A Lille bit of Belgium in my life and back to blighty
Chansons, dodgy pubs and triumphant homecomings
Iain and I are now back home in Milton Keynes, the city of dreams, doing our utmost to do as little as we possibly can. Apparently for Iain this involves sitting in his underpants watching old episodes of Sharpe, for me it’s essentially the same, but I’m working through the Lord of the Rings box set.
Though, before this heroic homecoming we had the last push through northern France, a night to spend in Dover and a patriotic victory lap through bucolic England.
Livin’ it up in Lille
As I said in the last entry, Lille was surprisingly delightful with a warren of cobbled streets and fashionable boutiques crowding the citycentre.
But rather than take in the lively atmosphere of the city streets we decided that we were exhausted and we were just going to watch In Bruges in the hotel room in our pants and eat biscuits instead of doing anything particularly cultured.
Though the next day we did go out for a slap French up meal, and mon deui, do the French know how to eat. When the orgasmic perfection of a masterfully served French steak hits your tongue, you can understand why they are so derisory of British cuisine and accuse us of spoiling our beef.
We also checked into what turned out to be our very trendy hostel, Gastama. It was one of those rare gems of a hostel where someone has clearly thought about what it is backpackers want. Every bed was spacious, sturdy, had two power sockets, a reading light, a privacy curtain and a locker under the bed.
Also enjoyably, there was enough space for both of our bikes to be wheeled into the room, so we didn’t have to totally unpack the buckaroo set that our bikes had become.
Iain’s mission for the day whilst I was writing (or going “typity typity type type” as Iain calls it) was to try and buy a replacement for his SPD (clip on) bike shoes. Unfortunately as he has UK size 14 (EU50/US15) clown feet, this was going to be a struggle for him.
Nontheless he asked the hostel staff if they could direct him to a few bike shops (though this was likely just an opportunity to have a lengthy conversation with the ridiculously beautiful collection of French girls who seemed to exclusively comprise the staff, he militantly ignored me when I offered to look up the bike shops on my phone).
Needless to say he was unsuccessful in this mission, as the clown team (La Velo du Clowné as I imagine it would be called) has yet to set up a cycling clothing label. So he resorted to taping his shoe together with electrical tape, which in fairness seemed to do the trick.
Chansons and rip-off rounds
Our last evening in France spiraled somewhat out of control in the hostel bar. We had planned to have a few beers, a burger and take it easy. But as ever, ce n’était pas destiné à être (I’m going to assume between my half-remembered school French and google translate that is a perfect phrase in this romantic language…).
First a rather wonderful band came on and started singing intoxicating beautiful chansons. For the uninitiated, just imagine the kind of music you’d expect to waft around France as background ambiance. You know, the French music of France, all guitars and nonchalance.
Then we did that dangerous thing of making friends in a bar. Or rather Marlene found us and decided she and her boyfriend would join us.
I must confess, when she first made eye contact with me and asked if she could sit at our table, I thought the old Tom Martin charm had impossibly seduced this glamorous Frenchwoman and I was about to fall into some variety of noir film. Of course, this wasn’t the case, she was simply tired after having had a long day of travel for work to London and back on the eurostar. (“And she wanted to sit next to a troll” says Iain).
She heard Iain and I chatting nonsense in English and was delighted to talk to us, so the drink and conversation started to flow. Iain (what with his “I don’t like beer” disability) even discovered to his delight there was French cider on tap. Unfortunately we found the beers were essentially rip-off London prices, with a round of two drinks setting us back €11.40 (even with our guest discount), so I dare say this amounted to one of the most expensive evenings of the tour.
Whilst Marlene could probably represent France in some variety of international talking your ear off competition, it was interesting to hear her point of view on the UK and Europe.
Interestingly, whilst she was a passionate believer in the project of European unification, a big fan of Britain (and our culture, for some reason) and was deeply saddened by the UK’s departure, her boyfriend was in favour of “Frexit” and was no fan of Brussels.
Their division on the matter was an echo of the “somewheres vs anywheres” tribes that have been imagined as the demographic split between remainers and leavers in the UK.
She saw herself as a citizen of the world and was concerned about a world where both she and her future children might be constrained by national boundaries unable to easily work and live in other countries, whereas he was a proud Frenchman and saw a future outside the EU as best for his nation’s well-being.
Anyway, not long after midnight we decided it was time to hit the hay, so we said our goodbyes and retired to sleep with the beautiful smoky sound of chansons creeping through the air.
The last big push to Dunkirk
We had around 100 kilometres left to pedal on the continent, which looked like it should be by all accounts a pleasant and easy day — the sun was shining, there was a cross wind in our favour and the terrain was mostly flat.
But as you might expect, Iain and I were not unreasonably hungover, and just getting out of bed was a bit of a struggle. But home was in sight and this thought gave us enough enthusiasm to get up and go. Though Iain looked a bit queasy at breakfast.
So we shot out of France and through a corner of Belgium. We passed through another of the western front’s noted fields of carnage, the now quite idyllic countryside outside of Ypres (pronounced, as I understand it, Yeheeep).
As with Verdun, it was difficult to imagine the quiet rural landscape and well-kept Belgian villages torn apart with the terrible images we associate with that war.
This battle was a British one, and evidently we go in for many small cemeteries near to where the soldiers fell, as we glimpsed several small plots and statues scattered across farms and fields, rather than beholding any vast sombre concentrations of graves and looming grand memorials.
Iain highlights how Belgium was much nicer than France, “Don’t you deny it, you know it was”, and I can’t say he’s wrong, but after the scruffiness of provincial France, Belgian towns seemed eerily immaculate and manicured.
As we swept back into France for the last short stretch, we looked at our watches, and thought we might as well try for the four o’clock ferry from Dunkirk to Dover.
So began a mad hungover heart-straining sprint to the ferry. I dare say this was hardest we’d pushed our bodies on the trip, as we gave it our all to sprint 10 kilometres as hard as we could, forcing our way though a punishing headwind to the docks.
We made it for 3:50pm, ran into the ticket office in a mad dash, but true to the law of sod, there was a old German couple in front of us asking unending questions about how the ferry works. We looked on behind them, panting, sweating profusely and generally walking back and forth nervously, getting increasingly close to shoving them out of the way.
The woman selling tickets laughed and said we had missed our chance by a good half hour anyway, saying you can’t just run on a few minutes before it sets sail. So we had to mill around the desolate port of Dunkirk (seriously, if you own a Frites van in Northern France, ask DFDS about opening up in Dunkirk port and you’ll make a killing) for two hours waiting for the next ferry.
To an Englishman the channel ferry was just the channel ferry, you know, over priced food, badly supervised children, sleeping lorry drivers, moaning middle-aged caravan owners, lads on tour, et cetera.
I strolled about on deck listening to the Pirates of Caribbean theme tune and Fantasia on British Sea Songs, watching the ships pass through the English Channel, imagining I was on some epic nautical adventure (I get excited on boats, I’m not really sure why, I think it’s because I come from the most landlocked part of the British Isles). Iain who’s a qualified dingy instructor, level 2, thinks I’m weird.
We waited for the White Cliffs of Dover to appear, but they were sadly obscured by the glare of the setting sun, and I don’t think Vera Lynn would be inspired to sing winsomely about squinting at the dark silhouette of Dover.
Our favourite dodgy pub in Dover
“Dover is a bit of a shithole” says Iain. I can’t disagree with him. There’s no avoiding it. But I do love it, it’s the first taste of home after most continental adventures and is quite quintessentially English in a shabby kind of a way. And as rough as it is around the edges, it’s actually a friendly and welcoming little town.
The last time Iain and I were here we discovered what must be the cheapest place to stay in the town. It’s a “hostel” of sorts above a pub, the whole place is somewhat ramshackle and a little bit grubby. The concept of professional hospitality remains elusive to the establishment and I’m sure whatever regulations there must be to running a hostel they are in violation of several of them, but they are very hospitable nonetheless.
I think it’s charming, in a particularly crappy, particularly British, kind of a way. I hope it remains open forever, Iain says “like cockroach I think it will be”, but I’m less hopeful as it sits amidst a sea of scaffolding and corporate developments that look foreboding for the future of somewhere so free-spirited and idiosyncratic.
We arrived at the pub, feeling full of elation and the warm glow of success, but as we strode into the bar we entered a soap-opera-esque scene of sadness. The landlord said there was space, but asked me to give him a minute as there had just been some “bad news”. The women sat at the bar had eyes full of tears and were hugging one another tightly, so we quietly left our bags in the bar and left to get our triumphant fish and chips.
When we returned to the pub, the landlord and his clientele had moved onto that important stage of grief that is getting blind drunk, and he was now in an inebriated, but enough of a functioning state to take us to our room.
Our room-mates were a mixed bag as ever. There was a Dutch girl cycling home to Amsterdam, a chatty old man who was friendly and clearly a bit lonely (I was too tired to stay awake as he talked about all kinds of nonsense, but according to Iain he covered; the history the hostel, space, football, caravans, the geography of local villages, his family and much more) and two American lads, who made the mistake of drinking in a dodgy pub in Dover, with a landlord family who were in stages of grief drinking.
I’m not saying they bit off more than they could chew, but judging by the drunken state they were in when they returned to the room they clearly could not handle where that party went.
The Americans made an absurd amount of ridiculously American noise “where’s my fucking charger dude?”/“I don’t know, you dickbag!” and got a hilarious telling off by the Dutch girl “This is not cool, you assholes!”
The land of hope and glory, this sceptre’d isle, this new Jerusalem, this green and pleasant land (etc…)
The following morning we had our first proper English (ie Wetherspoons) fried breakfast. The Wetherpoons in Dover at 8:56 am is exactly what you’d expect it to be. There are armies of overly friendly tattooed “characters” ordering large rounds of Strongbows, who are very nice, but in that slightly intimidating “I’m just checking if I have to knife you” way.
With this 2000 calories of cardiac-arrest-on-a-plate lining our stomachs we climbed out of Dover up the high and steep hills behind the town. Iain was half joking this was going to be the hardest part of the entire trip “oh you think you’ve seen mountains Tom, but this is the hill out Dover, it might as well be the Matterhorn”. In fairness it wasn’t easy, it’s a painfully steep ascent of around 100 or so metres.
But once you’ve completed this struggle, the Kent downs gently undulate away from you and the landscape couldn’t look more perfectly quaint and English unless you poured a few pints of warm bitter down your gizzard.
We followed National Cycle Route 16 to Canterbury which took us through twee villages and down quiet country lanes far from traffic. Inspired by the landscape of our home country we belted out half-remembered/made up lyrics to “Jerusalem” and “He is an Englishman”. One particularly enthusiastic rendition earned us a round of applause from a small cottage garden.
I’m no tub-thumping English patriot, but I do love all the silly quirks of this corner of the Earth and this landscape lights up emotional flares of home and comfort in a way that I suppose nowhere else probably ever quite will.
We took the train into London and watched Kent’s homecounty green give way to urban sprawl as the looming glass spires and towers of central London came into view.
We were deposited on London Bridge, and took ourselves off to take some pictures with Tower Bridge in the background.
I also decided I should go spread my stink around my office to surprise my colleagues, who were not expecting me back for at least a week. I’m sure I may have gotten more hugs if it wasn’t for my sweat crusted smelly bike clothes.
London was basking in the glorious sun of a pre bank-holiday heatwave. The parks were full of Londoners luxuriating in the warmth, enjoying cold beers and lighting up disposable BBQs as groups of friends took over patches of grass.
Iain and I set up camp on Highbury Fields and waited for my friends to join and celebrate our triumphal return. It was a perfect end to the journey, as we stayed out late, sinking beers and catching up as the sun set over the grand town houses of Islington.
Our good friends Ed and Iria were kind enough to put us up for the night, but did demand we shower. They wouldn’t take our wheedling “nrrrgh, is there really any point, we’ll just get smelly again tomorrow” and “to be honest I like it, I’ve earnt this smell” as an answer.
Finally, we embarked on our victory lap up to Milton Keynes. Which would take us about 30 miles up through the Chilterns, my childhood village and our old cycling stomping grounds.
It was a strange feeling, passing hills and villages I know well and seeing signs pointing to Milton Keynes, finding it hard to believe we’d been on the road and constantly on the move for 2000 miles.
Milton Keynes might not be the most scenic or remarkable corner of England to arrive home to, but it’s home nonetheless. And it was an emotional moment pedaling into it. I’ve got to confess after I left Iain back at his home, I felt a little misty eyed, looking out over my neighbourhood and my home.
That night, as I collapsed into the soft heap of my bed-sheets, was perhaps the most physically and mentally relaxed I have ever felt. It was like my whole body breathed a sigh of relief that flowed out through my nervous system, knowing that tomorrow and the day after I wouldn’t have to plan anything, go anywhere or really do much at all. I fell into a deep and blissful sleep.
What we learnt on our holidays — a sentimental essay
Iain has made the somewhat salient point that we should probably digest this more before trying to comment on it. I can’t help but think he’s right as I’m somewhat lost in a sea of feelings about the whole trip at the moment. But we’ll revisit this in the conclusion.
I’m in that strange mental place you fall into when something that has consumed your life abruptly ends. It’s quite a similar feeling to when I completed my dissertation, or a run of student play I was in ended.
You’d expect to be elated. But strangely it’s always something of a comedown. It’s like everything that just happened was a dream.
I can’t quite believe I was ever there, looking up at the white-tipped black-mountains of Bulgaria, cascading past olive groves and shepherds (“who don’t fucking wave back at you, I mean what else have they seen, we are the most interesting thing they’ve seen all day” says Iain) around the back of mount Olympus, fleeing packs of wild dogs besides the Danube, wrestling with mad Romanian trains, sweating up and down the unending hills of central Europe.
To my mind it feels like we were just on a boys’ Easter holiday bike ride that got out a little of hand. It’s like we could have not stopped pedaling all those years ago, when we cycled to Ivinghoe, and just somehow found ourselves somewhere absurdly far from home.
There were times when I would stare out some obscure and unassuming corner of a country and ask Iain in a pleading tone “Why are we here, Iain?” to which he would simply sagely nod, as really there wasn’t an easy answer to this question. (Sometimes he said he knew the answer but for morale purposes thought better of saying “because of you and your stupid fucking ideas!”)
Though finding the places you’d never otherwise end up in is one of the great charms of bike touring, you definitely get to see the world in more granular detail than you would with any other form of travel (other than perhaps walking, but who the hell would want to do that for 2000 miles?).
As to why we were there, why we did it?
I don’t know, maybe it’s that exhilarating feeling of heading into the unknown, of getting lost, of exploring.
And the sense of movement is electric as it is exhausting. But the ultimate pleasure I get from cycling in general, and bike touring in particular, is a sense of freedom, escapism from all responsibility and normality. Your problems reduce to a simple series of questions; where am I going, where am I sleeping, where can I get food, where can I get water.
I can best explain the sense of freedom with the small mad thought that normally hits me just after struggling up a hill, usually upon reaching that euphoric point where gravity starts tipping in my favour again. I’ll look up from the road surface and find the horizon spreads off in all directions. The world seems endless and beautiful, and I think:
“I COULD GO ANYWHERE. THERE IS NOTHING STOPPING ME. THERE IS ONLY THE ROAD, TIME, AND ME ON MY BIKE.”
But invariably, the quiet sensible adult part of your brain, the part that looks at your savings account and frowns, hushes this mad thought and you find yourself heading steadily in the direction of home.
And upon reaching home, you find it’s just that, home. More or less unchanged, and you have to slip back into reality, back into the steady trickle of time that is your daily existence.
The idle thoughts you had on the road, that seem like they could have been in some clichéd war movie (you know the thoughts like “when I get home I’m going to pick up Daisy O’Hometownbeauty, tell her I love her and give her the most passionate kiss of her life”), are pushed back (mainly because when you rationalise it, Daisy O’Hometownbeauty might not necessarily appreciate being unprecedentedly ravaged by a big stinky cyclist, and before you know it you’re on a sex-offenders register and there’s a demonising hashtag about you called #StinkyLycraSexPest floating around social media) and you find yourself more or less the same man you were before.
But I don’t think that’s all too surprising, while it’s said you find yourself when you travel, I’m not sure I really buy into that. The whole point of the endeavour is to find things other than yourself, to revel in open curiosity in the remarkable world around you, to gaze with fascination at the species of trees, the shape of the rocks, how this particular wind blows down this particular valley, the ancient and unique series of historical events that lead to those stones being piled up in that manner.
If you go somewhere and the only thing you’ve managed to find is yourself, I’d advise you to look around a little bit more next time.
But all cod-philosophy aside, now I’m back home, and I’ve had the warm embrace of family and friends welcoming me, I can’t help but think how lucky I am.
I’d throw out some advice about following your dreams, doing what you want to do, and doing it now. But the reality is I’m profoundly lucky; to be able dick off for an adventure for two months; to have youth and strength in my limbs; to possess a passport that is waved through borders without question; to have cash in the bank to spend on a frivolously long bike ride; and to have a home to come back to with clean sheets, a soft bed and a loving family.
But above all, I’m lucky to have a man to travel with who’s like a brother to me (we’ve already heard all the Broke-Bike mountain jokes). Having a friend who will do something as mad as take two months off work to cycle across a continent with you is rare and special thing.
What’s more, as much as I’ll take the piss out of him, I never feel afraid when Iain is at my back (unless you count being afraid of him laughing at the salt crystals formed by my own sweat on my arse). With him at my side it felt like no problem was unsolvable, no challenge insurmountable and we could never get lost together (though I often would be).
Sure, we bicker. But we make a continent-crossing, unbeatable team (unless you look at Team Sky, I’m sure those guys could beat us, or more or less any other cycling team, but you get my point).
