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