The End

Stage 27: London to Dublin (539km: Total = 13,600km)
Day 1: 125.0km Oxford
Day 2: 125.1km Bagworth
Days 3&4: Drinking days
Day 5: 51.2km Rugeley
Day 6: 62.0km Ash Magna
Day 7: 60.6km Corween
Day 8: 69.6km Bangor
Day 9: 45.5km DUBLIN


"How far to Oxford? Is it about 60?"

"No mate, it's more like 80"

You'd have thought that after travelling through 25 countries, I may actually have picked up some practical skills for travelling; a bit of common sense, or something similar. I guess it's not quite as bad as the day I set off on this trip, but it was still pretty damned stupid.

I was wondering why the hell my friend had told me 80, when I was absolutely nowhere near to Oxford after cycling 80km and was quite possibly only five eights of the way there. I'd left Croydon (south of London) just after midday to be sure I didn't arrive too early, but now with the rain hammering down and sunset a not-too-distant prospect, it suddenly dawned on me that I had again been the idiot.

Still, I reached Oxford just a little before it was too dark to see, cycled to the train station only to find that the phone boxes were out, cycled to the main street to find a phone to call my friend, cycled to the train station to meet my friend, then walked back past the main street with my friend to go stay the night in one of the colleges of the university.

A good time was had by all...

...after I had eaten.

Of course, cycling 50% more than I was planning on doing on day one meant I could hit Leicester the second day, which is exactly what I did. I called in to see Adam and Eleri, who I had stayed with for my first 3 months living in the arse end of the arse end of Leicestershire. Think of a town called Coalville, think of what a lovely place that must be, then think of a village 8km outside of Coalville. That is where I stayed.

But the sun was shining as I approached the house, and so once again the excitement of seeing familiar territory consumed my tired muscles as I rounded the last bend and began the descent into Bagworth.

3 nights were spent there, catching up with old friends and maybe, just maybe having a drink or two. I can't really remember.

Adam joined me over the final distance. I was in two minds before about what this would be like. Having travelled for so long with only Mr Broom for company, an extra pair of ears for my random ramblings was more than welcome, but with the finish line so almost in sight, I almost wanted to put my head down and make a final sprint for the ferry.

All I can now say is a big thank-you to Adam for coming along. Without him, I would have gone hell for leather towards Holyhead; with him, the final stretch was done in 5 days. A good amount of time to appreciate the joys of cycle touring and to reflect on the previous 9 months. Months where temperatures ranged from -5ºC to +37ºC; elevation from +3000m to -400m; accommodation varied from a tent by the side of the road to the house of a Tribal Lord in Pakistan; and food changed from the spicy curries of India, to the sweet, syrupy baklava of the Middle East. The one constant was the warmth of reception that I received wherever Sicandar, Mr Broom and I ended up.

I won't bore you with details of the final section of rolling hills leading up to Welsh mountains coming down to Welsh islands and across to Scandinavian shipping. I will show you the pictures though.

Adam cooking dinner. After one day, he'd had enough of what I'd been eating for 6 months. We cooked chicken the second night. I'm not kidding...CHICKEN!














Entering Wales















Sicander and his new friend Winston














We got some unwanted attention from our neighbours. Hoosh!














Look-at-me-cycling-Adam















Welsh us















Final Welsh pass















Look at the sea! There's the sea! I see the sea!!!















Winston and Larry (the lamb)















It was easy















Look at the ferry! There's the ferry! I see the ferry!!!














Look at the ferry door! There's the ferry door! I see the ferry door!!!















Where's India?















So what does it feel to be back?

I don't really know how to answer that. I'm just taking things slowly at the moment. I will say what it doesn't feel like.

It doesn't feel like a big achievement.

That may sound strange to some people, but it's the truth. The way that I've dealt with this trip the whole way through has been to always try and break it down into smaller chunks. When I left Delhi, I focussed in on Rishekesh. When I was getting soaked in Serbia, I focussed in on Belgrade. Each stage by itself is no massive achievement. Now that I'm home, the only achievement I feel is the one for finishing the stage from Leicester to Dublin; it's not that big a deal.

What I do remember though, and what I hope to never forget, is the feeling I had as I first wheeled my bike out of the house and made my hurried departure out of Dublin. That feeling I had as my front wheel wobbled its way down the street towards the ferry. The feeling I had as my front right pannier fell off my bike as I exited the HSS in front of a rather large truck.

"Go home Kieran. You're not supposed to do this. You're not supposed to be here. You don't want to do this. Just turn around. Get back home. Just go home."

Back then, the trip seemed massive; I couldn't comprehend it. Now, it seems like an ordinary little jaunt on a bicycle; a little 5 day trip (repeated over and over again).

"The only mountains are in our minds"

I saw that comment on someone elses fundraising page. It's a load of bullshit. Will is sure to let slip that there's a couple of mountains in Nepal, and I'd chip in there myself and nonchalantly mention that there's a mountain or two in Turkey and Austria. But behind the managment crap and feel-good motivational spirit of that phrase is a small element of truth.

As we cycled off the ferry, I thought of the long uphill back to the house. We cycled along the coast to Glasthule; it wasn't as far as I had remembered it. We cycled up the hill to Glenageary Dart Stataion; it wasn't as steep as I remembered. We cycled up to the house; it wasn't as far, or as steep as I remembered.

I was home.

Every rain shower. Every day over 30 degrees. Every day under 0 degrees. Every broken spoke. Every puncture. Every 10% gradient. Every wrong turn. Every stone thrown. Every bug in my eye.

All systems go

Stage 26: Paris to London (512km)

Day 1: 145.8km Verneuil
Day 2: 115.1km Bynd Lyons de Foret
Day 3: 119.5km Noyelle sur Mer
Day 4: 131.9km Near Folkestone (England)


"Hhhhmmmm", I thought to myself, "Alasdair seems to have a bit of a buckle in his back wheel. It looks worse than yesterday."

"Hey Alasdair, it looks like you have a buckle in your back wheel. It looks worse than yesterday. Stop a while and lets have a look at it."

Alasdair stops, we look at the back wheel. "Shit man, it's rubbing off your brakes, must have made cycling pretty difficult! We'll try fix it". Out came the spoke tightner. "Oh! You've got a broken spoke. If only we'd actually gone out and bought some spokes after we'd spoken about buying them in Paris, we could have fixed it up here and now. But not to worry, it's not that big a dilly of a pickle. We'll straighten the wheel a bit and pick up some spokes at the next bike shop we pass. Most large towns here seem to have them. It'll be sorted."

We didn't pass another bike shop, but cycled round Calais and managed to pick one up before crossing into England. It was all sorted.

Unfortunately, that conversation and those events never occured. Instead, it went something like this...


"Hhhhmmmm", I thought to myself, "Alasdair seems to have a bit of a buckle in his back wheel. It looks worse than yesterday...I should probably say something...But we're making good time...The wind is behind us...and the weather is awful. I don't really want to break the rhythm...and if we stop, the wind may turn. May as well make hay whilst the sun shines and get to Calais, it's only another 50km or so. We can sort it out on the boat".

I overtook Alasdair so I no longer had to watch his rear wheel wobbling in front of me.

On the boat...

"Hey Alasdair, I think you have a bit of a buckle in your back wheel. Let's have a look at it...oh shit, you have a broken spoke. We'll straighten it out when we get off the boat".

While looking at the broken wheel off the boat...

"You see, here's the spoke that's broken, but don't worry, I cycled 80km with a broken rim in Slovenia, it'll be ok for a few more kilometres. Hang on a second...wasn't the broken spoke you had on the boat the one with the reflector on it? Oh...you have 2 broken spokes...wait...no...you have 3 broken spokes. Ok, let's see what we can do. I think we can straighten out the worst of the buckle, hang on a second...(I get the spoke tightener out of my bag). Ping! Ok...right...em...you now have 4 broken spokes! Shit! Ok...right...em...what can we do?"

We stood there assessing our possibilities.

"Right. So it's saturday? What time is it? 8pm. That's French time? ...that makes 7pm British time. Any bicycle shops open in Dover at 7pm on Saturday? Probably not...

"Ok, what if we wait a day. What day is it tomorrow? Sunday? Any bicycle shops open in Dover on a Sunday? Probably not...

"Hhhhmmmmm"

And so, myself and Alasdair parted ways next to the National Express bus stop 0.8km into Britain. He caught a bus to London.

It had been good cycling with Alasdair. Cycling with another person had lifted my spirits by quite a way. The days had passed quicker and I didn't notice the hunger and tiredness quite as much as I had on the stretch from Switzerland to Paris.

Full credit should go to "the man". His fitness coupled with an absolute stubborness to appear even fatter than me had enabled us to get an average daily kilometerage of 125km over the 4 days we cycled together. That is a lot, quite a lot; particularly for someone who hadn't cycled more than 50km before joining me!

Our first day out of Paris had been a long day. 146km is an incredibly distance to do on one's first day ever cycling with panniers. Taking us 9hr 05min, it also meant that Alasdair's first day was the longest day I've spent in the saddle thus far this trip. Previous to this, 8hrs 58min had been the undisputed record holder. We arrived into Verneuill at 10 minutes past 10, about half an hour or more after sun down. I don't think we could have gone on much longer!

But we had a rest day spent with my aunt, uncle and cousin where we got cleaned up and pampered with good food and good wine. It is a pity we couldn't stay longer, but with a new deadline to be back home by the 17th of August, I felt we had to push on.

And push on we did. A case of tunnel vision brought on by the realisation that I was very nearly at the end of mainland Europe kept the revolutions high as we pedalled north from Verneuil across the rolling hills of Normandy and beyond. The roads were generally quiet and the wind gods were favourable as we strove to reach Calais in 3 days.

Reach it we did, though the weather turned nasty on the final afternoon. But my destruction of well loved songs continued unabated and we soon found ourselves on the ferry surrounded by English accents. It felt strange...very strange.

Following our bus-stop farewell where Alasdair had held up a white hankerchief and let the tears fall unashamadely down his chubby, rosy cheeks, I cycled off into the (nearly) setting sun to find a campsite next to a concrete listening post atop the cliffs between Dover and Folkestone.

I awoke at 04.50 UK time (I was still able to work off French time, so it wasn't as bad as it may first appear) to start my approach into London. Images of flat plains directly into London were quickly dispelled as I huffed and puffed my way up and down the hills in Kent.

Plans to attend Climate Camp in Kingsnorth (http://www.climatecamp.org.uk/home) had been shelved after our rapid approach to Calais. I had hoped to stay for one night, but the desire to get home prevailed and I found myself cycling passed where it was due to be held at about 7am on the morning of the 3rd. For hours, I was in turmoil. Do I stay or do I go? But unfortunately, like the actions of the masses when it comes to climate, I gave in to convenience. It was more convenient for me to cycle directly into London, then to wait an extra day; just as it is more convenient to take the car than to walk or cycle.

So London I have reached. Well, Croydon at least. The next stop is Leicester, and in doing I should pass through Oxford for a night on the way up.

Dave (former flatmate in Leicester) in the Louvre. He came out for a cheap weekend in Paris.
















Alasdair outside Verseilles on our first day

















We got a proper sending off escort from my aunt and uncle

A good little singsong

Stage 25: Basel to Paris (576km: Total = 12,417km)

Day 1: 81.6km Before Le Markstein (France)
Day 2: 122.7km Near Mirecourt
Day 3: 135.6km Beyond Montier-en-Der
Day 4: 131.9km Beyond Esternay
Day 5: 104.5km Paris

The final day of cycling was actually quite good. There was a hint of a tailwind, so I can't take all the credit for myself. I'd like to, but I can't. The tailwind gods should be given their due too, so thank-you tailwind gods. It's not that the rest of the days were bad, they were ok, especially Day 3. But a slight headwind was present for most of every day, starting soon after 8am and generally growing throughout the day causing a corresponding, but inverse, change in enthusiasm and energy on my part. Don't get me wrong, it was no Jordan or Israel, but flat rolling hills of monocultures of wheat just doesn't do too much to inspire me. Day 3 I managed to let my mind wander a bit, so it passed quickly enough, but I noticed that at 2pm I was still just waiting for 6pm so I could get off the bike and camp.

It's a combination of things I'm sure. The closer I get to home, the harder it gets for me to focus on the next stage. Instead of just thinking about reaching Paris, I'm constantly thinking of reaching Dublin instead. The only thing is that cycling doesn't get easier the more you do. 1000km is still 1000km whether it's at the start of the journey, or the end. The only difference is that at the start of the journey, you expect 1000km to be hard. Towards the end, having already done over 10 times that distance, your mind tells you differently.

-Don't stop me now (Queen)
-Karma Police (Radiohead)
-Whiskey in the Jar (Thin Lizzy)
-Dirty old Town (The Pogues version)
-The Wild Rover (don't know)
-The Irish Rover (Pogues again)
-Fairytale of New York (another Pogues)
-All the Lonely People (Beatles)
-The fields of Athenry (don't know off the top of my head)
-Basket Case (Greenday)
-Longview (Greenday)

finished off with:

-Ireland's call

and

-Amhrainn na bhFiann

All these songs have been belted out in a rather tuneless fashion to stave off boredom and to keep me moving along. (In Italy, I was half way through the Fields of Athenry whilst cycling through a tunnel [the acoustics were really quite good], when I got this rather quizzical "hello" as I exited. There, parked out of view from the road [but easily within hearing distance] was a german camper van with a german camper vanner with a rather confused look on him. I muttered a quick reply before quickening my pace and finishing the verse out of earshot round the next corner.)

But day 5 was ok. It helped that I passed a field other than a staple of some kind or another; an entire field of 6 foot high marajuana plants. Picked just one leaf to press and keep for posterity. I figured there was no real point in picking more given that there must probably be some fairly stringent regulations on THC content to allow an entire field of weed to be grown without fences or security or anything like that.

Still, I've reached Paris. Getting into the city was a bit of a bitch. I'd managed to stick to quiet roads for most of the way towards this capital, but the map I had just showed a number of autoroutes all leading into the centre. This was backed up by most people's directions which usually included the word "autoroute" whenever I stopped to ask. They always got a bit stumped when I then politely pointed out that in actual fact, although I was a foreigner, I was reasonably sure that bicycles weren't allowed on autoroutes. Luckily, I met one man who directed me towards the "Bords de Marne"; a cycle track I could then follow which brought me towards the periphary of Paris.

Seeing the Eiffel Tower was quite a moment on this trip. Since leaving Delhi, everything has been new; every city has been new, and along with it every street. On arrival in India, it was a bit of a comforting experience to wander through Connaught Place in the centre of New Delhi and recognise the layout from the previous year. There is something comforting in familiarity. I've even noticed that when I visited restaurants in Iran and elsewhere, if I'd been there the previous day, I'd always automatically try and sit in the same seat and have the same view as before.

Finally, after 8 months, I got to see some familiar sights again. I grew excited as I cycled up the street where my aunt's flat is. There was the park I'd first seen when I was 8 yrs old; it had actually been my birthday and I had been wearing a badge that I'd got with a birthday card (I'd felt INCREDIBLY old; after all, I was no longer 7). There was the door I'd been forced to stand outside because I'd forgotten the code and had to wait until someone living inside had walked out before I could get back in. There was the lift, the first small lift I'd ever been inside (and maybe the only lift besides the ones in Dun Laoghaire shopping centre). It all came flooding back, all the more so because I am so unfamiliar with seeing familiar items (my bags and bike are no longer items, they are actually a part of me!).

Not only is it the start of familiar territory for me, it should also be the end of solo cycling. Alasdair McFatty Fat Fat Nicol has finally decided that German is a dead language (or at least that the classes are dead for the summer) and should be bringing himself and his belly to Paris on Monday from where we will be striking out towards my aunt's other place in the country before heading north to Callais. People in London and Leicester have also expressed interests in doing stages, so let's just hope they're as good as their words (Chris Nightingale, Oliver Walton, David McCabe, Adam Short, Frank Henry Kerr Allison Esquire).

They have been named, will they be shamed?

Given the merciless bullying that I received from Mick and others on the general state of my own belly, I even decided to stop eating quite as much as before on the last leg. Can someone really cycle 13,000km and actually gain weight? I figured I didn't want to be the exception to the rule. However, upon reaching this city, I've decided that I actually quite like having rich, creamy butter spread over still warm french baguettes with a liberal smothering of chocolate spread. For some strange reason it just tastes nice.

So screw all you scrawny bastards, the belly is here to stay.

Entering France with Mick
















France. Such an uninspiring landscape. This was even before the monocultures began.

Detour after detour

Stage 24: Innsbruck to Basel (653km)

Day 1: 115.6km Beyond Schongau (Germany)
Day 2: 77.7km Augsburg
Days 3-6: Berlin
Day 7: 87.7km Beyond Memmingen
Day 8: 144.6km Beyond Sevelen (Switzerland)
Day 9: 112.2km Beyond Winterthur
Day 10: 115.1km Basel

It was all the stupid bint's fault; her and that child. If she hadn't been so damned clever and stupid at the same time, I could have done it. Even though it was the end of a long day, I'd taken precautions; I had my passport in my pocket and had taken a piss before entering. I could have done it, and I would have done it. But instead, I get this woman jumping out at me on a quiet dirt road asking that stupid question. A stupid question in German would have been fine, I could have answered it without stopping with a little shrug of my shoulders and one of the only phrases I know (ich spreichen kein deutch). But a stupid question repeated in English resulted in a cessation of my forward momentum.

"Is this a dead end street or not?"

I stopped and looked at the four full pannier bags on my bike with my sleeping bag perched on the top of the back two. When I purse my lips, I can see the hairs of my beard on my upper lip. I'm fairly sure I didn't look your typical Lichenstinian banker out for his early evening cycle on familiar streets.

"I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea" I reply with my left foot planted firmly on the ground. "I just saw the sign saying this was a cycle path and am now following it."

"Yeah, I saw that sign too. I guess I'll just continue on"

"You do that"

I lifted my foot, cursing the brilliant linguistic skills of continental people for the remainder of that non-dead-end-street.

Lichenstein was going to be the one country I had cycled across, but never set foot in. Whenever that little banking country's name was mentioned in passing (and I would ensure it was mentioned often), I would be able to stun people with this little titbit of Craven trivia. I could then sit back and watch as they gave two little chuckles of mock amusement before they backed slowly way thinking to themselves "My GOD! The man's cycled from India to Ireland and that's the best he can come up with".

Of course, it was all ruined by that idiotic woman and ugly child. So now I have only a story about how I failed to cycle across a country and not set foot in it. It may actually be a little more interesting...

So after leaving that last post on a bit of a cliffhanger, I decided to head north into Bavaria to the home of Thorben who I was at university with. On my way, I experienced first hand that generosity towards strangers does not necessarily stop at the borders to the EU. After finishing up on the internet (I managed to write the whole blog on the free internet, but had to go to a paying one to upload photos. A fair compromise I believe) I made my way to a campsite on the outskirts of the city. A storm was brewing, and I didn't quite want to be camping in a big open field during another electric storm. There I met Charls, an Austrian who was now living in Switzerland. I managed to decline the offer of a free meal in the campsite restaurant, but not the €10 he insisted in pressing in my hand the following morning. I managed to buy a couple of baked delights with it, so thank-you Charls.

I must now retract my previous statement about the Alps being a close second to the Himalaya. True, they are impressive, but it was a premature outburst. From Innsbruck, I had only one more measly pass (at 15%) to sweat up before a long descent out of the mountains brought me into the rolling hills of Bavaria. I had been expecting another 150km of mountains, and although the countryside was nice and green, there wasn't quite the thrill of mountain cycling present. Still, I made it to Augsburg in a day and a half.

Thorben was the first pre-cycle-journey-non-family-member that I had met thus far, and it was good to see another familiar face. His mother was also a fantastic cook who didn't shy away from the use of large amounts of potatoes!! I left Sicandar behind to rest as Thorben and I caught a lift up to Berlin.

Berlin was a great city and I caught up with a couple of other friends from St Andrews along with Thibault and Monika who I'd cycled with in Syria. The more continental cities I get to see, the more I come to realise just how rubbish Dublin actually is. Even stepping in a massive pile of dogshit on my final night didn't mar my views on the German capital (It did help that I was wearing Alasdair's shoes at the time!).

A return to Augsberg on Monday evening was followed by a relatively late departure towards Lichenstein on Tuesday. Thorben's mother was my guide through the forest towards the main road and she absolutely destroyed me on the slight uphill inclines. I had a thought at the start of the trip that cycling 12000km would make me fit; instead I find that my 36 inch waist is now 36.5, I've put on a kilo, and I sweat an awfully lot more! I guess eating enough food for 2 people may be contributing towards this conundrum slightly.

It was on the end of the second day out of Augsberg that I reached Lichenstein and succesfully cycled through it with putting only one foot in it. I even hit the capital city and cycled passed the football stadium where I think Ireland was once held to a 0-0 draw, before the Lichenstinians went for a lap of honour. It might have been Lithuania, but I'm fairly sure it was the bankers (and that was even back when Ireland was "good").

Two days was spent crossing Switzerland along a more northern route that wasn't in the high mountains. The detour to Bavaria and Germany, although being fantastic had broken my rhythm somewhat. The 2 days back to reach Lichenstein (more just to add another country to my list than anything else: Switzerland was the 25th so far this trip) again took its toll as I was, once again, travelling in the "wrong direction". I needed to get some forward momentum going again, and I needed to reach Basel.

So here I am now, staying with Mick, a friend from Ireland. It took a little bit more effort than I'd previously estimated. I'd passed a roadsign at one point saying 90km to Basel on the main road, before passing another on the cycle path 2km further down indicating 110km to the same destination. Since entering Austria, I've been undecided on the merits of the excellent network of cycle paths that crisscross these countries. My current views: good for a lazy Saturday afternoon cruise, crap for a cycle tourist; though perhaps that's just crap for a cycle tourist that doesn't have a cycle map! Though I am grateful to the two Swiss cyclists from Zurich who cycled about 2km out of their way to direct me onto the national cycle route and told me what routes I'd want to follow. It did help a lot, and was nice to be away from traffic for a bit.

Quite how long I'll be here, I'm not entirely sure. I'm meeting some more friends in Paris on the last weekend of July, so that's when I've got to be there. There's a possibility I may head a little south to meet up with Danielle, the Swiss motorcyclist who was on the ferry from Israel to Cyprus, but right now, I think that it's one detour too many. Of course, tomorrow could bring along a completely different frame of mind. We shall see...

and once again I've shaven off my jesus beard. I was tempted by a goatee, but then slapped myself across the face and reminded myself they're just poncy.

Scaling the Berlin Wall
















Thorbs and me















Thorbs's mother...well in front of me!















Caesar, the Italian cyclist in fantastic wedgie-defying shorts















Lichenstein

















Before















Goatee
















The return of the chin

The Big One

Stage 23: Zagreb to Innsbruck (760km)

Day 1: 111.3km Near Sumnik (Slovenia)
Day 2: 56.3km Ljubljana
Days 3-4: Rest days/drinking days
Day 5: 114.9km Nr Rocinj
Day 6: 107.7km Beyond Gemona (Italy)
Day 7: 105.1km Beyond Oberdraubu (Austria)
Day 8: 86.2km Near Fusch a.d.Gr (The Big One)
Day 9: 94.7km Beyond Gerlos
Day 10: 84.0km Innsbruck

Right, so it's hot, I'm tired, I'm sitting on an EXTREMELY uncomfortable seat, half-crouching at the computer with a German keyboard that I'm unable to change to the normal layout, but we'll see how it all goes. Why is the seat so uncomfortable? Well, in an effort to stick to my €10 a day budget (an effort that gets harder by the country; especially when one is surrounded by Apfelstrudel and other such delights) I have found myself at a free internet kiosk that is naturally designed to keep you there for as short a time as possible. But maybe, just maybe I'll be able to beat the system.

So a fair amount has happened since the last "proper" update. Jimmy, you get the prize, I should have known someone would pick up on that, and I should have known it would be you.


I left Zagreb in the sweat-inducing heat that I shall always now associate Croatia with and had a nice easy cycle up to Ljubljana. It follows the river for the whole way, so it was flat, with a nice cooling breeze from the river. I camped one night, and my only visitor was a deer that ran at the smell of me, crying the very un-deer like cry that I'm sure all deer make, but that sounds like a horse being strangled and vomitting at the same time. It did make me feel better because I had heard that sound in the darkness 4 days previously and it had scared the hell out of me.

Two nights in Ljubljana turned into three. I usually arise at 6am on the day I'm meant to cycle. This time, the day I was meant to cycle, I came home at 6am! A night out partying with my couchsurfing hosts required a day sleeping to recouperate. Ljubljana is a fantastic city even if just sitting doing nothing resulted in sweat running down one's back. Thank-you to all you guys that made my stay there such a fantastic one.

So, having spent longer that I'd planned, and with the heat remaining comfortably in the 30's, I was looking forward to finally entering the Alps. The air would be cool, the scenery beautiful, and once I'd popped out the other side, I'd almost be home. Unfortunately, I hadn'd thought about my equipment. Over my first pass, I hit a rough section of road and looked down to see a massive buckle in my back wheel. "Shit! Another spoke gone", is what I naturally thought, but a quick check showed all to be intact. It was then that I saw the massive crack in my rear rim where 2 spokes had almost been pulled right through. I managed to adjust the others so that the wheel didn't rub off the break pads and continued on 40km to Tolmin to where I hoped there would be a bike shop.


There was a bike shop and it did have rims, but in the words of the bike shop man "these rims are awful". A call to Ljubljana just informed the man, who then informed me, that none of his suppliers had any rims that would be any better. So it was back on the bike to head 40km south of my intended route to Nova Gorica, where maybe, just maybe they would have a decent rim.

I reached there the following morning. Yes they had a better rim, yes they had DT spokes (i.e. good ones) with which to fix it. No, they couldn't fix it today. No, they didn't think there was a camp site in Nova Gorica. So, it was over the border into Italy to try my luck.

With "no ablo Italienno" being about the only Italian I knew at the time (or at least, the only Italian I THOUGHT I knew; I think it may actually be Spannish!), it took a bit of time to find a bike shop on the Italian side of the city (the two parts seem to run into each other). Yes they had a rim. Yes they had DT spokes. How long would it take? The man pursed his lips, my spirits fell, and he said "in about an hour".

Sold.


90min later, €54 lighter, with my bike set and ready to go with a new map of the Alps in my front left pannier bag I set off North back into the mountains. The area around Tolmin had reminded me exactly how much I love mountains and I was anxious to get back into them as quick as possible. I was not disappointed and camped in the shadow of a rather impressive peak.

But more was in store as I crossed into Austria the following day. I've enjoyed all the scenery I've passed through thus far but, with the exception (maybe) of SE Turkey and the area around Daramshala, the Alps have once again blown everything else out of the water. Obviously the Himalayas are the king, queen, jack, and 10 of hearts of mountains, but the Alps are a close second. Plus, on this trip, I only really got a glimpse of the foothills of the Himalaya. This time round, I'd have a decent enough time to enjoy the hills.

I hit 3 passes the first day, before reaching the top of "The Big One" on mz second day in Austria. I believe it to be the highest pass in Austria and skirts round the highest mountain: the GroSSlockner. It stands at a rather modest 2504m. I've been higher on this trip, I think I hit a 3000m pass or two in Iran, but you start on a plateau, so it doesn't feel so bad. This time round, I started at about 700m, climbed to 1200m, before descending to about 800 or so. A gradual climb over 30km up the vallez ensues before a final ascent from the town of Heiligenblut. It's 16km from here to the pass. 16km of road at a 12% gradient.

Road gradients meant nothing to me before this trip. Some were uphill, some downhill. Others were vaguelly flat, while there were some that were sneaky bastards as they appeared downhill, but were actuallz very slightly uphill. But 12% is steep. Quite steep. And there was almost no let up the entire way up. My lungs were screaming after about 500m and all I could do was tell myself there was "only" 15.5km to go.

It took 4 hours to reach the pass. Four hours of hypnotising myself with the sound of my breathing to forget about the pain in my legs. Four hours of staring at the road 4m in front of me telling myself to "just reach there". Four hours of waiting for the hairpin bends where the gradient reduced enough to take my hand off the handlebars so I could take a drink of water, or wipe the sweat out my eyes.
Will, I respected you before for crossing the Himalayas. I respect you even more now.


But after four hours, I reached the top...only to be afforded with 50% of a view, though it was a cracking view. The other 50% was on the other side of a short tunnel. As was a 300m descent followed by another 200m ascent. More fantastic views awaited there, I got to enjoy them for a full 45min as I waited for the 16 hair pin bended road to reopen after the classic motorbike racing that had caused it's closure. In all, over the 3 passes I hit that day, I think I climbed about the full 2500m.




It took 4 hours to ascend. It took 4 hours to descend. Why? It was those bastard punctures again. Sneaky punctures, with no obvious cause. Eventually, I had to fix both tubes again and cooked my rice on the side of the mountain while I gave them time to set.

That night I curled myself into a ball and thought it was the end of my adventure as the thunder and lightening crashed overhead. I counted the timings as the storm approached, and counted them as it departed. But for a full 10 minutes, all I could think about was the Aluminium tent poles, the open field I was in and the 4m between myself and the higher trees. Was it close enough? I thought about getting out and lying flat on the ground outside, but it was absolutelz pissing it down and I didn't really want to get wet...particularly if my tent didn't get struck by lightening. Then, I'd just look like a wet, almost naked fool.

Had a 600m climb yesterday on a 9% gradient that I pushed myself up repeating again and again "it's easier than yesterday". A pleasant descent followed by some valley cycling, often along quiet cycle paths has brought me to this city where I intend to finalise the next leg of my route home. I either head straight for Switzerland, or I go up to Bavaria before coming back on myself to head into Switzerland.

I'd better decide fast because the turn-off is in about 10km.

Oh yeah, and before I congratulating you on actually reaching the end of this post, can I just say the cycle paths in Ljubljana are the best I've ever come across. I usually avoid cycle paths like the plague. Cars don't see you and you lose right of way at every road and driveway you come across. But in Ljubljana, the bikes have right of way at crossings, and the traffic lights for bikes are the same as for cars. So basically, you have the same rights as a road user, only you're off the road.

congratulations. here's some photos.


2 of my hosts in Ljubljana













Entering the Alps (slovenia)













Entering Italy














Italian mountain














Entering Austria

My reaction to...










...this sign (at the base of the Hochter pass)


Sicandar taking a rest up the ascent

















At the pass
















The descent











Austrian Mountains














More mountains









...and a lake