Germany

As I crossed the invisible line separating Germany from the Netherlands there were subtle but perceptible differences. Small ripples in the landscape appeared. The world was no longer pancake flat. The architecture also shifted. Although, in a way I couldn’t pin point. Borders are funny things. Squiggly, imaginary lines that dance along rivers, mountain ranges and often arbitrary routes. They don’t exist, not really. Yet we all pretend they do. Coming from an island nation, crossing land borders is still an exciting novelty. Thanks to the E.U (*awkward pause*) and the Schengen Agreement I was free to pass through without fanfare. How wonderful.

Country number three

Crossing the border spurred me on. “Look mum! I’m really doing it“.

That evening, I stayed with Volker in a small but beautifully renovated cottage. It was nestled in a perfectly quaint church square. While I waited for my host to return from work, I made myself comfortable in the village pub. For the first time I felt as though I was abroad. Mainly because no-one in there spoke a lick of English. Through the art of mime, I was able to order myself currywurst und pommes. My GCSE German had deserted me. Good job really. The local old boys didn’t seem interested to know what was in my pencil case.

I was woken the next day by the wind whistling through the chimney. A storm was brewing. Strong winds were forecast. Nervously, I consulted the weather predictions. Fortunately, it seemed the winds would be at my back.

And so began the most satisfying day on the bike yet. I thundered through the German countryside letting out audible cries of joy. Riding was effortless. I flew down country roads and across farmland tracks. I floated below monumental wind turbines operating serenely against the storm. I whizzed past a poor soul bent over double; pushing his bike against the onslaught. Grinning ear to ear, I shouted “You’re going the wrong way mate!”.

Cologne appeared on the horizon earlier than expected. I dismounted my steed and wondered aimlessly around town. The mighty Gothic cathedral punctuated the usual homogeneous drag of retail stores.

The ‘Dom’

I rested in Cologne before following the Rhine upstream to Koblenz. In theory, it would be easy riding. I just had to follow the river cycle path to Mainz. Of course, life is never so simple. The heavens opened and I was soon soaked to the bone. Nothing quite saps morale like riding a bicycle in the rain. I also had a new problem to contend with. High rainfall had caused the river to become swollen and massive. Mother nature, oblivious to human life, swallowed playgrounds, picnic benches and my path.

Thou shalt not pass

Flooded island castle

The whole thing caused me a great deal of stress. At one point I was completely stuck between the river and a main road. In the end, I doubled back on myself and found a car ferry to the other side. Tired, drenched and utterly fed up, I was close to tears. It may seem melodramatic but I was really struggling. Why was I doing this? This wasn’t fun! I wanted nothing more than to pack it in and head home. It was dark by the time I reached Koblenz.

What a difference a day makes. The following day was a complete contrast. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining. Sort of. Vineyards created satisfying lines along the steep sided valleys. Impossibly perched castles stood high above picture postcard villages. This was know as the “Romantic Rhine”. I rode fast with a smile on my face.

A good day

I hopped from the Rhine to the Main and made my way to Frankfurt. My world seemed to be devoid of colour. Grey skies, grey river, grey industrial zones. I was desperate to see the sun.

Frankfurt – Impressive skyline, not much else.

I rested in preparation for the first real climbs of the trip. From Frankfurt to Nuremberg I would leave the safety of the river and head up. It was a welcome change of scenery but my legs begged for the flatlands. I camped in a dark gloomy forest at the summit of a hill. Signs seem to indicate there would be Wild Boar in the area but I choose to ignore them.

Wild Boar?

Creepy campsite

I felt very alone. This wasn’t the idyllic mountain vista campsite I’d envisioned. Dinner was a cold tuna sandwich. I spent hours trying to light my expensive stove. Foolishly and lazily I had not bothered to test it out before I left home. I was equipped with a stove, 750ml of flammable liquid and four lighters and I still failed to produce a flame. Bear Grylls I am not. Further shattering any illusions of Sam Main adventurer, explorer, nomad, I got my phone out and watched an episode of Breaking Bad. Sorry guys, I’m a fraud. It was an uncomfortable night’s sleep. Not least because I was woken in the dead of night by a gut wrenching squealing. The grunting, almost mechanical in nature, sounded close. Fuck! The boar! Shit, shit, shit… I lay motionless my heart pounding against my chest. My mind raced with stories of wild boar attacks. People get killed by these things don’t they? My coping mechanism was to pretend I was dreaming. I forced myself back to sleep feeling strangely protected by my tent canvas.

I descended the from the hills passing through rolling countryside and countless villages. It was still grey but mild.

German countryside

Picturesque villages

A few days after Frankfurt I reached my next milestone, Nuremberg. A pretty city with a fascinating history. Hitler and the Nazi party had used it as a base for their party rallies. Imposing structures lay forgotten and incomplete. A shocking reminder of the all too recent past.

The incomplete Colosseum

Leaving Nuremberg, I set my sights on the Danube. Europe’s second longest river passes through many major cities and has been an important waterway for centuries. I planned to join it at Regensburg. To get there, I followed canals, climbed lung bursting hills and interestingly, slept in a tree house.

Room with a view

I’d randomly knocked on a strangers door asking to pitch my tent. Richard proceeded to offer me a heated tree house and dinner with the family! Fantastic generosity.

From Regensburg, riding was easy. I was tracing a route along the Eurovelo 6, a cycle network which hugs the shores of the ponderous Danube. Before I knew it I had reached Passau and the end of Germany. I celebrated with my first night of paid accommodation and a fat burger!

Not mentioned were all the great hosts I had the pleasure of staying with in Germany. Volker in Erkelenz, Jonas in Cologne, Nasr in Koblenz, Vera in Grolsheim, Lukas in Frankfurt, Phillip in Abstwind and Julia and Holm in Nuremberg.

Next up, the snowy hills of Austria!

Netherlands

“Ding donggg”, the ships tannoy system crackled into life. A smooth Dutch voice filled my cabin. Still half asleep, I couldn’t fully register what she was saying. I think it was something about a shmoke and a pancake or a bong and a spring roll.

The cabin

I quickly gathered my belongings and made my way below deck. I then unstrapped my bike and prepared to disembark. It was still dark. I was now on central European time and the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour. Weaving between the lorries, I rolled out onto ‘The Continent’. After awkwardly contorting my face to best resemble my own passport picture, I was free to enter the country.

Arriving on Dutch soil, I couldn’t see much of anything. A thick fog enveloped everything. Luckily, I had landed in cycling Nirvana. Navigation would not be an issue. No longer was I the most hated road user. I was an equal citizen.

Morning fog.

The Dutch cycle system is insane. Dedicated cycle paths run through and in-between towns. I barely had to check my map. All I had to do was keep my head up and follow the signs.

Just as I thought I had entered cheat mode, I noticed something wrong with my gearing. A quick check confirmed a dodgy link in the chain. Maybe building my own bike wasn’t such a clever idea. Boyed by the success of my last repair job, I set about trying to solve the problem. However, this time I completely cocked it up. With no other option, I began the long walk to the nearest bike shop. I’d like to say I was completely calm about the whole thing. I wasn’t. I felt as though time was running out. I felt under pressure to make miles. It’s perhaps because the days are so short. Before you know it, it’s lunchtime and you’ve moved millimeters on the map. I needn’t have felt this way though. That night I would be staying with my friend, Danny, in Amsterdam. Also, this year might be one of the few times in my life where I needn’t feel the pressure of time. Despite this, I’m finding it difficult not to impose deadlines on myself. I would like to strike a balance between enjoying the present without the pressure to move on.

I made it to a bike shop and was helped by a friendly mechanic. I was once again on my way and followed the winding cycle paths to Amsterdam.

My time in Amsterdam was incredible. Sophie and I were reunited, I got to catch up with Danny and Nienke and my Dad and Step-Mother were in town! It felt like a real milestone.

She’ll hate me for choosing this one

We celebrated by stuffing our faces with pancakes, gawking at the red light district and making an obligatory visit to a coffee shop or two. Our complete intolerance to ‘da herbz’ led to a surreal and hilarious shuffle around the endlessly similar canals. Shameful Brits abroad. We were trapped inside giggling stereotypes and ate anything in our path.

I Amstersam

Saying goodbye was hard. It felt like starting all over again. That’s what life is about; time with friends, family and loved ones not monotonously grinding out miles on a bicycle. Maybe if I learn only one thing from this journey it’ll be that; a greater appreciation of home.

Apparently, the day I set off from Amsterdam was ‘Blue Monday’. Statistically the most depressing day of the year. I have to say, it didn’t disappoint. The next 50 miles were pure hell. I was following a large canal south and pedaling into a strong headwind. There wasn’t a hump, bump, hill or valley in sight. Nothing would save me from the fierce wind. To add to my misery there was a constant hammering of ice cold rain. I arrived at my warmshowers host battered and bruised. Worryingly, my left knee was stiff and sore.

The weather improved over the next few days. The ever grey sky looked menacing but mercifully held. I moved gingerly through expansive farmland and neat Dutch villages. My sore knee dominated my thoughts. I fidgeted in my saddle trying to determine the best position. I wasn’t sure which would break first, mind body or bike.

I continued to meet some fantastic people along the way and was shown amazing hospitality and generosity. The Netherlands is a great segue into bicycle touring abroad. Everyone speaks prefect English, bike lanes weave across every inch of the country and the terrain is smoother than a baby’s bot. I’m sure it’s lovely in the summer.

Next up, Germany.

United Kingdom

This journey had been a long time coming. I had thought and talked about it so much I had almost become detached from the whole thing. It felt as though I was talking in third person. Someone else was doing this not me! The day of departure therefore caught me by surprise. In fact, it hit me like a freight train. I wasn’t ready for this.

In the month leading up to D-Day I had been living in a glorious festive limbo. It was a time where cheese and crackers for breakfast was normal. Watching five back to back episodes of Breaking Bad was a legitimate way to spend a day. A part of me didn’t want to acknowledge what I was about to undertake. The time I got to spend at home with Sophie and my family was special. However, it was probably the worst possible preparation. I was horizontal for eighty percent of the time and extremely comfortable.

Therefore, on the morning of January 2nd I felt numb. It was time. In all honesty I didn’t want to leave. Strange, considering this was meant to be ‘my dream’ and the culmination of years of dreaming of adventure. I really wanted nothing more to curl up in my duvet and forget any of this had happened.

Pictorial definition of “Putting a brave face on it”

Rolling off I don’t think I felt a whole lot of anything. It certainly wasn’t a sense of freedom that you might expect. I actually felt a little trapped. Trapped by my decision to do this. There was absolutely no way I could turn around and say “actually guys, I don’t fancy this”. Terrifyingly, the only option was to move forward.

As the day progressed my mood picked up. I was making decent progress despite the horrendous weather. It was a typical Swansea day. Pissing it down. Unfortunately, there was little in the way of scenery. The Port Talbot steel works (A.K.A Mordor) is never an inspiring sight.

I decided to skirt around the fiery chasm of Mount Doom

I was following the national cycle route 4 which runs right across the widest part of the country from Fishguard to Greenwich. The national Sustrans routes are pretty well signposted. You just have to keep an eye out for the small red stickers usually attached to lampposts. The route takes the scenic path across the Welsh valleys. Crossing through the small towns and villages on a stormy January day is a little bleak. I soon found myself cursing the twenty kilograms of luggage attached to my bike as I skidded and wobbled up a steep farmers track.

Not far from Cardiff I was presented my first real challenge. It was dark and of course still raining when I felt my chain snap. Shit. I felt a mild sense of panic wash over me. I think it was the fear of failure and the potential embarrassment of having to be rescued on the first day. As calmly as possible I set about fixing it and managed to replace the broken link fairly quickly. I felt good after overcoming this first mini challenge and my confidence grew a little.

That night I was welcomed into the home of Fiona and her family. I had contacted them the night before on the site ‘Warmshowers’ (Warmhowers is couchsurfing for cyclists). I was a little apprehensive arriving at a strangers door but the welcome and hospitality I received was outstanding. I was treated to a shower, tea, great Chinese food, wine, cake, board games and my own bedroom! I couldn’t believe it. I had read about the kindness and generosity people often experience on these types of journeys but I hadn’t expected it just down the road from home. I wondered if I would do the same. Take in a complete stranger and give so much. I’m not sure I would but I would certainly like to try in the future.

On day two I quickly realised that I needed to rethink exactly how far and how quickly I could travel. For some strange reason I thought getting to London would take just three days. My new target for day two was Bristol. Depressingly close on the map. Fiona and Steve had arranged for me to stay at a friend of theirs in Bristol. Again, amazingly helpful of them! The route was quite pretty and weaved through the flat farmland adjacent to the River Severn. I only got lost twice. Once in some muddy forgotten wasteland in the middle of Cardiff and once when I strayed onto a live firing range. As I trundled onto the range I didn’t quite register what I was seeing. In my mind I was transported to “Bog” from COD4 as I clocked two figures laying prone and aiming down sights. Luckily, a farmer tooted his horn and alerted me to my imminent death. Now that would have been toe curlingly embarrassing. Sam Main, intrepid explorer, shot and killed just outside of Newport.

I made my way north to cross the old Severn Bridge into England. I entered enemy territory. I had crossed into foreign lands.

Leaving Gods Country

That evening I was once again treated to some great food and company from Paul and his family. It was great to meet friendly faces, especially as I was finding these first few days tough going.

The next few days I found frustrating. It was slow going with blustery conditions and poor cycle route. Route 4 was taking me along canal tow paths which were potholed single track. I was also finding it difficult emotionally. This was uncharacteristic for me as I am often teased for being a robot/Vulcan. I passed through areas that were familiar to me. Sophie and I had taken trips to Bath and Bradford on Avon and I started to wonder what the hell I was doing and why I was choosing to do this. Everywhere seemed to be deserted. Everyone was tucked up inside with their families and loved ones on these cold, grey midwinter days. Being alone all day is tough. Something I didn’t think Id struggle with. I’m usually comfortable in my own company. This was different though. With each passing day the absurdity of the challenge reveals itself a little more to me.

I camped for the first time in between Bristol and Reading close to the small village of Semington. Not because I really wanted to but because I felt I had something to prove. The weather wasn’t exactly inviting. I had never ‘wildcamped’ before and I knew it was something I needed to get used to. Nervously, I approached a house which was situated next to the canal. There was a nice extended lawn area. I knocked on and hurriedly mumbled something about a bike trip and how I would like to camp on their land. I was met with a friendly positive response and they explained that the pub down the road did good food. After a mini breakdown in the tent I made my way over to said pub.

The first camp

The highlight of the U.K leg came when I stayed with Chris and Michele just outside of Reading. They were lovely people and Chris was a really interesting guy. He was super positive and was great and fixing/ making things. In the evening we went to a local village to partake in a Wassailing ceremony. Wassailing is a ceremony where one blesses the apple trees in an orchard. The idea being that they then produce a good harvest. The ceremony was complete with singing, cider, Morris dancing and individual flaming torches. It was all great fun and very tongue in cheek.

Wassailing

On day five I finally reached London. I was exhausted. The first leg had been a lot tougher than I was expecting. And the saddle sore was real. Luckily, I had ordered some Chamois creme to be delivered to my old place in Wandsworth for some much-needed lubrication. I rested a few days in London making myself comfortable and quickly slipped back into my old life. It was soon time to move on though. I made the two-day ride up to Harwich passing through Essex and the world-famous Sugar Hut. From there I could catch an overnight ferry to the Hook of Holland about fifty miles from Amsterdam. About two days after setting off from Swansea I quickly realised I wouldn’t be able to make it to Amsterdam in time if I were to ride from Calais.

The overnight ferry was fun. It finally started to feel like I was traveling. It was also a bizarre experience queuing among the motorist on my bicycle then leading the charge into the belly of the ship. I felt tiny.

Ready to board

And so I was ready to hit the continent. In theory, I would remain on and pedal across the same land mass all the way to Singapore. In theory. Now the real adventure would begin.