Greece

Wild camping - 5th June

 

We made our second wild camping with Nadine and Chris. They're wild camping experts. The first time we wild camped was a forest in Germany where it was perfectly hidden but Adam found a tick on his belly so campsites seemed a nicer option. Also, we seemed to cycle mostly through farmland and farmers didn't seem keen to let us camp on their land.

Anyway, it was the end of a long day that we started lookıng for the perfect wıld campıng spot. The coastal road was rocky scree on one sıde and sheer drops strewn wıth garbage on the other. Perhaps paradıse can be taken for granted?

It had been 78km along rollercoaster hills  after a lunchtıme stop ın Epıdavros for the ampıtheatre (more stones!). At Kallonı grocery shop we learnt that there wasn't a campsite for another 15km in the wrong direction. Then to make up for beıng the bearer of leg-tırıng news the grocery shop lady gave us a dozen oranges.

The obvious spots near Kallonı weren't suitable. Long grass was full of thorns and high places were fenced-off private land. Eventually we found a beach a few kılometres outside Kallami where campervans were parked. We pitched there and hoped police wouldn't ask us to move on. Wild camping is illegal in Greece (and most of Europe).

 

The beach was perfect: deep water, long grass as well as pebbles, and dolphıns swımmıng ın at sunset. It was almost romantic.  Then the feral dogs set up guard outside our tents for intermittent karaoke throughout the night.

Ancient BBQs and more stones - 3rd June

We actually made it to Plan A, which was to head inland on the Peloponnese. Luckily Nadine and Chris knew about some more ruins and beachside camping. The countryside was beautiful in its parched kind of beauty: hills of grey rock latticed with orange and olive groves and a hazy heat shimmering over the winding roads. 

We were an elegant convoy of cyclists zooming downhill but not so elegant on the uphills, dripping with sweat despite our early start and numerous drinks stops. At Solomos, a little old lady brought us tiny icecreams for morning tea but wasn't too pleased when we said we were going to Turkey.

 

After finding a rustic campsite (read dirty toilets and no toilet paper) at Mycenae we raised late afternoon enthusiasm for more ruins.

 

The city once belonged to Agamemnon who led the Greeks against Troy and from the movie we seem to remember he had a big belly and a beard. The only depiction of him we saw was a golden mask but his ruins were impressive, particularly the beehive tomb of Atreus and the slippery steps 18m down to the water well.  The paır of phılıstınes that we are, we have to admıt were most ımpressed by the ancıent souvlakı tray. Nıce lıttle BBQ that one. 

 

Equally slippery was the old lady at the camping who plied us with bean soup and Greek coffee then asked the boys to help her move furniture. If it wasn't so hot and she wasn't so wily, we might have swapped half-a-day's work for free camping. But the beach and a day off beckoned instead.

Seen enough stones - 2nd June

The four of us caught the train from Korinthos to Athens to avoid the hassle of riding in and trying to sightsee with bikes. The city was underwhelming, a jumble of rooftops and apartments on top of each other and ancient bits thrown in here and there.

 

At the main train station we wondered if we were in Athens or just another suburb. No glittering signs or Olympic-clean feeling to this city! We walked up to the Acropolis where the views of the city were as interesting as the stones, which were blinding white in the midday sun. Both soon lost their allure and souvlaki became our mission.

 

There had been more American Tourist Entertainment when the guy in the ticket queue ahead of us asked, "Is there a bar here?" We laughed at the time but after an hour of trudging around in the hot sun, we'd seen enough stones and were wondering the same thing ourselves. A bunch of philistines.

If Contiki is there, it's gotta be good - 1st June

At Akrata Camping we met Nadine and Chris, Swiss cyclists also heading out on The Big Trip.

We were all keen to check out each other's gear, comparing bike choice, panniers, tents, cooking pots, you name it, we compared it. It became the running joke that whatever we asked about, Chris would produce something bigger and better - oh the envy of having a big cooking pot and a stove that simmered instead of screaming heat.

Thanks to Nadine and Chris actually knowing what there is to see on the Peloponnese, we cycled with them for a week. First stop was Korinthos to see the canal, but we had to have a swim en route and then souvlaki in a trucker's cafe so got there late afternoon.

 

We saw a Contiki bus pulling away as we arrived so knew we were onto something good. Contiki is the specialist sightsee-shag-and-spew tour company for Australians, so we were guaranteed a toilet and souvenir shop, maybe we could find a tacky postcard or a special something with lights on it.

We parked our bikes safely away from the edge to avoid any more Catherine mishaps involving self and cycle ending up in the drink. Learning that it was by hand over twelve years certainly made the big trench impressive. Unfortunately the souvenir shop didn't sell any "genuine copy" shovels, only postcards with canals, beaches or goats. We may have found a niche souvenir market for Greece.

He's Greek! - 28th May

We enjoyed our Italian Penthouse - top deck of the Superfast V ferry from Ancona to Patra where we were the only people to sleep on the top deck. But were keen to get into Greece and camp again.

We cycled into Akrata Camping and the boss, Manoli, met us with a huge smile and a handshake. Then he called out, "Toula! Australia!" Manoli's wife, Toula, came over, "Australia?!" She's from Blacktown, western Sydney and we're their second Australians at their campsite in nine years.

 

"Are you Greek?" They asked Adam.

"Ela re, malaka!"

"Malaka! He's Greek!" Toula and Manoli declared. (Malaka is a rude or affectionate word in Greek) Adam's true-Greek twin is their friend, Nick Nickolopoulos, who must also speak Truck Driver Greek. Adam confessed that all his Greek was learnt on building sites so he can greet and curse like a native, but doesn't know please or thank you. "They never used it!" Is his excuse.

The campsite is. as Cat declared, "Pretty bloody paradise." Set on the Korinthian Sea (the bit between the Med and Athens), it's simple yet perfect. Eucalyptus trees and everything is easy-going. For 13 euros a night and the most friendly and genuine welcome in Europe get your tent or campervan and go to Akrata Beach. Directions on our Links Page.

Croatia

Following the signs - 25th May

We're become pretty "hippy" with the whole route planning process and now are following "the signs", "going with the flow" as opportunities come along.  At the end of the coastal road day we arrived at Jablanc just as the ferry to Rab Island was about to depart. Jablanc camping ground closed years ago (thanks again to our map!) so we followed 'the sign' and went to Rab.

We planned to have two days off but were told on our first relaxing day that the ferry to Pag island was leaving the next day. So we headed to Pag on a 12-seater that was a challenge to load our bikes and even more so when the skipper parked with bow to dock and we (Adam) had to lift 17kg bikes along the edge of the boat.  Still, anything was better than heading back to the mainland road.

 

Pag was incredible. We cycled along a sun-scorched peninsula of white rock and stunted trees. The only sound was the wind and the scents were pure nature: pine, hot bitumen and our own body odour.

Pag was also the beginning of some false signs: a campsite 300m away turned out to be nearly 2 km. But that was nothing compared to the 5km steep downhill to a non-existent car ferry and then turning around and coming back up. That must have been a sign to improve our fitness.

We were starting to doubt this "go with the flow" malarky when we arrived in Zadar. We learnt that thanks to the motorway ferries no longer head south along the Croatian coast and our option to head north to go south had left that morning on it's weekly run.

The next sign we saw was to Borik Camping so we went there to assess our options seaside. We had almost given up any chance of making it to Central Asia before late autumn when Cat got an email from an old friend saying he has a contact there. Then we found out a ferry goes to Italy and from there to Greece. A sign to move on from Croatia?

Going postal on the coastal road - 19th May

The scenery finally changed fom forest to barren hills. Cat was excited but Adam unimpressed. "We're there!" was actually another five uphill kilometres away. At Vratnik lookout we saw the Adriatic Sea and tried to work out which islands we which, and how far the "serpentina" road went. 17km to the coast was the white knuckle answer.

 

This time it wasn't just Catherine with knuckles as white as her tightly clenched teeth. Adam overshot a corner and ended up in a carpark, cooly pretending that he'd been in a hurry to get there and have a drink, not that he'd forgotten to brake in time. He was lucky: most corners simply had guardrails which, when you're on a bike, seem to be about knee height.

Or if you're Cat, they seem about ankle height and add to the vertigo of seeing tiny houses and trees far far below. But the road to Senj was manageable. It was on the road out of Senj, the infamous Adriatic coastal road, that there was a blubbering, heaving, hysterical meltdown.

Riding a winding road with a steep drop hundred of metres, combined with a lack of guardrails in some sections, traffic, a sense of vertigo and a fear of heights meant there were tears. Adam's helpful dose of reality - "Look on the bright side, if you fall you'll be dead. Instantly," didn't really help.

The only other option was a trek back through the mountains so she had to grip her handlebars tighter and just get on with it. It's amazing how an hour of constant uphill can make abject fear disappear - for the most part.

We passed over this bridge with a guardbox posted at one end. We later found out that it's notorious for 200 kmh winds in winter and vehicles being blown off the road. Perhaps irrational fear isn't always so irrational after all.  

Plan D and the best cycling day yet - 18th May

All the roads led to Plan D: the highway around the national park. After a nice downhill to start the morning form Jerece to Rudanovacs we stopped in Korenicko for a drink and assess the road ahead. We looked up, up, up ... and up.

Kicking into our cleats we rode slowly toward the escarpment. The signpost at the bottom was reassuring: 3000m serpentina, 8% gradient. "It's only 8%," Cat kept calling out, more of a whispered gasp with each hundred metres. Up and turn, up and turn, gasping for breath and trying to slowly work through nine gears and no more.  With the red rock and forest backdrop there were great photo opportunites, but to stop was to drop.

Ecstatic with disbelief and utterly soaked with sweat we made it to the top without stopping. Take that, Croatia! Bring on the hills!

 

The high didn't stop there. The brief downhill opened up onto an empty plain and we were cycling through what must have once been a mountain lake. It's now a basin of bracken and rock rimmed with forests; the colours of Scotland. Though we've never found 1kg of suckling pork in a Scottish roadside restaurant for 10 quid.

If that wasn't enough reward, after lunch was a digestive downhill for 6km. Our attempts to break our downhill records were scuppered by headwinds but we still reached Otocacs an hour early. For the first time in days we hadn't run out of oomph before our goal. Next stop, the coast.

All roads lead to ... Plan D - 17th May

From Veljun we headed to Slunj where Adam saw his first waterfall of the trip. It was the first item ticked off on his 'trip wishlist' (the next is to be farting in a tent with Mongolians because it's socially acceptable).

Slunj is set in a forested valley and the beginning of the  guesthouse run to Plitvice National Park. We would have stayed here if we hadn't run out of oomph 19km earlier than expected at Veljun last night.

We wanted the road to Mrzlo Polje to take a (relatively) direct route west to the Adriatic coast and another contour line challenge. The boy at Slunj service station shook his head in dismay at our map. August 2007 makes it "very old" - the military have taken over that area.

An icecream later and another cunning plan: cycle to Plitvice and take a road through the National Park. We were building up momentum for a 3km climb when a stunning view of turquoise waterfalls stopped us at Smoljanc. Another lesson: a beautiful view at the bottom of a hill isn't so beautiful in hindsight. 

At Plitvice, Plan B was scuppered: that road was also closed. While we argued about where to stop for a very late lunch we met Ruby and Bill, two retirees from Western Australia. It was great to meet 'our own' and a relief to learn that they were naturalists not naturists (bird watching with clothes on). They recommended a campsite 9km further on.

Soon after we were busted by Croatian police for cooking beside the road and our general ignorance that a lot of trees means we were still in the UNESCO listed park (we have seen a lot of forest in Croatia). Then we couldn't find our Plan C, another road through the National Park. Jelly legs and lunchless, we ran out of oomph before reaching the campsite. It was time to regroup and come up with another cunning plan. Or buy a new map.

Lost in translation again - 16th May

North Croatian drivers are the most considerate in Europe, even the truck drivers give us a wide berth. So it was a surprise to have a motorcyclist pull alongside and ride close. Two abreast is a bit hairy, let alone when the other person is shouting, swerving and saluting! 

Ivan the motorcyclist convinced us to stop out the front of a house. It was the end of the day and we were nearly in Sisak, our stop for the night. Were we in luck with a free room or a drink? We weren't sure. Ivan wasn't making too much sense. He repeatedly slapped his own shoulders while he talked, between effusive handshakes and salutes at our cycling prowess.

He grandly bestowed his own blue cap on Adam as a gift and for Cat, a shoelace.

Ivan carefully looped this unusual talisman over her handlebars, hanging it nicely between the spokes. Then, after another round of handshakes, he was off, puttering and saluting into the distance.

Our next translation challenge came at the motel in Velenj, near Plitvice Lakes. The only motel-bar-shop in town and not exactly heaivng on a Friday night, the dour waitress presented us with the English menu. The cuisine was intriguing and it was difficult to decide: Telecom Baking or Mixed Enclosure?

We opted for the grand poobah and presumably self-explanatory option of "two meat, two eggs and fries." The little waitress staggered back. She had a platter of protein. Two kilos of meat on a bed of fries and nicely garnished with two pork kebabs skewered into onions.  We knew we should have gone for the Telecom Baking.

Into the hills

Prepared with our road map -with contours this time - it was time for the hills of north-east Croatia. Hilly, rollercoaster, undulations are all understatements for the terrain. But it's not as contoured as Bosnia next door. Bozzy has some big hills.

From Krizevci had a nice uphill of switchbacks to blow the cobwebs out. We were heading on a fairly straightforward route to Dubrava then Sisak along minor roads and the second-busiest highway. However the right turn into a straight line to Dubrava turned out to be a hilly ride through small villages. We're getting pretty good at asking directions and understanding the answers - left, right, straight ahead, how the hell did you end up here?

The best things about getting lost are finding a) restaurants that sell cheese-stuffed hamburger patties of ludicrous proportions, b) more little houses and farms to snoop on as we pass.

Cat gets very excited about roof tiles, joints, sheds and Ye Olde Wooden Housies. It's becoming a little obsessive. The road from Dubrava to Ivanic Grad was architectural heaven for her. Adam just wished she'd cycle faster.

Into the Balkan powderkeg - 13th May

We've had our first border crossing interrogation! From the Hungarian checkpoint at Letenye we crossed a streetlight-lined bridge over the Mura River to Gorican, Croatia. The uniformed offical raised his eyebrows in surprise when we greeted him, "Dobar dan!" (Thanks to phrasebook cramming at lunchtime.)

"Where are you going?"

"Australia!" 

He raised his eyebrows again and took our passports inside. A slim and well-oiled official came out to politely interrogate us. His lack of uniform or tie made him stand out as a VIP official and he patiently explained that they were more interested in our Croatia plans, rather than our whole trip.

Adam produced our Reise map of Croatia and the VIP official nodded approvingly at the outlined route as Adam rattled off a few obscure place names and asked his advice on the planned route for the next few days. When our passports were duly returned Adam turned to Cat with a wry smile, "You'll never remonstrate me about ruining our maps from now on, will you?"

Hungary

The country that doesn't have restraint when it comes to consonants or zeros on it's currency. We're spending like Russian oligarchs, "Just take out another twenty thousand forints, darl,"

Hungarian countryside - 12th May

One of the best parts of cycle touring, second only to a day without headwinds, is being able to explore villages and roads that we'd otherwise zip past on public transport.

Thanks to the May heat, we've started filling up our 10 litre waterbag as well as our four water bottles. On this hot day - 'roasting' being another of Cat's favourite words - we'd depleted everything and were utterly parched with another 10km to ride to Gabalok, our intended camping for that night.

We detoured 1km from the highway to Szokendencs and entered what the Budapest people would call 'real Hungary'.  Old houses with orchards, grapevines and big dogs guarding the front gate. An oldfashioned well and timber wagon on display in the park and, as always, fresh wreaths of flowers lay at the foot of war memorials. An old lady was polishing the Christian shrine at the crossroads as we rode into town.

A red flag flapped in the distance like a matador's cape and we roared toward it, half crazed with thirst and the terrible thought that the town cafe might be closed. Adam collapsed into a plastic chair as Cat went into the dimly lit bar. She was greeted by the two patrons and owner, and grunted at by the barmaid.

The owner came out to inspect our bikes and we explained our gear and plans in Hung-glish gesturing. When another person came to the bar our story was duly explained to him and he shook his head and took a deep sip of his beer as if in commiseration.

Arriving in Gabalok we treated ourselves to a rare meal out. After puzzling out the Hungarian-German menu we sat on the terrace and watched the 'goings on' of the village. Grizzled men in suit jackets and caps came to the bar to meet their friends. Roma teenagers walked back and forth along the main street; some courting, others already boasting babies. This was, as the city folk say, 'the real Hungary'.

Lakeside - 10th May

All keen for a swim after the big cycling day, Cat walked the two metres to the water and met a snake on the rocks. Although fairly inconsequential by Australian standards, it was enough to encourage alternative activities, such as sunbathing and watching the chihuahua antics of the neighbours.

The stout Hungarian fisherman sat on a small stool with his belly between his knees and his hands full: four fishing lines and two chihuahuas called Roopy and Paoli. When not barking at the swans, his dogs liked to disappear into the ankle-high grass and ambush The Captain.

The Captain calmly rode a ladies bike around the camping grounds, adorning himself in a captain's hat and short shorts like an eccentric, and pedalling hard whenever Roopy and Paoli ambushed him, snapping and shrieking, and raising their owner from his little chair. "Roopy! Paoli!" 

He was torn between chasing his dogs and attending his fishing lines that finally seemed to have a bite. The big ones all got away just as his wife and daughters arrived. These two Paris Hilton aspirants took over their father's fishing lines and dogs so he retired to his one-man tent for peace. Until his wife ordered him to fire up the BBQ for the fish that his daughters had caught.

Meanwhile we became two Steve Irwins, tracking a small grass snake that curled at our tent door and slithered underneath the tent. Then we watch a larger one rise up from the water then retreat back under the rocks on the lake bed. No wonder everyone swims on the south side of the lake.

So it was showers instead of swimming but these weren't without incident either. Adam commited a showerblock faux pas by dropping the soap and kicking it into the next cubicle. Not knowing the German for "Please pass the soap," he was on all fours, feeling around in another man's cubicle and desperately hoping not to encounter any hairy ankles.

A bigger faux pas was running out of food on Sunday night.  Reduced to half portions of spaghetti and no dessert (oh, the hardships) we considered asking our neighbour if he could help us out but decided against it when we saw him reeling in a fish, his first for the day. His wife and daughters had gone home early, scared by a snake, and it was just him, his lines and Roopy! Paoli!

To Lake Balaton - 8th May

The weekend was approaching and we followed the city folk to the water. We were  blown out of Budapest. Coming over the bridge the gale had Cat struggling to stay in her lane, despite her recent efforts of loading her panniers and stacking her thighs with kebabs.

At Highway 7 the signs said no cyclists or tractors and they said otherwise. We held the white line and slim highway shoulder, ignoring the swoosh and suck of passing trucks, then detouring along minor roads from Velence to Lake Balaton.

Coming over a hill after Sarszentmihaly we were surrounded by fields of green wheat rippling in the wind. To our right was a river lined with poplars and beyond that hills of fields and forests stretched out. The village of Sarkeszi lined the nearby hillside in red roofs, orchards and grape vines. All we needed was a horde of Magyar horsemen to ride by and complete the majestic Hungarian scene. Instead, smoke stacks in the distance.

We stopped in Sarkeszi for a water and sultana break, admiring an old house. The render had fallen away and we could see the layers of tiling, thin as slate. Ever construction minded, Adam pointed out that the chimney needed repointing. Cat just thought it was another groovy old house but it was surpassed by the thatched houses in Orvenyes, Balaton.

Our first glimpse of Lake Balaton was light blue water which, by the time we reached our campsite 30 km later, had turned silver. Balaton Venus Camping had lured us by the advertisement of it being a national park and across the water from the south-side party places. It turned out to be unmown grass and clover amongst lots of trees, but there was a tad of wilderness luxury: hot showers and a special sink for fish gutting. We set up our tent two metres from the rocky shore and watched an orange moon rising over the water.

I'll take two z's, two g's, three s's, and do I have to buy a vowel? - 5th May

Adam opened our map of Hungary and exclaimed, "Jeez! This country must be a cartographer's nightmare!" He held the map closer,  "Where do you put the dots? Look how many letters they have!"

The race was on to find Hungary's longest place name. Twelve, fourteen letters, we weren't even blinking.  Then Adam spotted it, "Nineteen letters! Komlosfecskespuszta!"  It seems in Hungary it's all or nothing for place names: God, Erd, Pecs, Baranyaszentgyorgy, Szentgalszolohegy.  And there's a Pacific island connection that we can't work out at Tahitifalu. Didn't see any grass skirts or rugby players there, just a cycle path that took us all the way to Budapest.

Passing the betting shop, Lottozo, sealed our opinion that this country just adds letters together for fun.  Wheel of Fortune wouldn't work here because contestant wouldn't buy vowels.

We've followed the Danube on the Hungarian side, from Komaron to Esztergom, where Gran Camping was over budget and under expectation but we got to feel the spirit of Marcus Aurelius who wrote his 'Meditations' on the hill here. Adam also felt his stomache rumbling after a curdling cheese-pastry purchase at the Hazi Tej, the milk and bakery shop. It has a huge vat of milk inside the shop that's filled up by a hose through the window from a truck outside. BYO bottle.

From Estergom we followed the highway to Visegrad where Cat found a statue of her favourite Hungarian, King Bela IV.   "He's the one that outran the Mongols who chased him for weeks. Then got ripped off by the greedy Austrians, came back to a country without enough people to farm it or fight the locust plague, so invited Poles, Slovaks and Wlachs to move in and re-populate. Then he went back and fought the Austrians to get Hungary's treasures back." Adam's reply, "You're such a nerd." 

Slovakia

Perversely, we swapped the flat roads of Germany and Austria for a gradient that would have our calves quaking on a good day with a tailwind, let alone at 11pm at night on a road that truly doesn't belong in the EU zone, and a guesthouse that was late-night robbery behind a cigarette-stained smile.

Arriving in Bratislava on a Friday night of a long weekend is a basic mistake, but we've had trouble remembering the days of the week, and locating Internet. We've winged it most of the way and it's all worked out fine, so why not in Brat?

Cat's surmising of Bratislava's appeal can't be printed in the interests of international diplomacy with Slovak friends, but not much seems to have improved since 2002.  Bratislava has furrowed bitumen for its roads, like someone's going to plant cabbages where the cars drive. Luckily the government provides trolley buses for the people not on two or four wheels.

Austria

It was all the highlights we wished for: views of the snow-capped Austrain Alps, wooden chalets and a guy cycling along in lederhosen. Leather shorts! We were out of our seats and pressing our noses to the window to see more. We agreed that May Day is the best day to travel, a chance to see Austrian tradition on two wheels and with chafing thighs. 

Germany

Happy to have left the medieval heritage-feature cobblestones of Luxembourg behind after a few too many brain-jarring village routes.

The best route yet! Forest paths strewn with pine needles and pinecones that Adam crushed like cane toads under his wheel. Meadows edged with forest, villages that have retained their heritage for their own cobblestone enjoyment rather than the tourist euro, and a little two-car punt that waits to ferry passengers over the Neckar.

 From Heidleburg to Heilbronn we were on the Castle Route and, as Cat reminded Adam, The Romantic Road. He was unimpressed, "No time for romance, sweetheart, we're got paths to cycle and sights to see." He was impressed by the punt though.

Sunday cycling etiquette

Cycling in Germany on a Sunday is a lesson in cyclist-pedestrian etiquette. Wide, flat cycle paths became a white knuckle ride with us veering around joggers in ipod-oblivion, three year old tricycle enthusiasts and their camera-toting parents, and small dogs with a death wish.

Even Cat's perpetual cycling calm was shattered when she veered to avoid a deaf old lady who didn't hear the bike bell. Cat scraped her front pannier against the wall, ripping right through it as she braked hard. The little old lady shouted but it wasn't an apology. Cat looked down to see a quivering hairball of indiscriminate breed inches from her front wheel with a puddle of fear between it's paws.  Calm and international diplomacy were kaput and after two hours of being nice cyclists, it was time to hoon.

Winding down the Rhine

After the surprisingly lovely and peaceful Moselle we were excited to get to the Rhine to see some castles and have more flat road. But it was the disappointing river leg, less tranquil than the Mozzy, and then there was the confusion of Geoffnet. Who or what is Geoffnet?

We puzzled about this for nearly a week before deciding it meant closed. Everything is Geoffnet! Shops don't have their lights on or anyone at the counter. What happened to the Germanic work ethic? Then we realised Geoffnet means 'open'.  Utterly lost in translation again.

Speaking of translation, we had just learnt that brot is German for bread when we came across the Brot Shop, simply the most exciting thing that we have met on the road so far (apart from the guess-the-roadkill-challenge). The Brot Shop is the cereal equivalent of an icecream van, bread and cake heaven on four wheels. 

Anyway, the Rhine's a "come back to" contender for a second chance when we're of an age to relinquish our flame-thrower of a camp stove in favour of a nice buffet and a dining table. And perhaps stop and see some of those Geoffnet castles.

Moseying down the Moselle

Santa Claus in very short shorts corrected our pronunciation in his thick German accent, "Zis river iz not zee Moselle, itz zee Mozzle." So we dutifully amended our accents to mozzle down the Mozzle, or as we affectionately call it "Zee Mozzy", following the cycle path from Trier to Mannheim.

Vineyards lined the riverbanks, steep expanses that looked like the viticulture equivalent of a double-black ski run. Given Cat's history of riding into flowing water, this was scenery only to be admired when motionless.   The Mozzy hillsides resemble a billion toothpicks, we're too early for the summertime postcard views.

Every village seemed to boast a few Weinguts (which must be wine tasting for gluttons only), but knowing how tipsy we get after one glass and bearing in mind both the water's proximity and the weight of a bottle or two, we resisted the urge. To save weight we decant all our liquids into plastic water bottles and somehow the regions' best reisling wouldn't be so appealing that way. 

We discovered the nautical equivalent of a road train (double semi-trailer in Australian-speak), huge barges that chug along with immense loads of coal and grain. We spent a morning racing them along the riverbank. Then we lost the cycle path again.

Luxembourg

Chivalrous camping - 17th April

The objects of our affection are not diamonds but sleeping bags and puncture repair kits. Giving your girlfriend the dry sleeping bag while you have the wet (and smaller) one is the height of chivalry.  To then help her repair her pucture which she got by coming off the pavement too fast after a rest stop that you didn´t really want because the end of the day was only 10km away, well, that must be love... or tolerance...

Cycling through a fairytale

Fairytale scenery made up for the contoured hills and three consecutive days of rain. Luxembourg is the land of castles and quaint villages of steep roofs and cobblestone streets; of bubbling brooks and dark, dark woods. Didn´t see a woodcutter, wolf and a small girl in a red cape but there was a small girl with red panniers laden with spaghetti, tea bags and other delights.

We followed a cycle path that led us through the forest and a series of tunnels, like Von Ryan´s Express. Cat was unimpressed with the Tussen Tunnels and sped through because she hates damp, which is a challenge when camping in Europe in spring. She claims its a legacy of childhood in the outback, not a neurosis on par with Adam´s dislike of cycling in any climate that involves headwinds, rain or excessive sun ... and don´t mention hills!

It felt as if we were in a car advertisement, though unfortunately our luxury leather seating doesn´t come with heating or the opportunity to recline. We had 10km of unadulterated joy, slaloming downhill on an empty road through the pine forest from Wiltz to Kautenbach. We barely had to pedal but, as always, faced a big uphill after lunch.  We´ve learnt to accept the inevitable.

Thinking we had had a tough day in the rain we checked into a hotel in beautiful Vianden. Although the frits (chips) man assured us otherwise, it continued to rain for the next two days and our budget required us to revert back to our tent. We discovered one pannier had ripped but Adam found a hairdryer in the gents toilets of the creepy caravan park and tried to dry out our things, bravely daring to suggest to Cat that a hairdryer should lift the spirits, even more than a hedge on a windy day.  Damp level: 100%. Humour level: zero.

France and Belgium

For such a small thing, it's infuriating!  15th April

We're not talking about Cat, on this occasion at least, but a tiny yellow and blue flag that has been the bane of our two-wheeled existence.

We had found the cycle path marker in Dunkerque and our little flag faithfully directed us toward Ypres. We trundled along enjoying the quiet roads and momentary triumph of finding the next signpost. Arriving at another village with it's one bar, patisserie and quiet streets we looked at each other ...  Bulchamps ...

The town surely wasn't intended as a cuss word but it was for us. Outside the patisserie, Adam had his head in his hands bemoaining that we were, "Lost in a Belgium backwater. Who gets lost in Belgium?" Neither croissant nor putting our noses centimetres from the map could resolve our dilemma: we had lost a well-signed path in one of Europe's smallest countries. 

It didn't bode well for the future of our illustrious expedition.

We found the flag again - four days later. It directed us south-east from the  teeth-rattling cobblestone roads of Mons to the rolling farmland of Sivry-Rance. Sunshine, quiet roads and flag-spotting kept our thoughts from fatigue and increasingly frequent hills. Cat liked the look of the swathe of green on our map so we chose the forest route and our little flag directed us to Vironval province. The map's countour lines suddenly made thigh-burning, calf-tingling sense.

Our little flag had betrayed us! Aren't cycle paths supposed to be flat jaunts through picturesque countryside, with riverside bars just over the occasional 'hill' and a patisserie strategically positioned for morning and afternoon tea?

After capitulating to push our bikes up the last incline of the day, to the hilltop campsite in Olloy-sur-Viroin, we decided to abandon the flags and find a river route.

However we had reached the countoured point of no return and it was two more days of hills. We almost pined for the headwinds of earlier and as for Anthony Robbins positive thinking that this is training for the Himalayas - that only works for inclinesof 10% or less. 

But it wasn't all a hard slog and there were moments of pure joy: a hilltop bar at Dally, spaghetti soup for breakfast, and finally getting rid of our 3 kilos of green beans and mushrooms that had lasted us five meals and stretched our camp cooking imagination. 

That joy was only just outweighed by a smooth and flat run from Houyet to Rochefort which was, would you believe, a cycle path that we actually intended to join? Rochefort's highlight was a four-star camping ground and from what we've deduced about camping grades, four stars means toilet paper and your own water tap.

But the best run so far was the road from Vesqueville to Moircy. A farmland and forest route devoid of traffic, laid with new bitumen and winding nicely downhill. Cat got up to a wobbling 47km/hour which would be impressive if not trailing far behind Adam, the Evil Kneival of downhill.

When we caught up he breathlessly announced that he'd hit 66.2 kms, impressive for a man of naturally wind-resistant physique. But his expression was a combination of elation and pure fear. Hurtling downhill he'd realised the wobbling wasn't just speed: his handlebars had come loose.

Headwinds and pastries - 7th April

France and Belgium are the height of civilisation: marked cycle paths, flat terrain and wonderful patisseries for thigh-bulking nutrients.

We could do without the near-constant headwinds. Trying to slipstream behind Cat's small frame doesn't do much to alleviate Adam's broad shoulder difficulties.  To keep our spirits up we search the horizons for the next church spire.  Church = town centre = patisserie. Croissants, frangipans, pan de chocolat, scrolls, no wonder we aren't as athletique as we thought we'd be by now.

In the village of Gelewue we raised our morning pastry to the monument to William Leggett, an Australian soldier who had the unfortunate honour to be the first Allied soldier officially killed in WWI.

We seem to pass WWI monuments at every turn and the names ring infamously of battles: Dunkerque, Ypres, Mons. We stop and gape at a crater that has white crosses down its sides. Our soundtrack is the hum of motorways but it's easy to imagine the thud of guns and exploding earth, and the shouts of men.

 At Ypres, or Wipers as it was pronounced by Australian soldiers, we took a day off to sleep in and clean our bikes. As we packed up camp for the evening the haunting sounds of a bugle drifted across to us. Every night at 8pm, The Last Post is sounded to honour the fallen. Suddenly the prospect of a mildly damp sleeping bag seemed inconsequential.

Back on the road, our map reading skills have been put to the test. Weaving back and forth across the France-Belgium border often enough to fill a passport with stamps - if there were any border guards - we consult our map at every second town or so it seems. 

"Where are we now?"

"Belgium. Or is this France?"

Incredibly, only one gloomy day of torrential rain and headwinds that slowed our downhill speed to a heartbreaking 10km/hour. Cat's cheery comment that wasn't it amazing how a hedge or a small building could break the wind and raise the spirits was met with a dour look from Adam.

"My spirits are being raised by the thought of a bed, not by a bloody hedge!"

Soon after we passed a signpost to a town called Dour and that summed up our day. We abandoned the solace of a hedge and checked into the IKEA-inspired youth hostel at the next town, Mons.

Au revoir, Angleterre - 3rd April

Downhill is a fantastic start to the day but the rolling green hills of England soon lost their charm. As did the broad shoulders of the A2 highway.

We attack each incline in our own particular fashion.  Adam charges uphill, a two-wheeled gladiator who snarls and curses his broad shoulders and naturally wind-resistant physique.  "Come on, Nana!" is the refrain to get Cat uphill. Tenaciously pacing 1-2-1-2 she moves through nine gears, albeit at a Driving Miss Daisy pace. 

Getting to the top of a hill may sound like a small triumph but our burning thighs and heaving lungs say otherwise. Adam insists he's a 'novice' rather than amateur at this cycling malarky, given his litany of childhood exploits that always involve bicycles and a lack of some vital equipment: shoes, brakes, ability to stay on ...

Older and wiser now, but his jarred knee just before Canterbury required a pit stop. There was a dearth of budget accomodation but a garrulous five-foot angel, Elaine, and her husband David looked after us for a couple of days with nettle-free bedding and man-size breakfasts.

Back on the road, we punched the sky when we saw the grey cliffs of Dover. But not too enthusiastically as enthusiasm induces uncontrolled wobbling.

We rolled off the ferry in Dunkerque and passed an elderly French gentleman walking his small dog. He double-thumped his chest as if to say we were tres athletique! Our 'Dunkerque spirit' waned somewhat when we realised that Cat had put us on a ferry that arrived at a port 25km south-west of the city...

Departure from London - 31st March

"Look, sweetheart! We've done two kilometres already!" Cat's comment marked the first milestone of our trip: leaving our suburb.

From Kilburn in north-west London we hooned through central London to pick up Adam's passport (just one of those last minute errands). We lost each other in peak hour traffic when a chatty cyclist asked Cat where she was going.

"To Australia. Where are you going?"

"Just around the corner," he replied ruefully.

Though he wouldn't have envied us an hour later. Heading south-east out of London we had our first steep climb at Plumstead where a red light broke our momentum and a lone bystander at a bus stop watched us push our pannier-laden bikes uphill. And promptly overtook us on the next bus.

We're carrying 4 panniers, a handlebar bag and a drybag each. While we've culled our packing list three times and doubled up where possible, we'll have a rejig of our kit and try to pack it like a game of Tetris.

The lightweight survival blanket in our first aid kit is also our picnic blanket and lines the end of our tent against condensation. Sleeping bag sacks double as a pillow stuffed with tomorrow's clothes and laundry bags; the list goes on in our endeavour to travel light and leave lots of room for food. And carpets.

Speaking of food and comfort, we'd aimed for a friend's house but had left too late in the day. We pulled up in Swanscombe with 51km under our tyres and erected our tent in the dark.

We settled down for our first night 'on the road':  on a bed of nettles between a railway line and a fence.