. Who thought this would ever be a good idea? 

I'm going to stop now. Am I becoming a gammon?

Day 17: Pechabou to Carcassonne 93 km. On the road to cassoulet.

Back on the Canal du Midi having AirBnB'ed (that is surely a verb by now) in Pechabou. I stayed in a very large wooden chalet at the bottom of someone's garden. A comfortable and substantial wooden chalet with a swimming pool but a wooden chalet all the same. (Note to self: tidy up toolshed, move lawnmower, evict frogs from pond and draft description of bijou artist's residence with pool). Lovely family looked after me and it was a pleasant stay.

Towpath has changed a bit since Toulouse from smooth and speedy tarmac to the occasional stretch of compacted mud with tree roots, pot holes and a few chunky rocks thrown in. Bit more challenging now and I worry about popping a spoke. Lots of people out enjoying the sun with quite a few hikers, some in groups. 

When I cycle up behind people walking on shared paths, there's always a bit of a dilemma about the optimal distance to announce you are behind them and coming past. My bike is very quiet so if I leave it too late and shout out 'Bonjour!' then I'm too near and I startle folk and they jump around in unpredictable ways. Also, their dogs go apeshit. Too far and they may not hear and by the time I repeat it I'm too close. Ring a bell? I could do but do you want my hands on a bell or my brakes?

This morning I could see a large, slow moving group ahead with canvas rucsacks, thick woolly socks and anoraks (it's 20 degrees C). Forgive the ageism but I'm going to go for an early and loud shout just to make sure. About 20 metres away I give it a loud call. No sign that it landed.  I give it another loud shout and slow down a bit. Diddly squat. Not a sausage. Oh dear. I'm cycling at walking pace now and could topple over. Five metres away I shout again. The woman at the back of the group hears my 'Bonjour!', jumps a bit and seems to think the group is under attack. She shouts at the top of her voice ' Attention! Attention! Velo! Velo! Attention!'. Two people in the middle of the group clutch their chests and turn purple, one at the back raises his stick to fight off the invader and two of his companions look ready to dive in the canal. I'm desperately trying to think where I last saw a defibrillator. The front four just trundle on still having heard nothing. Bloody nightmare getting past.

I finish the road to cassoulet (sorry Rudyard) a bit late and I'm in Carcassonne the home of the bean, duck and pork stew that is cassoulet. I find it and it's lovely. Everytime Liz and I travel to France we bring tins of cassoulet home. We never eat it of course and our cupboards are full of it. It even survived lockdown. It's stored away with our bottles of Ouzo, Retsina and Unicum. They all tasted so good in the right place at the right time but now we're home we don't really fancy them. Look in the back of your grog cupboard and tell me this isn't true.

Must dash. I think I saw some tins of cassoulet in the grocers.

Day 16: Moissac to Pechabou 108 km. May the temperature in your communal jacuzzi be forever stable.

On the tow path of the Garonne again and it's a perfect morning for the first 40km. Flat and smooth and the canal is clean and green (in a good sort of way). There's not a shopping trolley in sight. This is unlike Birmingham, where we have more canals than Venice and more shopping trolleys in them than Sainsburys are comfortable with. 

At 40 km I reach Montauban and stop to load the next track (a line on my GPS) that I need to follow. There's a problem. Long story short: I have followed a branch off the main route to a stopover town by mistake. I need to turn around and go back. Penance is both an extra 25 km as I retrace my steps and a missed sausage opportunity.

The missed sausage thing is really disappointing. I had timed the ride to make Toulouse by 12:25 and so in plenty of time to secure a seat at a Bistro offering Toulouse sausage and frites. Toulouse sausage is a thing of beauty and I was looking forward to it. Sausages are, of course a bit like communal jacuzzis. Best enjoyed by not thinking too hard about what is in them. I once worked as a butcher's boy in the Co-op and made the things (sausages not jacuzzis) so trust me on this. If you find a chewy bit in a sausage it's like sudden and unexpected warmth in the communal jacuzzi. Quite nice really but best not to speak of how it came about. 

The Garonne Canal ended in Toulouse and I joined the Canal du Midi and this will take me all the way to Sete on the shore of the Mediterranean. I think that might be the end point for this trip. The day before I arrived in Bordeaux I caught a cold and since then my lungs and nose have been engaging in competitive fluid production for a few days now and it's a bit wearing. It's mainly just annoying but I'm breathless on the hills.

Another aqueduct today but this time, wait for it, there was a bridge as well! Gotta be a contender for the Bridge of the Ride Award. Things are really hotting up now and the voting rules are taking shape!

Onward to Carcassonne tomorrow. I wonder what's for lunch.

Day 15: Marmande to Moissac 108 km. It's the solitude.

I followed the Garonne Canal for over a 100 km today. Unchanging but I didn't tire of it for a minute. Red squirrels galore and some beautiful grey herons. The other wildlife on show was a hoard of cyclists. All shapes, sizes and ages, riding all sorts of bikes. There were road bikes (racing bikes), tourers, e-bikes, Dutch 'sit up and beg' classics, recumbents, tandems and a recumbent tricycle. On board were toddlers, children, dogs, old blokes like me, couples, people with disabilities and a cat. Yes, that's right, a cat in a basket.

Everyone was enjoying the ride, the canal, the sun and the fun. There was a surprising number of dogs in baskets. Mainly small  Yorkshire Terrier size models that think the walk from the dog basket to the food bowl is a tough day out. As people pass me going the other way I always sing out 'Bonjour', as it seems to be the done thing. Nearly everyone responds in kind, sometimes with a wave and a smile attached. But.... some don't.

What's interesting is that couples who are riding together almost invariably either both respond or both don't. So, as the first half of the couple passes me I can very confidently predict whether the second half will say hello or not. Those who don't respond both sort of scowl a bit and seem to resent the social intrusion. What intrigues me is how they ever got it on together. If they dislike saying hello so much then how did they meet? Neither would have said hello and if they did then the other one wouldn't have responded so...... These things stay in your mind on a long ride. It's the solitude.

Bridge of the day! Well an aqueduct actually but a clear contender for the Bridge of the Ride Award. This is on the canal path into Agen and it is the Garonne Canal crossing the River Garonne. How good is that! 

I've yet to formally announce the rules for the Bridge of the Ride Award and there is work to be done and the excitement is building. Should there be a separate aqueduct sub-category? What, precisely, is the voting procedure? Proportional representation, first past the post? These things need to be decided. As I'm the only one voting you would have thought this would be straightforward but you would be wrong. You see, it's the solitude.

Day 14: Bordeaux to Marmande 104 km. Bring on the entertainment.

A good day off was had in Bordeaux. A very diverse city with terrific markets and an endless collection of Bistros to choose from for lunch. I pick a local place with a view of the Marche Des Capucins to watch the world go by. And it does. I'm just having some cheese, bread and wine as a starter when there's a loud yelp and shouting. Ah, that'll be the entertainment. A big man and a small dog were arguing loudly with a small man and a big dog. Well the dogs weren't arguing obviously but they were having a bit of a snarl off. The big dog had bitten the small dog on the bum and that led to the yelp. It started to calm down a bit but then the big dog had another go at the small dog's bum and it all kicked off.

The arguing escalated into pushy, shovey, handbags at dawn and then a bit further. Everyone in the Bistro was watching surreptitiously and I think a book might have been opened on the outcome. I moved from a soft cheese to a harder one. It seemed like the right thing to do. There was more pushing and then a Gallic shrug and eyebrow raising competition to see who could go the highest and then a full blown punch up broke out with the dogs having a bit of a go as well. I ordered more bread. This could take a while.

Then something pretty good happened. A very elderly and frail man, who was sipping a Ricard in the Bistro, got his walking stick and then slowly but surely stood up and somehow inserted himself in between all the combatants. He then proceeded to wag his finger at everyone and speak very softly whilst leaning precariously on his stick. Everyone calmed down and looked a bit sheepish. Everyone except, that is, the little dog who couldn't quite pull that look off because his nose was too long and was clearly still miffed about the bum biting thing. I think the final result was a score draw, with a busted lip equalling the bitten bum. 

Age and vulnerability proved to be a good combination to sort that little quarrel out. If a younger man had intervened (someone my age say) it is likely that the number of fat lips and bite marked bums would have been higher. That's my take on it. Besides I was moving systematically through the cheeses and I might have lost my place.

Lovely, sunny ride today. Once out of Bordeaux I was into the woods and vineyards. About midway there were signs to Duras where Liz and I spent some lovely days with Dave and Linda.

Joined the Garonne Canal again a bit later and stayed on it for the last 40 km. Highlight was this lovely bridge that was closed to traffic so I had it all to myself.

Off out now to see if I can find something to eat and some entertainment in Marmande.

I was just checking this, having written it earlier, and about to post it, when the entertainment started at the bar I was in. The owner and a staff member got into a car right outside the bar and another member of staff put two chairs in the road to reserve the parking spot. Wonderfully, two guys, who were swaying slightly in the breeze, sat in the chairs about six feet apart, in the road, with their beers. Priceless. The staff came out and and tried to get them out of the chairs. I've ordered three types of cheese and bread and my money is on the barmaid.

Day 12: Mortagne sur Gironde to Bordeaux 117 km. The pointy baguette incident.

Long day to make Bordeaux and have a rest tomorrow. Terrain has changed from the orchards in Normandy to sunflowers and corn and now vineyards. Arrived late because of a long wait for the ferry across the Garonne Canal from Blaye to Lamarque. I'll follow this canal now through to Toulouse and then on to Sete. The route is the Canal des Deux Mers and links the Atlantic with the Med. 

Wildlife update: it was a beaver and not a marmot that I saw. The clue was on the roadside this morning, sadly in kit form. I could make out a leg with a webbed foot. So that's two and a quarter beavers I've seen and no marmots. The sunflowers looked really poor wherever I saw them. They were short with small flowers. Clearly the drought is taking it's toll.

I made the mistake of trying to go into a small shop in a village one minute after closing time. The owner barred the way pointing at his watch. It was 12:31. Despite my pleas he was having none of it and was holding a baguette and looked prepared to use it. It crossed my mind to make him angry enough to throw it at me but it was one of those pointy baguettes that could have someone's eye out. His takings that day had now been reduced by about 20% given the size of the village but the rules had been followed.

A day off. Might go on a bike ride. Naaaaah.

Day 11: Brouage to Mortagne sur Gironde 93 km. This is how we do things and don't you mess with it.

Bit of a problem last night. Everytime I come to France I am struck by how regimented it is. Not in a top down, imposed rule sort of way but more of a bottom up, anarchic, this is how we do things and don't you mess with it sort of way. For example, on our trips, around lunchtime Liz and I would walk around looking at menus, as you do, and see nothing but empty tables everywhere at 12:25, so we'd saunter on. Then just as we decide where to go at 12:35 every table in every restaurant is taken. We missed the critical sit down window of 12:29 to 12:31. This is how we do things and don't you mess with it.

I arrived at Brouage yesterday in the late afternoon and lunch had finished at about 2 and as it was a day tripper kinda place every restaurant and eating place shut up shop at that time. You eat at lunchtime here. This is how we do things and don't you mess with it. This included my "hotel" (imagine me doing the bunny ears thing here to show my disdain) so there was no where to eat last night. All five restaurants were shut but I did find a bar serving beer and a packet of Haribo. So that was my tea.

Hungry in the morning after a sorry breakfast in my hotel (insert bunny ears), I search the tourist village of Brouage for water and bananas. There's cucumber and carrot tea infusions, owls made from coke tins, more leather handbags than you can shake a stick at but that's about it. 

Not a great start to the day but it soon gets better. Through the marshland again. Lots of wildlife and another beaver that looks like a marmot so I'm not sure about my beaver spot the other day. Then into forests and along the coast. Sunny and warm and the shade in the forests was welcome.

I'm thinking about a day's rest after I get to Bordeaux tomorrow. My right knee is protesting in a quiet and respectful way but I'm still worried it might get arrested. You can't be too careful in these febrile times. I also need to do a bit of maintenance. Some bits have come loose and are in danger of dropping off. The bike needs looking at as well.

I'm just having a beer and waiting for Pizza Chez Feu-Feu to open. There's no one in there or nearby at present but they don't fool me. The first sign of movement and I'll be in there before you can say this is how we do things and don't you mess with it.

Day 10: L'Homeau to Brouage 77 km. I was in a shopping basket.

I saw the sea today for the first time since Ouistreham and rode along the coast, through La Rochelle, more coast and then into marshland. Another sunny day but I'm not complaining. Always helps me zip along a little bit quicker. Safe, flat, mostly smooth roads and tracks all the way to the tourist honeypot that is Brouage. The ubiquitous local leather work is everywhere. Max would have loved it.

Nature watch update. Over the last few days those lovely little red squirrels have been pretty prominent. They run onto the bike track, freeze a bit and then run ahead of the bike and then suddenly and unexpectedly freeze again. Little buggers. I came across one today that obviously froze a bit too long and was the shape of a furry slipper. RIP mate but you needed to work on the not freezing thing. I think the grey ones in the UK got that. Just saying.

In the marshland there were a few Egrets. This stimulated solitude induced singing.... "Egrets..... I've seen a few..,... but then again......  too few to mention...." etc. It's the sort of thing you do when you haven't spoken to anyone for a day or so. Don't get me wrong. I am more than happy with my own company but I do just lose it a little bit every now and then.

Two other wildlife reports. I saw a beaver today having a morning wash. Forgive the awful pic. I don't think it will make the cut for Planet Earth but it was lovely to see. The other report is a bit embarrassing. In the marshland I followed a bend in the path and there, right in front of me, enjoying the morning sun and raising its body temperature was a grass snake. I couldn't stop or swerve in time and went right over it. Really gutted. I thought about going back and trying mouth to mouth or something but had visions of producing one of those balloon sausage dog things so i rode on. Bit unhappy about the whole episode but I really couldn't avoid it.

In other news... another ferry today and the best yet. I saw this one in the distance but didn't realise what it was. So when I arrived at the banks of the River Charente I joined the queue of cyclists and, being British, I didn't ask what I was queueing for. Eventually, we were all loaded into an oversized, wire shopping basket hanging from a steel framework and then a cable pulled the shopping basket across the river a couple of feet above the water. Oh joy! I love bridges. I think they are the pinnacle of architectural mix of aesthetics and function. This one was brilliant. Sorry.... it's the soitude thing

Day 9: Niort to L'Houmeau 89 km. The rise and fall of Anglo-French detente.

Blistering start to the day and I averaged about 22 kph for the first two hours. There are good reasons for this early spurt. The apartment I stayed in had one of those coffee capsule things and there were four flavours to choose from and I couldn't decide which one to have. Whoa, whoa, you're getting ahead of me there but you're right, I had all four. Not at the same time of course, that would have been silly. Just one after the other in about 30 minutes. 

Wide eyed, wired and buzzing, I zip through Niort to a bike repair shop I'd found online so I could borrow a track pump. It's difficult to get the tyres up to 95 psi with a hand pump. The little local bike shop isn't open yet so I get a pan au raisin and go for a coffee. "Oui Madame. Grand S'il Vous Plait."  So that's six shots of coffee before ten o'clock. I can't sit still for some reason so go back to the bike shop, borrow the pump and inflate the tyres well beyond the recommended 95 psi. Just couldn't stop. Much faster now with hard tyres.

It would be ungrateful not to buy something so I am now the proud owner of a rubber wristband (no, not a bracelet, they're for girls) recycled from a bike tyre. In two days time I shall no doubt be the proud owner of a rash caused by the wristband (ah, ah ah, no) of which I am the proud owner.

I'm full of caffeine fuelled bonhomie as I sprint along in the morning wishing everyone a loud "Bonjour et bon route!". I'm sure that I have, single handedly, reinstated Anglo-French detente following that Truss-Macron débâcle (oh I am into French thing now) when Liz T suggested a fellow NATO member might be an enemy. Now see here Liz. We're supposed to be standing shoulder to shoulder against Vlad the Impaler. Rein it in.

Marans after lunchtime and I have a look at the church. It's got an interesting, open spire. I'm guessing it's to let the prayers out or perhaps someone has had the lead away. Either way, I like it. When Liz and I travel (by the way that's Liz G not the PM) we nearly always visit churches. If there's some holy water Liz used to dip her finger in and draw a cross on my forehead. I would then fall to the floor clutching my face shouting "Aaaaaargh! It burns! It burns!" until a Priest with matching nuns came along and exorcised me.

Warm, flat ride this afternoon on the banks of rivers and canals. Strong headwind coming off the Atlantic that slowed me down a bit but I've arrived at my room now. It's a caravan on a campsite just outside La Rochelle. They're serving IPA ice cold. I feel the detente is under threat.

Day 8: Airvault to Niort 90km. Warming up down South.

Hot and hilly today. Temperature crept up to 30 and there were rolling hills all along the route. These can be demoralising because just as you enjoy the lazy descent, it's time to climb again. Lovely day despite the burning legs.

Not for the first time on the hills I'm overtaken by other cyclists. On this trip though, it's often people a fair bit older than me, panniers laden and heavy and they just cruise effortlessly past with a cheery ' bon route!'. They're riding E-Bikes and I love 'em. I've lost count of the number of older people zipping up the hills and enjoying the ride. It's opened up a whole new experience for people who enjoyed cycling but thought their hill climbing days were done. Brilliant. I will put off owning one as long as I can climb the hills but am happy that there is an option.

My last day on La Velo Francette tomorrow as I hope to get to La Rochelle and from there join La Velodyssee for a bit to follow the Atlantic coast. My original plan was to follow La Velodyssee down into Spain and then head for San Sebastian or Madrid or...... well somewhere else very Spanish but the fires in La Gironde mean the route south of Bordeaux  is closed. I think I will join the Canal de Deux Mers route and ride East to the Med. We'll see.

it's quite a bit better thanks, since you asked,  My bum that is. Two short stretches of the route today took in a cobbled street and a cobbled bridge. All very quaint and charming but for a cyclist these are the devil's handiwork. My bottom took the sort of beating that Max Moseley would have paid double the Deutsche Marks for back in the day. Unless anything changes that's the last you'll hear of my bum. I've put it behind me.......

Day 7: Thouars to Airvault: 29 km. Lazy Sunday afternoon.

Short, slow day today after two days that were a bit tough. I had planned to ride an average of 100 km a day but Liz and I had His and Hers Covid just before Le Grand Depart and I couldn't ride for a couple of weeks and I didn't finish my training plan. My Covid was, naturally, full blown man flu that required 24/7 room service with extra sympathy and meant I couldn't do some Peak District hills with the bike fully laden. As a result I'm not as fit as I had hoped to be. 

Quick dash this morning to arrive at a Gite in Airvault in time for Sunday lunch but there's none to be had. Rural France is increasingly deserted and I pass through villages and hamlets seeing almost no one. There are more cyclists than cars, dogs than people, cows than goats (?), and the cafes, bars and restaurants are all closed or boarded up. It's a bit of a problem because I don't want to carry food and water, because of the weight, so I'm reliant on places being open. Thankfully there's a bistro with beer (but no food) and a few doors down there's a kebab house. So it's back to my student days......

Not sure how far I'll ride tomorrow. The sun is shining, the route is safe, picturesque, mostly smooth and flat, and I'm loving it. 

Day 6: Angers to Thouars 101 km. Who pays the ferryman?

A sunny morning at last as I leave Angers. Last night's search for a red check table cloth kinda place with Boeuf Bourguinon you can stand your knife up in and a cheap carafe of red that would angry up the blood (as Abe Simpson would say) was futile. Hospital/University area means sushi, pizza, burgers and noodle bars prevail. 

Now see here France. We are in danger of falling out twice. We Brits want your restaurants and prices to stay firmly embedded in the 70's. This multi-cultural cuisine malarkey must stop immediately. Let's get back to sticky coq au vin and that cheesy creamy potato thing that burnt our mouths and then  dribbled down our shirts. Those were the days. You wouldn't want us to stay away would you? Ah........ ok.

About 15 km into today's ride I came across the River Loire. That's nice enough but there's a ferry to cross it and it's a DIY affair. I watch a group of cyclists unload their bikes having reached the other side and realise there is no ferryman. What there is is a chain that you need to pull to get the ferry boat over to your side, you then load up and pull the ferry across with the same chain. OK I'm good with that. I wait a bit in case some other cyclists turn up and we can share the work. I practice limping to tap the sympathy vote should anyone arrive but after 20 minutes I realise I'm in my own and pull the ferry across. It's hard work and will be even harder when my bike and me are on it. Takes a while and quite a bit of effort but I get across the Loire and ride on.

I'm following La Velo Francette along the Loire now and tres jolie it is too. The only thing is every now and then the 'official' route deviates from the obvious straight line to take in a small village. The idea is, I guess, to help the local village businesses to benefit from the tourist trail. I can imagine the Mayor of Gennes attending the route planning committee and arguing that the route should pass by his business interests: "Mes amis the route must come through this way otherwise how will I sell all the Nappy Creme de la Boots in my Pattissiere!" 

The day is done and I'm on the outside of a cold beer so all is well. Short day tomorrow I think as I suffered the ignomy of having to push my bike up the last hill of the day. It was 12% and the 100th kilometre of the day but the image of small children pointing at me and laughing, women turning away in disgust, men shaking their beret clad heads and scoffing as I walked by and horses fainting will stay with me. I think that's what happened. I was too knackered to notice.

Day 5: Laval to Angers 97 km. France! No!

Lovely start to the day following the banks of the River Mayenne and I've covered 70 km by the time I stop to eat. For lunch there's what Liz calls baby's ears (dried apricots), an apple, a stick of Emmental (stolen from breakfast) and a three day old yoghurt that's been safely stored in my pannier to keep it nice and warm. The flavour of the yoghurt is described as natural but there's a fizzy, tangy thing going on as well, so that's good.

Here's my lunch spot and I think that's a Chateau in the distance but perhaps not. There was no Brit attached to it doing large scale DIY and shouting at the local builders about Henriette and Tarquin's wedding being only days away so it can't have been. These things are compulsory for Chateaus.

Popped out for a beer last night in a micro-brewery complete with rustic furniture and beer with staw in it. They're clearly emulating this new trend from the UK and it's popular. I'm just approaching the door and a bit thirsty when a group of about 15 young lads get in first. What happens next would leave any pub goer crying into their beer if only they could get one. The group forms a single line and then the first lad asks what beers are on. The barmaid points at the screen listing 10 beers by number and name. He then asks what number one is like and I have an impending sense of doom. Eventually he chooses some improbably named nettle and nut based pale ale and it's poured and put on the bar. He doesn't pay. Number two steps up and the whole charade is repeated. I am both speechless and beerless. This could take forever and it does. One by one they step up and each order a beer that is put on the bar but don't pay. Just as number fifteen has plumped for some pink monstrosity three mates arrive and join the end of the queue. This is a clear breach of pub etiquette and I am now bound to act. So I tut in a very British way: not loud enough for anyone to hear but loud enough for me to think a job has been well done.

There's now a bar with eighteen drinks on it but It's not over yet despite my forceful British intervention. What happens next is number one approaches the bar again to pay. Result! But he only pays for his own drink and picks it up. Number two steps up and does the same. Christ on a bike we'll be here all night! There's nothing for it and I have to tut again, it's the only way ahead. By the time number thirteen arrives to pay for and collect his drink I have already gone for a face palm eye roll combo to no avail and I am now in the foetal position rocking gently. A dispute then arises as number fourteen had asked for some sort of avacado ale and there's only a lentil and lemon lager left on the bar. I'm rocking a bit more vigorously now, biting the back of my hand and whimpering gently. Number 17 denies ordering the cherry surprise but it's there for all to see. Number 18 only wants an orange juice but suspects number 12 has sipped it. There nothing for it so I tut loudly enough to be heard. Everyone looks mildly puzzled.

Eventually it's over. The barmaid ask me what I would like. "Pint of number 3 please". She says "The Sunny Smile IPA?"....... ". "Yeah. That's the one. I'll pop back next week sometime to pay if that's ok with you". Btw it was a good pint.

Now see here France. We didn't kick Napoleon's derriere at the Battle of Brexit to allow this kind of cultural appropriation. Sell as much brown beer as you like but drop the bar service thing. Let's go back to the time when we would slowly dehydrate sitting outside a cafe whilst the waiter played angry birds on his phone before finally coming over after 20 minutes of us feigning nonchalence at the wait. We always ignored him for a bit the first time just so he knew who was in charge. If you continue to do death by bar service we'll kick you out of the EU. How would you like that eh?

Day 4: Domfront to Laval 86km. I am half man, half pig.

I stayed in a local hotel last night that had a carpet that made sucking noises as you walked on it. It was great. The "Grill" next door promised formule for €10.80 so I'm there early. With the creeping veggie movement in the UK I had forgotten how unusual it is to find a long list of meat dishes and this place specializes in meat. It's an abattoir with a barbeque. My dinner arrives. I think the translation is "big pile of pig on a plate". There's a couple nearby with the same dish in front of them and between the three of us I'm pretty sure we could reconstruct the complete cochon. By the time I've finished, I am half man, half pig and I will never look another sausage in the eye again. Well, for now anyway.

Breakfast is in the "Grill" and I now quite fancy a bacon buttie but there's the ubiquitous french breakfast of bread and pastries. I have a plan to liberate a spoon following a disaster yesterday when trying to eat a yoghurt without one. It didn't end well. So I'm all kitted out now.

The route I'm following is La Velo Francette and the last 30 km stretch today from Mayenne to Laval follows the banks of the River Mayenne and is flat and smooth. I manage to keep my average speed above my target of 16 kph (10 mph if you voted leave) despite two downpours. Tonight I'm in the FastHotel that lacks both character and furniture. It's minimalism with a passion. One bed, one chair and no comforting sucking noise when you walk across the room. I shall eat at the Buffalo Grill tonight. Pretty sure there will be a good vegan menu there.

Highlight of the day: a red squirrel crossed my path. I've never seen one before. Beautiful deep chestnut coat. Onward!

Day 3: Clecy to Domfront 70km. Let's Parler Franglais! Une visite a la Pharmacie (Homage to Miles Kingston).

You may need to turn off automatic translation from French to English for this one. Best read in French!

"Bonjour Madame"

"Bonjour Monsieur"

"Mon derriere est tres rouge."

"Sacre Bleu!"

"Non Madame. N'est pas bleu. Il est rouge."

"Porquoi?"

"L'action avec mon derriere et leather."

"Ooh la la!"

"Non Madame. N'est pas 50 shades de la grey. L'action est sur mon velo."

"Tres adventurous!"

"Madame. S'il Vous plait. Mon derriere est rouge de tomate."

"Une tomate?"

"Actuelment deux tomate, variete plum."

"Zut alhors!"

"Avez Vous Boots Nappy Cream?"

"En France Il est Nappy Creme de la Boots."

"Avez Vous Nappy Creme de la Boots?

"Non."

"Avez Vous Nappy Creme de la grand Pharmacie de France?"

"Non."

"Porquoi non Creme de la Nappy?"

"C'est une Patisserie."

"Patisserie?"

"Oui"

"Ah. Pharmacie et Patisserie tres similar."

"Non."

"Avez Vous pain au raisin?"

"Oui. Avec confiture de strawberry?.

"Il est rouge?"

"Oui. Tres rouge."

"Non il est OK. Pas de appetite......"

"Au revoir"

"Au revoir"

Le Grand Depart days 1 and 2

Day 1: Birmingham to Ouistreham. 37 km.

 Short ride along the banks of the Solent from Southampton to catch the third ferry of the day from Portsmouth. 

Day 2: Ouistreham to Clecy. 57km. 

Nouvelle cuisine has finally touched down at L'Ecailler hotel by way of a miniscule breakfast of a 'finger' baguette and a croissant that failed to realise its life goal. (You had one job......). I'm not greedy when it comes to breakfast but it's now 12:30 and I'm 1900 calories in the red.  I am wasting away.  I tried to find a pain au raisin en route (I'm coming over all gallic now), the undisputed king of French breakfast pastries, (and if any man disagrees I shall demand satisfaction) but to no avail. So here I am in Clecy, after a short day to avoid the afternoon storms, hunting for lunch but as we are post-August, France is shut.

Eventually I discover a cafe on the banks of the river Orme serving Gratin de Nini. If you ever need to carb load then this is the stuff. Potato, cream, potato, ham, cream, potato, leeks, cheese, cream, potato. Perfect. Bread as well, of course, eaten in the English way in French restaurants: there is bread on the table, we eat it straight away, more bread appears, we eat it straight away, meal arrives, no thanks, I'm a bit full, anymore bread?

Domfront tomorrow with a morning dash to avoid the afternoon storms. Probably have bread for lunch.

Keralan Odyssey, January 4th: Purity, the towels are so fluffy we can hardly shut the case.

We have finally arrived at Purity and the manager Vineeth welcomes us. It's a tranquil place with a spa and chickpea and lentil bathrobes and gluten free head massage. We are introduced to Mary who is going to take us through what's on offer.

"There's a yoga class at 7 in the morning. Shall we book you in?"
"I can't say that was high on my list Mary."
"At the spa you can be rubbed with oil and coconut and wrapped in a banana leaf."
"That sounds like a fish recipe but I'm your man."
"Any questions Sir?"
"Do you have beer?"
"We have a low calorie, organic, non-alcoholic, craft beer brewed from seaweed that is served warm".
"There is one part of that description that disturbs me greatly Mary."

We settle into a spacious room overlooking Lake Vembanad. There should be a bus service between the bed and shower. I don't think we've ever stayed in such a beautiful place. I know everything is high quality because Liz is putting it all in the case.

"Put the shampoo down, step away from the soap and take those hessian slippers off right now. They're all going home and don't get the  loofa wet!"
"If that's the thing that looks like Donald Trump's hair then there's something I need to share with you."

She's measuring up the curtains but there's no way we can take those, what with the cushions filling the case already.

It's my last ride today so I want to follow the network of small roads and rough tracks in the rural interior where the smiles are broadest. I head north along the edge of the lake and then turn west and I'm soon off road on paths that link small houses together. Although the terrain is unfamiliar, with palm and banana trees, the banalities of life are not. There's washing on the line, profanity ridden DIY, a group of women gardening and people chatting outside their homes. Almost without fail people greet me, wave and smile. At a temple I stop to talk to a group of small boys. Davinder tells me he is 12 and I find this difficult to believe. He is simply not big enough to be any more than 7 or 8. I ask other boys their age and they are all around 12 but look so much younger. It's these important things that point to some fundamental differences that are hidden from plain view.

Some of the small metalled roads have the communist icon of the hammer and sickle whilst others have less identifiable icons. I think these indicate which political party claims responsibility for building the road. The state of Kerala democratically elected the communist party into power in 1982 and has the highest rate of literacy and the highest average educational attainment in India. (Just saying.) I like the idea of political parties or politicians having their images associated with their achievements. David Cameron could have his photo on closed steelworks and George Osborne's might appear at foodbanks. Theresa May could have her photo in public phone boxes with her number below.

"Theresa May, Home Secretary speaking."
"I'd like a home visit massage service please."
"Regular or gluten free?"
"I love it when you talk organically Theresa."
"Jeremy! This has to stop."

The last hot and tiring ride home to Purity is on the rural roads that I've enjoyed most and some of the stallholders recognise me and smile and wave. There are goats grazing on the roadside near the satsuma seller's stall and one of them looks at me nervously. I think I recognise her. Her hair is different now but .. (enough already!) As I leave the small group of houses that I think is Muhamma, two young lads on a scooter come alongside me and say hello. We chat for a bit and then the driver asks, very politely, if they could have their photo taken with me. (Unbelievably this has happened to me and Liz a few times before in Beijing, Kuala Lumpar and Mumbai). I can't refuse such a polite request so I pull over and they get off and we get ready to pose. Arun is a likeable lad and a keen follower of fashion with complicated trousers and hair that could have someone's eye out. As we are lining up the selfie two of his friends turn up and join in. We squeeze together with me in the middle and just before the shot is taken the two lads either side of me put their arms around my shoulders. This is a mistake. Not for me but them. I am soaked with sweat with the effort in the heat and I feel their grip soften. I daren't look at the picture as it may show two rictus grins as the tsunami of sweat spreads into floral shirts. They mount their bikes and ride off, probably looking for a laundrette.

The last ride is over and so is the Keralan Odyssey. At this point I think I should confess (even though I am sure you know) that the blog is full of embellishment and exaggeration in the name of poetic licence. All of the events recorded happened but perhaps not quite as described. When there were conversations recorded these are verbatim as much as I can recall. However, there is one thing that I have not exaggerated in any way at all, at any point in the blog and that is the friendliness, warmth and beautiful smiles of the people of Kerala that I was fortunate enough to meet. These are the things I will remember over the deserted white beaches, varied and exquisite food, stunning sunsets and bustle and mayhem on the roads. Blog over.

Keralan Odyssey, 2 January: "......... and that, your Honour, was how I came to be on top of the goat."

Yesterday, on a brief ride along the coastal dirt tracks, I was told off in no uncertain terms. I was cycling behind three older women who suddenly realised I was there and moved aside. The oldest berated me (with a smile naturally) and slapped her hand on my handlebars. She was telling me I should have a bell and use it. She was right and I was wrong and so this morning we took a Tuk Tuk into Alleppey to get this sorted. The recession is clearly biting hard for the Halfords Superstore I discover and Kerala's answer to Arkwright peers out over oily, ancient bike parts and gives me a head nod. After a quick game of charades I part with 50 Rupees and am now the proud owner of a shiny bell and feel safer already.

I'm gradually getting used to the unwritten rules of the road and a left turn onto a main road is the most remarkable manoeuvre. You don't look at all to see if anything is coming, you just join the flow. It's up to the traffic on the main road to avoid you and you trust them not to wipe you out. I'm now confident enough to do this and pretty sure the good folk at my insurance company will see the wisdom of my thinking when I submit the claim form.

"I turned left onto the dangerous and busy main road right in front of a motorbike with a family of four on it that was overtaking a Tuk Tuk that was being overtaken by a bus that was heading toward a Tuk Tuk overtaking a truck. I didn't look to see what was coming as it would have been culturally inappropriate and besides I had a new bell."

I cycle through the back roads toward Lake Vembanad. En route I pass more churches than Hindu temples and there's clearly a bit of an arm wrestle going on between the two. The churches are modern, very large, crafted from stone and set in spacious grounds. The temples are brightly coloured and beautifully ornate. Sree Devi temple is undergoing renovation and I pause to look at the building work. One of the builders has the most wonderful hat. It's a small purple umbrella that sits on the top of his head to give relief from the sun. I'm thinking of importing these. Can you imagine seeing one of our brickies wearing one in summer? From behind they'd look like a table lamp on top of a giant furry peach.

Away from the coast the smiles are again broader and people want me to stop and talk. The conversations are brief: "What is your name? Where are you from? Where are you going?" and the best so far "Your bike is beautiful!" The repetition suits me fine as this is about the limit of my finely honed social repertoire. However, a quick chat is clearly what the children like as they can practice their English so I decide to initiate the next encounter. At the very posh Lemon Tree Lakeside Resort I see a young lad just inside the gateway so I pause to swap niceties. Very slowly and deliberately I say: "My...name....is.....Chris......" He looks at me rather strangely and I have a horrible feeling that he's thinking "OMG. First I have to come here on holiday rather than Centreparcs for the second year running and now I'm accosted by a muppet who can barely string a sentence together. I hope there's a social worker nearby." I ride off leaving him looking bemused.

In Mannanchery I stop at a very busy stall to buy water and I take off my helmet and sunglasses to cool down a bit. I fill up my water bottle and then reach for my glasses that I usually hang on the neck of my shirt. They're not there. I must have left them on the counter and so I squeeze through the small crowd but I can't see them. I gesture to the woman who served me that I have lost my glasses and I engage in elaborate signing to show her what I am looking for by pointing at my eyes.
"I'm looking for my glasses. I wear them on my head."
"You wear glasses on head" she says.
"Yes that's right and I have lost them. Are they here?"
"You wear glasses on head" she says again.
"Yes I know but are they here?"
"You wear glasses on head."
This is frustrating so I turn away and can only conclude that someone has picked them up and they're gone. I start to put my helmet on and it is then that I realise I am wearing my glasses on the top of my head where I had pushed them.

I'm a bit ashamed of the assumptions that I made: that someone had taken my glasses and that I understood the conversation but the woman who served me did not. I must make amends so I go back to the counter and point to my glasses on the top of my head and say "I am wearing my glasses on my head". This probably wasn't my best idea as the woman looks at me with pity and the expression reserved for two year olds who have used the potty for the first time. My shame is compounded later on when I buy four satsumas at a roadside stall. The vendor weighs them and then exchanges one of the satsumas for a slightly larger one and weighs them again. The weight has risen from 0.495 kilos to 0.5 kilos. He changed one satsuma for another so that he didn't short change me by five hundredths of a kilo. I pay 20 Rupees but as there are no prices on show he could have asked me for anything but he didn't and he wanted to make sure the price was right. I vow to be more trusting in future.

The temperature rises into the mid-thirties and my rear wheel gradually seizes. The heat causes the brake fluid, disks and pads to expand and consequently the brake locks and I can't keep going. I stop at a Tuk Tuk stall and buy cold water for 20 Rupees that I then pour onto the brake mechanism. It does the trick by cooling the pads and disk and frees the wheel. The small crowd that had gathered to help are open mouthed at such profligacy with cold drinkable water and I can only agree.

I'm about a couple of miles from home now and I have to cross a fast and very busy road. On the other side a woman is tending goats. It's the only road that really worries me and I pull up at the side and wait for something that I can stick close to so I can get across. Eventually a Tuk Tuk turns up and I nod at the driver and gesture. He nods back so I have a wingman to attempt the crossing. We're stuck for a few minutes waiting for a break in the traffic and then he spots a small opening and goes for it. I'm right with him but a bit anxious as it's tight. There's a truck and a bus bearing down on us and numerous scooters and motorbikes weaving in and out. Suddenly he moves ahead and I have to accelerate quickly to keep up. We're in the middle now waiting for a break in the next lane. I can see a small gap in the distance and realise my copilot is going to go for it. The horns are deafening and then the gap is here and we push off together. It's looking good but we hadn't spotted the Tuk Tuk that was coming the wrong way up the side of the road. I'm thinking we're in trouble as we have to pause and there's now a bus overtaking a car coming toward us and a motorbike between them with propane tanks strapped to the side. This starts to feel like the plot of a Simpsons episode with Homer centre stage. There's nothing for it, I have to act. I ring my bell; not once, but twice! That should do it. We accelerate hard to squeeze behind the miscreant Turk Tuk. I've lost my bearings a bit and am now heading for the roadside and have to move fast to get out of the way of the truck. I plough into some grass and then hit some soft sand that brings me to a rapid halt. I can't clip out in time and I slowly fall to my left........ and that, your Honour, was how I came to be on top of the goat.

Epilogue

On Facebook I've posted a picture of the goat I was on top of. It's not a great photo as her hair is tousled by sleep and she has turned her head sideways a little, perhaps because I'm not getting her best side, but you can see a teasing smile playing on her lips and the way her eyes sparkle in the morning light. Ahem.

Keralan Odyssey, 29th December: It's official; chips are the healthy option.

Alleppey (Alappuzha) is the nearest town of any note and must be worth a look. So that's the plan. It's to the north, so the major challenge is getting past St. Xavier's church without bequeathing my pension to Sister Maria. I also need to find the villa we will soon stay at on Omanapuzha Beach. The church is quiet today but I'm not taking any chances and I sneak by having waited for a bus to provide cover. I head down to the coast and find La Plage which is right on the beach and there's the promise of a cold beer. They will cook red snapper for Liz (her favourite), so all is well.

The coast road takes me to the outskirts of Alleppey where I encounter a bit of hostility. I'm cycling slowly along taking in the sights when an older man on the roadside shouts angrily at me and waves his arms. The only word I can make out is "American". As he shouts this he gets ready to spit at me. Thankfully he hawks first and this gives me time to escape. (Women: hawking is the noisy back of the throat/nose thing that blokes do in the early stages of man flu. The preferred time is just as you are dropping off to sleep in bed and you then jerk awake thinking your bedroom has been invaded by a wild boar with a hernia that has stepped on a bit of Lego). I was a bit shocked by this and didn't know what to make of it. Has Donald Trump been down this way with that shredded wheat on his head building cultural bridges?

The beach at Alleppey is on its way to becoming a resort: part sandy nirvana, part building site. There are a few cafes so I stop for water and a healthy portion of chips. That's right; healthy chips. Just before we came away I went to the doctors with a stomach upset, probably related to my fresh fruit and vegetable diet as opposed to the bucket of prosseco/cointreau/cranberry cocktail I drank with my research group to celebrate Christmas and graduation. An odd conversation with my Doctor ensues:

"I can give you something for that."
"Thanks. I am going to India in a couple of days to celebrate Christmas and New Year."
"Try to avoid spicy food and alcohol."
"I can't imagine that will be in any way difficult Doctor."
"Also, be careful with drinks, water, ice and food. Actually, fried food is best. Chips are the healthy option in this case."
"Can I have a prescription for KFC?"

In Alleppy I am more confident in heavy traffic and curiously I actually feel safe. The rule is just keep doing what you are doing and no sudden moves. This is fine until I approach a very busy four way junction near the bus station. There are numerous buses the size of, well, buses and they are coming from all directions. Unfortunately, I need to turn right and I now need to deploy a strategy I learned from a woman who had a learning disability.

When I was training as a clinical psychologist I researched Alzheimer's disease in people with Down syndrome and I tested a woman in her fifties who lived in Gogaburn Hospital and who prized her independence. Her vision and hearing had deteriorated and my newly developed tests showed a memory impairment and some other worrying signs of change. A couple of days a week she went into Edinburgh on the bus and spent some time there. There was a concern about her safety so I was tasked with following her. I caught the same bus into the city and got off behind her near Princes Street and watched as she approached a very busy junction. She stopped at the pelican crossing and moved close to the person next to her and when they looked at her, she simply held their hand. I watched her do this a few times and every time, without fail, she was helped across the road with care and attention. So now, when travelling, I do something similar. In Alleppey I wait for a motorbike at the junction and then touch the rider's arm, gesture and then stick close to as they weave through the traffic. Liz and I also deployed this strategy in Rome where at difficult crossings we would wait for a nun or priest (double insurance and the place was knee deep with them) and then stick close as they crossed. Worked every time.

On the road out of Alleppey the temperature is in the mid 30's and there is no shade. I'm close to the 25 mile mark, hot and thirsty and so need to stop for water and to buy a pineapple for Liz. There's a roadside stop with pineapples on show where the Tuk Tuk drivers have gathered so I take a break. Sitting on a small, black stall I am sweating profusely from the heat and effort, covered in dust, sunburnt, thirsty and knackered. One of the Tuk Tuk drivers I have seen before asks me if I want a Tuk Tuk.

"No thanks. I like riding my bike."
"I put your bike in my Tuk Tuk."
"It's ok thanks. This is what I like to do on holiday."
"You have money for my Tuk Tuk?"
"Yes, but I like cycling."
"Why ride your bike in the sun on the bad roads when you could take my Tuk Tuk."
"Erm... It's enjoyable. Lots of people in England like to cycle."
"But they have cars. Why cycle if you have a car?"
"Ermmmm, it's nice to cycle. In fact one of the leaders of our political parties cycles to work wearing a shell suit."
"I am very sorry for you and your country."
"Yes, me too."
"Be careful near the church. There are people who will take all your money."
"I know. I met her."

This conversation reminds me of a trip to Katmandu and a ride in a cycle rickshaw. The 'driver' was about 10 and his legs were too short to reach the pedals when he sat on the saddle. Consequently, he had to pedal whilst standing. It was a very hot day and he was sweating with the effort. I wondered what he might make of my gym membership:

"So. Let me get this right. At this gym you pay someone the equivalent of a year's salary in Nepal so that you can pedal their bike that doesn't even move."
"Yes, that's right. If you pay extra for a spin class you can have someone shout at you to go faster. How good is that!"

Route 66 takes me back to the resort and as I approach the gate the security guard, with impeccable timing, opens the gate so I don't have to stop. He helps me chain my bike to a cashew nut tree and as we do this I can see other holidaymakers lying by the pool on sun loungers being served cold drinks and reading books. I do wonder whether the Tuk Tuk driver has a point.

Keralan Odyssey, 27th December: Purity! I want Purity!

My route today takes me inland and away from the tourist areas so that I can see the other side of life in Kerala. Beach Road runs from the idyllic Marari beach, where locals gather to watch the sun go down, toward Vembanad Lake where we have booked to stay next week. Along the coast road there are cathedral size churches with services in full flow. At St. Xavier's church the congregation are singing in the local language of Malayalam. It's beautifully melodic but unfamiliar so I stop for a while to eavesdrop and that's when the trouble started.

I had been engrossed in the singing and hadn't noticed a few small, uniformed boys creeping up behind me. By the time I spotted them I was surrounded by a collective noun of orphans. I knew they were orphans because the sign behind them told me so (orphanage licence number 1298 tells how numerous these are). Everyone is asking my name and I make the novice error of doing the same and hear 20 names shouted in unison. The expected shouts of "10 Rupees!" don't materialise and instead I hear "pencil?". Liz and I have previously carried pockets full of pencils when trekking in Nepal and Southern Turkey and I am sorry to have to disappoint the children this time.

In the melee a nun appears. She looks a bit like the crazed driver of the Tata who made Mad Max look like Tufty*. She introduces herself and wants to tell me a bit about the Orphanage and I'm keen to learn as my partner Liz, who is a social worker, has just placed a child from a Keralan orphanage with a Keralan family in Walsall. (Apparently there is a large Keralan community in Walsall. Who'd have thought?). There are 40 children and funds are tight. Clothing, schoolbooks and food are all expensive and then there are the medical and running costs and so the list grows. Sister Maria is now on a mission and asks if I have considered a donation. I have and so I get my wallet out. I hand her 500 Rupees (c. £5) and she looks crestfallen, so I hand her another. She adds a frown to crestfallen and looks me straight in the eye with the look of a woman that assures me that I should think twice before I cross her path again when she's in her Tata. I give her another note and she half smiles but only briefly so I give another. This carries on for a few minutes with Alan Sugar in a habit gradually perking up with each note. She sees my wallet is now all but empty and is just about to get a credit card machine out from under her robes when I shut my wallet and put it away.

Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge a single Rupee and I know that fundraising opportunities must be taken. Sister Maria gave a masterclass in how to keep the orphanage afloat and she could probably sort the Greek crisis out by the weekend given half a chance. As I turn to leave she holds my hand, smiles, thanks me and then gives me a leaflet. I worry that it might be a direct debit form and she won't let go of my hand until I've put enough zeros in the box, but no. It describes how I might enter heaven. (I'm not mad keen on this idea as none of my mates will be there). I'll give it a read but I'm pretty sure I'm more in debt than credit. By the way, I know what crossed your mind whilst reading this but let me assure you of something. Given the choice, you would take Walsall over a Keralan orphanage (even one run by the formidable entrepreneur Sister Maria) every time, without fail, no question about it at all.

With a thin, light wallet I head west and inland. The roads turn into dirt tracks and the houses become smaller and less sturdy but the smiles and waves persist. I'm doing well on the child physical assault front and I have neither injured anyone under 12 today nor crushed their self-esteem. My GPS is showing an arrow which I follow and soon I enter a rural landscape with only a few houses. When I first appear people stare at me but when I give a head nod and smile they positively beam and return the head nod in a way that I can't quite get the hang of. It's side to side with a bit of up and down but not a lot.

I want to see Lake Vembanad but I also want to find our resort for next week that's called "Purity". I've got it marked on my GPS and soon I find a small sign and head down a dirt track. I come to the end of the track and can see nothing but the lake with a man bathing in it. I'm  reluctant to interrupt to ask him the way (after all this hasn't happened to me at home) but I have no choice. I shout "Hello!" and he waves. I call out "Purity! I am looking for Purity! I want Purity!" I think he speaks English as he gives me a look that says "I think for you that particular ship left port some considerable time ago." I turn back and eventually I find Purity.

At reception I'm treated to water melon juice whilst I wait to confirm our reservation. You know what happens next don't you? And so it comes to pass. Purity is overbooked and we have been bumped. Where is Sister Maria when you need her? I won't bore you with the whole sorry tale that the poor manager, Vineeth,  had to recount. As he explained the computer error his side to side head nods were in overdrive. I thought this might be because he could then dodge a punch but it was more the impossible apologies he was forced to deliver. For the second time that day I thought I might just shout "I want Purity!" but it's clearly a lost cause. So as I write we have nowhere to stay at peak period. I wonder if Sister Maria might help but even our combined credit card limits might not be able to cover the cost of the consultation.

On the route back I stop for water at a roadside shack and make a mess of the drinking from the bottle thing again. This time I misjudged how much to pour in (oh please try this at home without a responsible adult present) and the result was I cooled off rather effectively. Back at the resort we meet the manager who tells us of his first trip to Newcastle in the UK to learn the hospitality business. His mum bought him a new linen suit as she was worried about the Briish winter cold and thought the temperature might drop as low as 15/16C. When he arrived at Newcastle Station in mid-January he was relieved to see people standing outside in t-shirts and bare legged in short skirts as this meant it wasn't too cold for his suit. He opened the door and stepped out confidently from the warmth of the station and into the city...... you can guess the rest.

*For you youngsters The Tufty Club was a road safety campaign for children. Tufty was a squirrel and had a badger as a friend. Yes, it is weird isn't it.

Keralan Odyssey, Boxing Day: Save the children

Today we are searching for a festive beer in a dry state (both Kerala and us) and so we approach the font of all wisdom, a Tuk Tuk driver. Without first inviting us to sit and adopt the impending disaster position, he tells us that beer and wine are only sold from government approved outlets and the nearest is 17 kilometres away. I recover the power of speech about 10 minutes later and quiz him further. He then tells us there is a 'hotel' where we can buy beer and he will take us. I tell him I want to bear his children and we hop in. We arrive at the 'hotel' and enter a dimly lit, windowless room that reminds me of my clinical psychology student days in Edinburgh where I lived in a cold, damp basement flat on Northumberland Street. Next door was a windowless basement pub that was warm and dry called The Wally Dug* where I would sit in the evenings to thaw out whilst writing essays on topics like "Environmental causes of excessive alcohol intake" (living in a pub got the lion's share of the answer). Anyway, we ordered a carry out of Kingfisher Special and the man who now owns the top floor of our house took us back to the resort. I was now able to enjoy a quiet Christmas beer followed by six noisy ones.

Back at the resort our bathroom and shower are rather splendid as they are outside in a small courtyard garden. Showering when surrounded by palm trees and birdsong is special. However, it's not entirely private as it is possible to see people in the shower in other villas but only if you stand on our roof and hold on to the palm tree whilst leaning outwards (health and safety nightmare, must complain). Everything else about our stay is wonderful. Kusbu serves us breakfast and tells us that she is from the north of India and it takes her three days by train to get to work. I ask her if it is one of those Virgin off-peak things that goes via Darlington. Apparently not. This is the price that is paid by young women to work in a comparatively clean and safe environment.

Today I rode south toward Alleppey with the waves and smiles continuing unabated. The route follows an overgrown canal before meeting the outskirts of the town. Poverty is more evident here but the smiles are broader and the crow's feet deeper. Just before town a young woman on a bike signals for me to slow down and cycle alongside her. She tells me she is at St Josephs College and wants to train as a doctor. We chat for a while and it is humbling to hear her story and her aspirations. I negotiate the traffic in town and am now feeling more confident about the rules of the road.

At the local market I stop for water and bananas, the latter being invented just for cyclists. Bananas have their own packaging, release the right amount of sugar at the required rate and are quite tasty.  However, in Kerala they are weird. They are about a tenth of the price and a third of the size of proper bananas and taste like bananas only very much more so. I'm pretty sure that Monsanto produce these by injecting normal bananas with genetically modified essence of banana. I can't wait to get back to the insipid bananas that are free from this tampering. I will gladly pay the extra to know they are the real thing provided by Asda.

As I leave the town to pick up Route 66 and head north some of the children at the roadside shout  "Ten Rupee! Ten Rupee!" Others just smile broadly and hold their hands up to wave. It slowly dawns on me that they are not just holding their hands up to wave but want to 'high five'. I decide to give it a go next time and then see a family on a stationary motorbike with a little boy sandwiched between his mum and dad. He holds his hand up and I line up for a high five. Just as I am getting close his dad starts to drive off and as I deliver the high five the speed of our two bikes is added to my vigorous attempt to make it memorable. There's a loud slap and a cry as we make contact and my hand stings. I think I've overdone it.  I look back and he has a shocked look on his face and his hand is in his armpit. His mum is looking at me as if I have just struck her child and I realise that high fives have yet to reach Kerala. I cycle away quickly and vow not to assault any more small children when they wave at me.

Weaving my way through side streets I head for home. Yesterday and today when riding along, children on bikes sometimes come alongside and want to race. As I approach the edge of town a young lad takes me on and is hunched over his handlebars with a determined look. I let him get ahead and then just as we get close to a bright green archway (clearly the tacitly agreed finish line) I up the pace and beat him to it. Victory! I am punching the air and commentating in a loud, exaggerated Murray Walker voice. I look back at the loser and laugh at his failure. Sorry son. It's a hard lesson at the University of Life. He did well though and when he passes the age of five I think he may just be able to get a bit closer.

The ride ends and as I arrive back, hoping to borrow a ladder for safety reasons, I can only think "save the children" (from me).

* A wally dug is a ceramic figurine of a small hairy dog. The pub opened in 1811.

Keralan Odyssey. Christmas Day: "Get your kicks on Route 66".*

And so it begins....

We're on a Christmas break in the South Indian state of Kerala that we've been looking forward to for quite a while. (In the meantime our luggage is on a city break in Dubai but that's a whole 'nother story.) Our 'resort', Xandia Pearl, is on Route 66 that runs north to south on the east coast of Kerala and is nigh on perfect with a beautiful lake view, deserted beach, pure white linen, dosas for breakfast and fresh catch of the day (served with butter and lemon) for dinner. We wish for absolutely nothing, except..... except we wish that Xandia Pearl had a licence to serve alcohol. Oh yes. With breathtaking incompetence I have booked us into the driest resort in the temperance capital of India that is Kerala for the Christmas holiday. For the first time since I was 15 I shall have a clear head as three ships come sailing in. But never mind (!), there is some cycling to be done and today is Le Grand Depart.

I have planned some long routes but first I must learn the rules of cycling on the roads in India. So I am just going to head north on Route 66 for a bit to discover the unwritten rules of the road. If you have visited India then you will know that all drivers have one hand on their phone and the other on the horn. This can be a bit disconcerting as in the UK horns usually mean bad news. In India horns mean many things, such as: "I am driving a big truck with dodgy brakes and a sticky accelerator and you are on a bike. How do you think this might play out?", "Do you want to bargain for a ride in my Tuk Tuk so I can retire early?" and "Yes, I know I am driving my oversized bus down the wrong side of the road towards you but the view is to die for". Funnily enough, the constant use of the horn is useful for cyclists as you always know there is someone behind you and roughly where and, more importantly, how big they are. So cycling turns out to be much safer than it looks (just keep telling yourself this Chris).

So, I take to Route 66 to get my kicks. As I head north it's quiet on the roads (what with being Christmas Day and that ) and as I pass people on the roadside they look directly at me somewhat quizzically. It's a bit disconcerting so I resolve that I shall smile and nod at the next person. I do so and am greeted by a  cheery "Hello!" with a hand straight up in the air wave, a delightful side to side head nod and a broad accompanying smile. This is fun, so next time I add a loud "Merry Christmas !" which is greeted with smiles that quickly turn to laughter and the hand in the air wave. The Keralan smile is an evocative sight to behold. My students will know it as a Duchenne smile; ends of the mouth moving upwards and eyes crinkling. It's a genuine smile that is truly uplifting (not the Panam smile, a frozen affair named for the air hostesses on the Panam airline) and would give the smile of children with Angelmans syndrome a run for its money. It's also a really rewarding response, so I am soon wishing all and sundry a loud  "Merry Christmas!" and the smiles and waves follow.

As I approach Arthunkal it's warming up toward 30 degrees and I feel my face reddening in the sun. I'm a bit unfit these days and probably carrying a pound or two more than is optimal for this kind of malarkey but it's fun and the smiles and waves are worth the effort. I can see a few brightly coloured small houses coming up and some children playing on the roadside. As I get closer a small girl in a bright green and gold  sari shouts "Santa!". I feel the need to stop and tell her that I'm not Santa because he is an old, red faced, grey haired, overweight white bloke who travels around wishing everyone a Merry Christmas but then I decide this might be a bit confusing. So it's onward on Route 66 toward Thaickal. En route I decide to practice the side to side head nod so I can blend in with the locals. After about a dozen tries I'm getting the hang of it but suddenly have a searing pain in my neck and have to stop for a bit as I can't move my head back to the vertical from the semi-horizontal. It's an old rugby injury (see "Into the land of the shipping forecast" below) and I'll need to keep an eye on the head nods.

Just past the houses I approach my first four way junction. This is a challenge as I don't know the rules and it looks like a free for all, mainly because it is. As I approach the junction a Tuk Tuk overtakes another Tuk Tuk and heads straight towards me. I move left, he moves right; I correct and swing right and he swings left. This isn't going well. The rules of the game of chicken are being rewritten. In the end I swerve further right and he breaks hard with the trailing Tuk Tuk nearly mounting his Tuk Tuk from behind to make a Tuk Tuk tandem. I pass him by inches to be confronted by a fun sized Tata packed to the brim with nuns bearing down on me. The head honcho nun behind the wheel drives straight at me with the look of a woman who knows God has her back in any showdown with a heathen on a bike. I turn hard right to avoid nun carnage and am now heading toward an old woman who is taking her cow for a walk. It's a tough call: should I run over the old woman or the sacred cow? As I am weighing up the possible outcomes I hit deep sand and grind to a halt. I'm a bit shaken but around me everyone just carries on as if nothing has happened. For a first go at a four way junction I'm pretty pleased to walk away unscathed.

I start to head home, happy to have survived and bouyed by the Keralan smiles. I can see a roadside shack serving drinks to a few young local lads and decide to stop for a drink. They seem pleased when I say hello and I can see a chance to blend in and just hang out with the guys for a while. I buy a bottle of sugary, sticky lemonade for 15rs and the owner of the shack pops the top. I've noticed before in India that when drinking from a bottle you don't touch the bottle with your lips. So I'm careful to follow the rules. As I raise the bottle with the guys I think it will enhance my cool demeanour if I lean on the counter with my elbow, signifying my casual bonhomie. As I start to lean on the counter I suddenly realise it is made of cardboard and gradually sinks beneath my weight and I have to tilt my head sideways as I raise the bottle. I then feel a familiar pain in my neck and once again my head is stuck in the semi vertical. It's too late to pull out of the drinking without blemishing my cool image with the guys so I carry on and start trying to drink without touching the bottle with my lips. As my head is now pretty much horizontal the sticky lemonade goes in one end of my mouth and out the other and straight down my shirt and shorts. I'm pretty sure I got away with it though. I left the shack and my new found friends for the final 10 km ride home knowing I'd made quite an impression. The last thing I heard as I cycled away was that joyous Keralan laugh and I knew I was going to fit right in and enjoy the rides.

*Lyrics by Bobby Troup (1946), sung by Nat King Cole, (covers by Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones and Depeche Mode, but not all at the same time obviously).

A sting in the tail

Thursday. I've got a bit of a problem. It's my hands. I cannot use my thumbs or all of my fingers effectively. It's caused by the constant pressure of the handlebars on the nerves. Road bikes (as opposed to touring bikes, for example) have no 'give' at all and so all movement on the bike is converted to movement on the road and vice versa. So, you feel every bump, every ripple, and eventually your nerves just stop functioning properly. Let there be no doubt at all in anyone's mind. This is carefully crafted and symmetrical revenge wreaked on me by Old Three Fingers Boon for the things I have recounted in this blog.

I first noticed the problem a day or so ago when trying to change gear using my fingertips (brakes and gears are integrated) and I just couldn't push the brake lever across to drop a gear. I assumed it was just muscle fatigue in my fingers but it soon became clear it was not. It has gradually got worse and now I've lost a lot of function and sensation in both hands. It's not painful, I just can't use or feel about half of each hand. Eventually I had to use the heel of my hand to change gear. This pushes the bike to the left (usually) but thankfully my neck and shoulder correction ploy (see previous blog) keep me, roughly, going straight.

Anyway, I'm off on the last day's ride to John O'Groats and leave Brora just before nine. The forecast is for rain and a very strong south-easterly wind. Neil texts me to describe the route. He also books a taxi to take me from John O'Groats to Wick. There's a target now. It's three o'clock and it can't be missed.

There's a long and very stiff climb after Helmsdale and then a good ride. The climb is hard: it's tipping down, windy, I cannot feel my fingers (part cold and wet, part nerve problem) and visibility on the tops is down to ten metres (just this one Bear Grylls moan if you don't mind). I'm hoping the big trucks can see my rather fetching, flouro-yellow, off the shoulder number and so won't run me down.

Just after Berriedale Braes there's a fast. and long descent. I'm quickly up to 50kph and I don't want to slow down because I feel I deserve the payback from the climb. This works fine because I can't feel the brake levers anyway and I couldn't possibly stop in the wet at this speed without a bit of a Clarkson. This could be scary but luckily I can't actually see where I'm going as raindrops in your eyes at this speed either make you blink very rapidly or, as in my case, you simply shut your eyes for a bit of relief. Exciting ride down. Well, the bits I saw were anyway.

The ride after Lybster is on the most remote, straight and beautiful road I have ever cycled on (picture above). I see nothing and no-one (even with my eyes open) for about six miles maybe more. My GPS screen is blank except for an arrowhead (me) and a single line. If you are into cycling then do this route. If you are not into cycling, then do this route and then you will be. Every now and then the solitude of the last few days tells and I greet the local sheep with a loud, cheery "How do you do!" There's little response, so I sing a bit (not a good idea, particularly from the sheep's point of view).

The three o'clock deadline looms and I up the pace. If I miss the taxi I'll have to cycle about 17 extra miles to Wick into the strong, south-easterly headwind. I calculate that I'm within time and anyway it's not a race. So the last few miles will be a cruise. I'm about a mile away now and I realise I am going to finish and I start to whoop and laugh out loud. The sheep look worried. Then in the distance I spy the telltale flash of fluoro yellow. It's another End to Ender. Wait a minute though...... that competitive type on Shap Fell had a shirt like that didn't he?. Can't be him, surely. Can it? Could be I suppose if he took a different route to me. He's the sort that would do something like that.

Suddenly I'm out of the saddle and stamping on the pedals. No way, absolutely no way, is that competitive type getting there before me. I'm gaining on him! I can do it! I can do it! Bob the Builder turns up. "Jump on Bob! I need your help!" My legs are aching and I'm wondering if seeking help from a cartoon character in a children's TV show means I've finally and completely lost the plot. I lose sight of him on a bend. A sly move that typifies his kind. All matey on Shap Fell and then this. So I really push hard whilst he can't see me. I must go faster or he'll nick my taxi, I just know he will. There's only about 400 metres to go and I take the last bend at pace and suddenly he's right in front of me shoving wire into a pipe. His jacket reads "Scottie Leccy: We shove wire into pipes" or something similar. I slow a bit and I know that the solitude had indeed taken its toll. And then...... and then it's all over.

I freewheel toward the signpost for the obligatory wet and windswept photo. I have to prise the 'professional' photographer out of his hut and into the rain. No matter how many times I ask him to hold my Blackberry upright he insists on doing it his 'professional' way and that's why the facebook photo is sideways. Back at his hut I scour the wall for any photo of that competitive type. He's the sort that would leave one but there's no sign. I have to write my name and address on a label as the 'professional' photographer watches. I need to grip the pencil with both hands and my brow is furrowed as I scrawl "Professor" in shaky, childish capitals. He backs away a little and I can't resist pushing my tongue out of the side of my mouth to signify intense concentration on the demanding task in hand. I bid him a cheery goodbye and he willingly agrees to put one of my postcards up so that the competitive type can see that I whupped his ass real good (if he ever makes it that is! Ha!).

Right now I'm in Weatherspoons (look, this is Wick, OK?) and it's curry night. The loss of function in my hands persists and consequently my lap and shirt are generously covered with pilau rice, onion bhaji and chicken jalfrezi. The beer I keep spilling down myself is gradually rinsing the worst off though so that's OK but it's in the toilet that the trouble really starts. I can't do my trousers up. I just can't form an effective pincer grasp and so manage the belt and zip. I don't know what to do. The best idea I have would no doubt lead to the following front page article in the Wick Weekly Advertiser:

"Wick, Thursday. A 52 year old man was arrested in the toilets in Weatherspoons last night. A customer told police: "He was covered in beer and Indian food and standing in the middle of the toilets with his trousers undone. He said "Could you do something for me please as I can't manage with my hands. I'll gladly buy you a pint afterwards". I was shocked. This is sort of thing just doesn't happen in Wick on a Thursday." The man was later questioned at Wick Police Station and claimed to be a Professor. However, further enquiries at John O'Groats revealed that he could barely write his own name and had previously been seen serenading farmstock. On being remanded in custody, the man alleged there was a conspiracy involving a "competitive type and Old Three Fingers Boon." The hearing begins on Monday."

It took me quite a while but I eventually managed to do things up and by then I wanted to go to the toilet again and so I decided to call it a night. Back to the hotel where I can't turn taps on or off, operate the kettle, undo my laces etc. etc. I think about calling reception:

"Good evening. This is Morag. How can I help you?"
"Could you send someone up to take the lid off my toothpaste please?"
"Are you the Englishman who watched the match in The Bush Inn in Carnwath?"
"(Wearily) Yes."
"Hahahahahahahahaha"
".... (Click)"

Now it really is all over and I'm on the train to Inverness. It feels a bit too fast so I might soon have to shut my eyes for a little while. Thanks to family, friends, workmates, my team and Neil at Velodays for invaluable support and encouragement. It was very important to me during some of the Bear Grylls moments. Special thanks to Liz who has put up with both me and my training regime over the last six months.

Finally, I did this ride to raise money for a very worthwhile cause but I did it at this time of year for another reason. My Mum was born on June 4th and died on July 4th. I'm not a religious man and so I needed a different way to remember her and this was it. She taught me to be independent, to try to do things that you don't think you can do and to help others who need help. So that's what I tried to do. If you're looking down Mum, I hope you will feel proud and, erm, you couldn't just give my kit a rinse could you and yes, of course I'll get my hair cut.

Blog over.

The final table:

Distance: 104.7 km
Cumulative distance: 1607.68 km (1004.8 miles)
Ride time: 4h 56m 50s
Max speed: 58.3 kph