Archive for the ‘Travel’ Category

Congratulations to Pete McQuade the founder of the Paris to Hayling Cycle Challenge,

Last Friday evening Meridian News ran an article on the Hayling Island Cycle Ride reaching its 30th Birthday in July this year having raised nearly 1.5 million pounds for a wide variety of worthy causes. This is an event I feel privileged and honoured to have been part of the event since the 90s until 2005 as both a participant and also as Secretary and assisting in Support & Logistics and was even especially in Route Planning under the auspices of Mad Fred.

What started my involvement? Well, I needed to give up smoking, badly. Will power alone wasn’t going to do it: I needed a challenge. Then I saw a news article on the Paris to Hayling Cycle Ride with a picture of 3 rather fetching young ladies with their bikes. ‘That’ll do it for me’ I thought and entered there and then. That first ride was one to remember, and most of it I can but I regret to say that having reached Paris I was rather thirsty and joined other riders at the Hotel Bar in Le Defence. The following events I regret to say are a blur but the next day was my first experience in Riding in France and with so many cyclists (100+) my heavy head was soon forgotten.

Having completed the event plus two or three further events I felt it was time to ‘give something back’ and became a member of the organising committee. Among many things, this did allow, me along with my new fellow cycling buddies Mad Fred, Reg the Hedge, Hobbitt, and Marko: I for my part was named Podge the Puffer on account of age (derivative of Codge), size and hill climbing abilities (almost, a famous five but commonly known as The Reccecrew). And just like the famous five, we had many, many adventures most of which entailed us either getting Lost in France or sampling French Hospitality in bars or café. We tried to document our adventures under the title of Lost in France. An extract of such an adventure is below where we to undertake a ‘recce’ of the proposed route for the coming years Paris to Hayling ride. Naturally, this was all done by bike and naturally, we had to find refreshment stops. But, it wasn’t all easy.


Normandy in France

Recce’s – they’re a doddle, pootle over to France, eat nice food, laze in bed, drink lots of wine, write a few notes.

Well that might be the Chairman’s view but he, and you, should have been with Mad Fred, Podge, Reg the Hedge, Hobbitt, and Marko, when they went to France in March to establish the route for the 5-Day Ride.

The trip to Cherbourg was uneventful. However the weather when we emerged into the darkness in Cherbourg was definitely English ! Windy but mild, and fortunately for us a tail-wind to boot ! Recce’s sometimes mean that we have to retrace our steps and Hobbitt soon found we had to do this within 2 kilometers of the ferry port – straight back into a headwind. While the rest of us munched apple turnovers and pain au chocolate he blasted back to check what turns out to be a very well surfaced and convenient cycle track leading out of the ferry port.

The job done we tackled the first climb ‘Hobbitt’s Early Riser’ – scant reward for his efforts so far. From the top of the hill to Quettenhou the quiet roads follow a plateau and river valleys, OK and one hill, but pretty soon we reached the east coast of the Contin Peninsular and while Mad Fred ploughed on ahead the rest of us piled into a great Bike Shop (well worth stopping at in July).

By the time we reassembled in a bar on the D-Day Beaches the wind was blowing into us at 90 degrees which was pretty hairy but fortunately the roads were totally deserted.  We batted on southwards until the estuary turned us inland and into the headwind for a very painfully slow crawl to Carentan. In the summer this will be a very pretty route but in March it was hell ! Over lunch in Carentan we were all falling asleep.

Moving on after a good feed however, the wind was behind us and with the sun out it was very pleasant as we bowled along towards Bayeaux for the night. We witnessed the strange sight of a large dog bounding trafficwards in the fast lane of the route national, whether the mutt survived was never known but it caused a fair degree of chaos.

We’d picked out a river valley to lead us the last 20 kilometres into Bayeaux but nothing had forewarned us of the flooding we were about to encounter. The valley floor was a giant lake, extending as far as the eye could see with little islands dotted here and there, we pushed on through it and up onto higher ground, getting wet and taking a few photos just to prove the point ! Approaching Bayeaux Hobbitt and Marko went ahead while Mad Fred and Podge planned a route around the ring road being built around this historic town. An early night was spent in Bayeaux as we had a 7am start the next day and we were spent!

From Bayeaux to Caen is quite a nice spin and with a sunny morning it was very pleasant – even with having to contend with ‘Podge’s Puffer’ which is a nice little climb. But there’s always a ‘but’ and in this case it was a slight confusion over where we were going. Marko and Hobbitt were under the impression that they were to meet up with Mad Fred and Podge in……..(‘Lost in France bit’)…..but the latter didn’t share the same view and after an hour of ‘being lost’ we met up, funnily, in a bar (turned out we were never more than a kilometer away from each other). Ploughing on towards Caen we encountered the floods once again, only this time the water was at least a metre deep and right across the road we used to exit Caen last year on the ride to Gorron, and which this year we wanted to use to enter Caen. Podge and Hobbitt vainly attempted to cycle through it, once to see how deep it was, and after proving to themselves that you cannot do a U turn on a cycle loaded with your luggage and up to the axle in water,  once again to pose for the camera. Time to retire to the bar and plot a way around it !

Mission completed we moved on, narrowly avoiding a very serious involvement with the local cycling club who were turning out in force for an afternoon road race. Pukka bikes and riders who understandably ignored the pannier-laden Recce Crew. The skies grew darker and Mad Fred’s unfair admonishment of the French for having moved road numbers and planted a farm in the way of us only served to contribute towards the impending gloom, it was going to rain, and there was going to be lots of it !

We became wetter and colder and more and more miserable so an executive decision was made in the bar – head for Troarn, find a hotel and dry out !

Success with this raised our spirits, helped by a few bottles of red wine, glasses of calvados, and a hot supper. By midnight we felt in reasonable shape to get up at 6am and battle on towards Le Havre, but it was still raining…..!

Sunday morning at 6am and it was still dark, this was the morning after the clocks were altered and to be quite honest we weren’t sure what time it really was. We snuck out of the hotel (having paid the previous night) only to encounter half a dozen Frenchmen having an early coffee and brandy in the hotel bar.

The road from Troarn to Pont l’Eveque is as boring as hell – long, straight, slow hills, and more flooding – anywhere flat seemed to be under masses of water. Mad Fred was some way behind us when we got to Pont l’Eveque and stopped at the first bar – rule number one is if you get separated stop in the first bar and wait, leave your bikes on prominent display so they can’t be missed by the estranged recce crew member. Rule number two is that Mad Fred doesn’t know about rule number one, so we lost him, again.

Reunited we plodded on towards Honfleur where we needed to recce the route off the Pont d’Normandie (BIG bridge to you and Podge who moaned and groaned his way to the top), and onto it for the 4-Day Ride. At the top of the bridge a helpful instrument told us the wind was 40kph, and the temperature was wavering between 4c and 5c. It felt, and was, cold !

Things brightened up once we were over the bridge and pedalling along the nice quiet roads on the industrial approach to Le Havre and with an hour to spare before the ferry left we found an extremely nice restaurant for lunch. Well 2/3 of our lunch, we didn’t have time for the dessert so we’ll go back for that in July. We did have time for 2 courses, and a litre of wine each – hell we’d deserved it, over 200 miles though some pretty miserable weather, now it was time to relax !

Onboard the ship we bumped into Syme and Michelle, two former riders who’d just enjoyed a romantic weekend and now had to face reality in the shape of a hammering in the bar. We failed miserably in the onboard quiz, drank loads of Guinness, a couple of bottles of wine, and a few brandy’s, and wobbled off the ship into the Ship and Castle by the Ferryport. None of us remember much after that !


And, if you want to enjoy such adventures though with less wind and rain, and if the ride continues beyond 2015, I can’t recommend it highly enough..

This trip to the Amazon was to be my third, the 2nd for Mrs Me, but the shortest. On previous trips, we’d sailed (on a cruise ship of course, I’m not that adventurous) up the Amazon (calling at Macapa) all the way to Manaus visiting Parintins and Santarem en route plus an overnight trip to Ariau Amazon Towers [some love it, some hate: – we love it], a kind of jungle lodge on stilts. This however the itinerary this year would be just Macapa and Santarem, to see the meeting of the waters and do a spot of piranha fishing. We were however due to do a ‘sail by’ of Devils Island as we came out of the Amazon (future Post).

The following is effectively a re-post [with slight alterations] of an earlier one in February but this time with pictures (displayed randomly) 🙂

As always, visiting the Amazon was to be the highlight of our trip, this time consisting of two days sailing along the mighty Amazon River and a day spent ashore at in the town of Santarem, located as it is, on the Tapajós River.

As we crossed the sandbar into ‘effectively’ the Mouth of the Amazon, we were still 60+ nautical miles away from the nearest lands! Yet even here, the water had turned into the muddy brown colour for which the river is well known.

Our first port of call, which was actually a 2-hour stop in the middle of the river, was at Macapa: This was to allow immigration officials and river pilots to join us, for the duration, to help navigate the river – sounds to me like a cool 3-day jolly if you ask me. Once on board, we set off and through the course of the first day, the Amazon unveiled its beauty for all to see: we passed isolated dwellings, little more than huts; sometimes built on stilts to lift them above the flood level, where the inhabitants would wave at us or even try to chase us in their little, woefully underpowered, boats. I have no idea whet would have done if they’d caught up with us (perhaps they were pirate scouts), but they never did, though it was quite amusing to watch them bob about somewhat precariously in the wake of our ship 🙂.

Day-2 brought us into Santarem and as we drew towards our mooring yours truly was dispatched by Mrs. Me to report back on our progress and to let her know, supported of course by her morning cup of team, when it was a suitable time for her to arise and view the town. When she did eventually surface, the temperature on our balcony, as indicated by my Garmin, was 97.7f: in anybody’s book, that is hot and for which I received my first thick ear of the day, for not warning her. But, arise she had to, as we were booked to take a boat trip to see the meeting of the waters, view locals wildlife and do a spot of piranha fishing.

The ‘Meeting of the Waters’ is an anomaly where the muddy brown waters of the Amazon River and the brilliant blue waters of the Tapajós River meet but don’t actually mix for a couple of miles and as such the two waters can be seen side by side as you sail along. This phenomena is similar to the more well knownMeeting of the Water where the mighty Amazon and the River Negro where the two waters, one sandy brown (The Amazon) and one almost black coloured (river Negro)

IMG_2073

After this we went to a smaller tributary to view the wildlife, you know the sort, cows, sheep, chickens, water buffalo, iguanas, sloths, vultures, etc., etc. Oh, we also saw some more local dwellings on stilts. After a while we stopped and started fishing for Piranha. Mrs. Me took her place on the boat between my and another gentleman and inevitably, after the other gentleman and I had pre-baited [her] swim, Mrs. Me hooked a Piranha and, accompanied by all sorts of squeaks & squeals, she eventually brought the poor creature on board for us all to look at.  Despite me wanting get a picture of Mrs. Me kissing the Piranha, the fish was having none of it and stayed firmly with the hook and line; probably a wise choice as she would have probably have just eaten it.

Go on, kiss it1

Go on, kiss it1

My next post, probably, will be about our sail-by of Devils Island and/or the crossing the line party [similar to last years Crossing the Line party but different boat, different crew & older passengers].

 

Flying Fish

Sitting on the balcony at 07:30 this morning, with the temperature hovering around 75f, in my shorts and (coffee stained) t-shirt (I got a thick ear for the t-shirt) I was mesmerized by the sight of so many flying fish as we sailed across the Atlantic off the coast of Guyana towards Trinidad. I wondered why these creatures take to the air when the natural habitat is in the sea. I assumed they were all trying to get away from predators but came to the conclusion that as the fish were doing this for so long, the predator must have been the Adonia (our cruise ship). I watched them as they came out of the sea and ‘flew’ across the tops of waves before once more returning to their natural element. I watched them as they came out singly; I watched them as they came out in large groups (as shoal becomes flock becomes shoal). I watched them as they covered amazing distances rising and falling above the rolling seas; I watched them as they ‘flew’ and even changed directions. I watched them for an hour, maybe longer. Then Mrs Me arose from her pit (bed), breaking my peace and solitude and demanded her morning tea: “Right away My Duchess” was my response as I scurried away to tend to my husbandly duties leaving the flying fish to their strange existence.

So Near, Yet So Far

The phrase Drive By is an often used / heard phrase though normally related to bad deeds. Well on the Adonia we were treated to a ‘Cruise By’ of Devils Island – home to the perpetrators of bad deeds: Devils Island was previously used as a French Penal Colony (until 1953) for really naughty people (murderers, political embarrassment, constant escapees, etc.). The islands, there’s three altogether, look like idyllic tropical islands but I doubt the naughty people shared the same thoughts. I so desperately wanted to get onto these islands but the sea state was such that a ‘Cruise By’ was all we would be able manage. As we approached the islands on our starboard side (that’s on the right for normal people) and just about every passenger clamored for the best spot from which to take photos. You’re truly was stuck at the back, temporarily, but, under the authoritative direction of Mrs. Me, I did manage to worm my way forward. But then, my sea going skills, possibly just guesswork, worked out that the boat would not be able to carry on right round the islands and that she would have to turn around and come back with the Islands to Port (on the left) and with this new found knowledge I instructed (I know, I was taking my life into my own hands here), but yes, ‘I instructed’ Mrs. Me to accompany me back the cabin: “not at this time of the day she said”. “No” I said, and then I explained that from our balcony we would have grandstand seats from which to view the islands. Finally she agreed but only after the promise of a large gin & tonic with ice and lemon. From there I was able to take some amazing photos, all of which are securely trapped in my nice shiny new camera with no means to transferring them to my laptop. Why? Because the adapter I brought had been damaged; through my own ineptness I had managed to bend half the pins rendering it useless. So the pictures will have to wait.

The Amazon / Tapajós

Visiting the Amazon was to be the highlight of our trip consisting of two days sailing along the mighty Amazon River and a day spent ashore at in the town of Santarem, located as it is, on the Tapajós River.

IMG_2073

As we crossed the sandbar into ‘effectively’ the Mouth of the Amazon, we were still 60+ nautical miles away from the nearest lands! Yet even here, the water had turned into the muddy brown colour for which the river is well known.

Our first port of call, which was actually a 2-hour stop in the middle of the river, was at Macapa: This was to allow immigration officials and river pilots to join us, for the duration, to help navigate the river – sounds to me like a cool 3-day jolly if you ask me. Once on board, we set off and through the course of the first day, the Amazon unveiled its beauty for all to see: we passed isolated dwellings, little more than huts; sometimes built on stilts to lift them above the flood level, where the inhabitants would wave at us or even try to chase us in their little, woefully underpowered, boats. I have no idea whet would have done if they’d caught up with us (perhaps they were pirate scouts), but they never did, though it was quite amusing to watch them bob about somewhat precariously in the wake of our ship :-).

Day-2 brought us into Santarem and as we drew towards our mooring yours truly was dispatched by Mrs. Me to report back on our progress and to let her know, supported of course by her morning cup of team, when it was a suitable time for her to arise and view the town. When she did eventually surface, the temperature on our balcony, as indicated by my Garmin, was 97.7f: in anybody’s book, that is hot and for which I received my first thick ear of the day, for not warning her. But, arise she had to, as we were booked to take a boat trip to see the meeting of the waters, view locals wildlife and do a spot of piranha fishing.

The ‘Meeting of the Waters’ is an anomaly where the muddy brown waters of the Amazon River and the brilliant blue waters of the Tapajós River meet but don’t actually mix for a couple of miles and as such the two waters can be seen side by side as you sail along.

After this we went to a smaller tributary to view the wildlife, you know the sort, cows, sheep, chickens, water buffalo, iguanas, sloths, vultures, etc., etc. Oh, we also saw some more local dwellings on stilts. After a while we stopped and started fishing for Piranha. Mrs. Me took her place on the boat between my and another gentleman and inevitably, after the other gentleman and I had pre-baited [her] swim, Mrs. Me hooked a Piranha and, accompanied by all sorts of squeaks & squeals, she eventually brought the poor creature on board for us all to look at. I took photos, of course I did, but they are stuck on my big camera, so they will have to follow but be assured, despite me wanting get a picture of Mrs. Me kissing the Piranha, the fish was having none of it and stayed firmly with the hook and line; probably a wise choice as she would have probably have just eaten it.

Next will be tales of Caibbean Islands, and Captains Gala Parties. and, hopefully, pictures from my camera.

Byeee

 

Now that’s got you wondering……..

Well, It was around 07:00 on a Tuesday morning, in the previous Millennium (mid 90’s). My wife was sitting in the living room getting ready for work, when there was a rather loud, urgent knocking at the front door. Door opened, policemen moved in demanding to know where I was: Outside are two police cars and a police van (where we were then living, near Chichester, was not an area where the police were generally needed so the event must have excited the neighbours somewhat). He’s not here, she said. He’s in Gloucester on a course, why do you want him anyway? she asked (I don’t know the exact words, I wasn’t there: I was on a course in Gloucester, nursing as it happened, a bit of a headache).

There had been an incident at Membury Services the previous day and the Thames Valley police were [very] keen to have a word with me about it.

Eventually, convinced that I was wasn’t in the house and that I was actually away on a course, and having confirmed that I did possess, and was driving, a Ford Granada Scorpio 4×4, they left. They did however leave strict instructions that I was to be contacted and told to telephone Newbury Police Station as early as convenient! So, within the space of 30 – 60 minutes what started out as a dawn raid with squad cars and vans reduced to a “can you please phone us when you can”!

The previous day, having packed my bag for a 5-day trip, I bid my wife farewell and set off to Gloucester. Having spent the weekend doing a little too much gardening my back was giving me grief so I elected to avoid taking one of the company pool cars and took my own car, which I had only recent bought. It was a nice shiny Ford Granada Scorpio for which I had traded in my shiny red Ford Sierra XR4 (both cars had a nice 2.8 V6 engine). The main difference, apart from all the sexy trim you get with a Scorpio, was that it was a four wheel  drive – Yummy.

My journey took me across to Winchester then up the A34 to Newbury (the by-pass didn’t exist then so getting through Newbury took some time) then on to the M4. Once on the Motorway I took a break at the Membury Services to make myself comfortable and get a drink so that I could ‘pop some painkillers’ before continuing my journey. Having purchased a coffee I decided to go and sit in the car, take the tablets and relax for 10-minutes – having elected not to take a pool car I hadn’t needed to go to the office first, so I was well ahead with my time.

4X4’s corner really well

The mighty V6 ‘roared’ into life after which, gears selected, we (the Scorpio and I) made our way from the parking lot and onto the road that would once more take me onto the M4. It was at this point I noticed that the road ahead was kind of bendy and twisty and was pleading with me to test the roadholding of my four wheel drive beast. So I floored it taking her up through the gear box at each red line and round the twists and turns before hitting the motorway at approximately 69.999999 miles per hour(!). This car was a good car. I had done well in choosing this car. This car and I were going to have such fun together.

Come back next week for Part 2…….

To start with

Technically, my first bike was some nondescript bike that I first managed to ride without falling off. My reward for completing a full length of the road with putting my feet down or crashing was 6d (about 2.5p in new money), enough for a bag of chips from the chip shop and still have change, but having no further recollections of such a steed, my [First Bike] was therefore my Raleigh/Hercules (my memory is misty), complete with 3-speed sturmey archer gears chrome rims and full leather saddlebag. I rode it to and from school, day in and day out.I even got knocked off by a couple of motorists, though in those days, the motorists were horrified by what they had done and would do all they could to make sure you were ok. By the second summer however, it was time to upgrade my bike so I bought some cow horn handlebars, removed the saddlebag and mudguards and went off-roading into a place known locally as Anmore Dell which was about 100 yards in diameter and 50 to 75 feet deep. This was a great big hollow which was slowly being filled in by lorries but in the meantime made a great playground offering as it did, cycle paths down through the shrubs and trees into a great wide expanse of ups and downs, ideal for my new off-roader.

The ‘hollow’ offered more than a place to ride bikes mind you. Being half filled with water most of the time, it was also a great place to play ‘war at sea’. Using a couple of old car roofs, we never knew how they came to be there, we would upturn them and use them as rafts to out manoeuvre one another until tired of paddling with sticks and bars we would once more return to shore. As our war games became more ambitious however, so did the dangers, culminating when one of my friends showed off his sugar bomb that he’d made (we’d been shown how to make them earlier at school, but I’m not about to divulge such information again) and decided to let it off. One flash, one loud bang, one cloud of smoke, one big fire, which took us what seemed an eternity to put out, and we were one happy bunch. With that, we returned to our bikes and spurred on by adrenalin of the ‘bomb’ we started creating ramps to jump our bikes over. First jump, no more than a foot high, I came tearing down the hill, hit the ramp, soared into the air and landed on my front wheel just before coming off and rolling into the water. I was wet but I would dry, I was dirty but I would clean up (a nice puddle and sandpaper always saw to that) before going home but the bike was not so good. The forks had bent back making the bike impossible to ride: The wheel had buckled making the bike impossible to ride: The handlebars were bent in all directions making the bike impossible to ride. But, ride it I did, the full half mile back home where I just knew I was in for a ‘not very nice time’, which did turn out to be the case.

Come to think of it, I got a thick ear then. Why is it that I’m always getting thick ears. No wonder one of them is a bit cauliflower like.

I remember sulking (believe me, this old Podge can still sulk for England) for weeks after that day not only because I’d been chastised by my father for trying to use my Hercules Push Bike to simulate the great jumps over ramps that I’d seen Dad doing so many times before, albeit on a motorbike – I should point out that he was part of the Royal Marines Motorcycle Display Team and was a regular motorcycle trials competitor – but also because the bike had been thrown away and not replaced. I now walked to school, day-in, day-out, a distance of about 3-miles each way.

Actually, it was only a couple of weeks as my Dad had taken it to his barracks where it was made good once more. But it was never the same bike again though it still took me to school and back and it did take me and my paper bag round on my paper rounds, 2 every morning and 2 every evening. Eventually though, the bike caved in and once more, I was relegated to walking and winter was approaching!

Christmas 1967

It was a cold Christmas Day with a very heavy frost outside, my Father (I was 14 by now) told me to come with him in the car to Uncle Bills though he didn’t actually say why. Uncle Bill lived about 8-miles away so the journey did’t take too long and were soon inside with Uncle Bill and Aunty June having a nice hot cup of chocolate and mince pies. I was then taken out into the garage and there before me was a beautiful Falcon Black Diamond Racing Bike, and yes, you guessed, it was all mine. There was however a catch. I had to ride it home. Now I had come, and had been allowed to come, dressed for a car ride with just a shirt and jumper as defence against the cold. I certainly didn’t have any gloves but I didn’t care. I had my new bike with drop handlebars, butterfly wheel nuts and a double clanger which gave me 10 gears. With absolute glee, I hugged Dad and Uncle Bill, said my goodbyes and set off on the 8-mile ride back home. I have no idea how long it took I just know that most of the ride was a blur, initially with excitement but soon replaced with bitter coldness and fingers that were so painful it was difficult to change gear or even brake. But, eventually I got home, close to tears with pain and with joy. Dad of course was home already and thought it was all very funny. I didn’t care how funny it was: I didn’t care how cold I was: I didn’t care that my fingers were almost dropping off: I didn’t care that snot and tears had frozen around my face. All I cared about was my new bike. This bike was NOT going to have cow horn handlebars and it certainly wasn’t going to go jumping. No, this bike was for serious riding – I was going to be the new Eddy Merckx.

I rode my bike everywhere; I rode my bike all the time; I became a regular sight around my local village doing my lap after lap trying to get faster and faster: at one point even the local policeman would ride next to me on his motorbike, telling me how fast I was going. Then my need for adventure grew once more but this time, my adventures were, not how high could I jump but how far could I cycle in a day, and how quick. Denmead to Arundel was a cracking route and a flat route. Denmead to Heathrow was another good route but very, very hilly and we never did reach Heathrow anyway.  My favourite route was Denmead to Alresford where another uncle and aunty of mine was the river keeper and house keeper for a Colonel who ‘owned’ a stretch of the River Alre: That was a hilly route as well.

And so, with the Falcon Black Diamond, my love affair with cycles and long distance cycling was born. And yes, I did like cycling up hills. I hated cycling up hills, just as much as I do today, but I still love cycling up hills: Only a cyclist would understand.

And now, I yearn for just one more ride. 😦

PS: The Falcon was eventually stolen by a [trusted] ‘friend’ while I was working at holiday camp.

PPS: I never became the new Eddy Merckx, but on this day the 20th July, Eddy wine his first Tour de France and, as it it happens, Armstrong (Not Lance) and Aldrin first landed on the Moon.

PPPS: None of the aforementioned uncles and aunties were actually Uncles & Aunties. We just called them so.

PPPPS: No more PS’s 🙂