Crawling through canal country.

So we left Lubeck in a bit more comfort than we entered it. Considering the expansive urban hinterlands and unceasing autobahns between us and Hamburg we elected to take a short train ride instead of a days riding. The beautifully engineered German trains quite amazed Iain and I, especially considering that our last experience of railways had involved rickety old ex-soviet machines, but these were finely tuned double decker affairs with special ramps and lower entrances just for bikes. Meaning an infirmed elderly pygmy could have gotten our gigantic laden touring bikes onboard.

We were deposited in the city centre. There was an instant sense of being somewhere Urban, note the capital ‘U’.  Hamburg is a dirty, lively metropolis. Full of life, full of the contrasting stories of the wealthy and the poor, it is thoroughly alive and positively humming with rhythms of the moving masses. We crossed a road and checked into the Generator Hostel (for those unfamiliar with the chain this is the Ryan-Air) of the hostel world. Cheap digs but with an industrial cold capitalist soul and a marked contrast from the friendly small place we had stayed in Lubeck.

Entering our room lugging our obscene amount of luggage (as a tourer you carry more than an ordinary back-packer, what with camping gear and tools etc…) we tried to quietly unpack and not disturb the slumbering girl who was ensconced in the pod like arrangements that are essentially sup’d up bunk beds. We were probably still smelling a little bit still like the wet dogs and Englishmen that Saskia (remember her? …the junior surgeon we had met in Lubeck, so this is a medical term, and was largely an unfortunate consequence of being soaked through, sweaty and never quite being able to dry out our clothes) had called us.

 Despite aforementioned smelly funk and rousing said girl from her slumber she did not seem too irate and was keen to befriend us. The girl, Jacqueline, was of Mexican origin from L.A. and had been studying in Galway for a year and was now doing a mini euro-tour before her visa expired. She was enthusiastic company and dragooned us into going off with our fellow roommates, a posse of friendly Bavarians in pursuit of a place to sell us some cheap eats. After some legally dubious free use of public transport we reached the Bavarian boy’s friend who had been exploring for a restaurant, he had reached the fancy end of town which and Iain, Jacqueline and I decided we should go somewhere scummier to eat, we feel something is beyond our budget when there are wine glasses already on the table.

After much debate amongst the Bavarians we eventually ended up in the Reeperbahn (red light district) as we emphasised that cheapest food will be found in the dodgiest part of town. The Reeperbahn, is everything you would expect from a red light district; a scummy mix of glamour and grime with fluorescent lights adding a noir-esque atmosphere to the thick fog rising up from the Elbe. Everything though, no matter how expensive, seems cheap here, and in a sense (without sounding too much like a Christian missionary bursting into a brothel) I suppose ultimately that anything money can buy is cheap.

After some fine greasy Chinese food Jacqueline led the charge to a karaoke bar. It rapidly came apparent that this was a gay karoke bar (or the clientele were all very affectionate well groomed men with an affinity for showtunes at any rate, but I don’t want to deal in clichés…) and was ran by some exceptionally bored Thai staff. The punters were actually by and large superb singers and I was told that this was a favourite haunt of performers from the stage shows and musicals, which could explain that…amongst corroborating the gay bar theory (again I’m sorry for making clichéd assumptions…but…).  At any rate my favourite performance of the evening was the most German rendition of ‘My way’ I have ever heard…use your imagination to create a stereotypical German man with a dry deep accent singing Sinatra out of key and you’re about there. I was pressured into going up and singing American pie and up I strode like the giant Don McLean of Hamburg (all the photos of this make look very angry, which I can only assume is the result of having to concentrate…karoke is actually rather hard) and I had to admit I got rather into it, I was told I was a good showman as I got the crowd singing along with me.

Iain and I left the party at about 3am, and decided to walk home, only about 4km we thought, pfff we thought, we’re seasoned adventurers and strode off with nary a map between us and only my finely tuned internal compass and four years training as an academic geographer to keep us on track. Hamburg proved eerie in the thick fog, looking every inch the mysterious grimy port city. We noticed as we walked back the startling number of homeless people, there must have been hundreds in doorways and on benches, which is odd for a country which looks as prosperous as Germany does.

I got us back to the hostel with ease, because frankly I am brilliant at using gut sense to navigate cities and I easily memorise maps. We slept soundly in our pod like bed arrangements. Well Iain did, I was too fucking hot, yes that deserves a swear word, because little did I know that there was a radiator hidden behind my head on full blast, which in combination with the clammy spring weather ensured I sweated if I covered slightly more than one leg with a blanket. I later (just yesterday, in Amsterdam) discovered  that Iain had in-fact turned the radiator

The following day we wandered about as tourists taking in the sights of Hamburg’s old docklands and empty canals, which have an almost yuppified feel of something like London’s docklands, before Iain started to become extraordinarily sullen. ‘Do you want something to eat, Iain?’ Iain made a zombie like noise, ‘you need something to eat’ said I. I have realised over this trip that Iain must be a borderline diabetic as he ceases to intellectually function if not constantly fed. His brother has likened him to a hummingbird that is always a meal away from death.

That night we sunk many beers in the hostel bar with our room-mates and Saskia, who had reappeared and managed to find us in the street somehow…we don’t know how, but she did (she had recommended the hostel to us in-fact and is in no way a stalker). she insisted that we go and eat in a German meat based restaurant whose name eludes me, but I seem to recall it was swine related… here we consumed a fine German style mixed grill, knocking back beers and made many silly faces. We awoke the next morning a tad hungover but hit the road none-the-less. We were heading out of the city again on the train but promptly got back on the bikes after 4 days of what was meant to be rest and relaxation, but as ever proved rather tiring.

That night our free camping strategy of pitch first, questions later, was finally foiled by some locked toilets and a grumpy man on a scooter, who wasn’t buying my line that we going to go to reception in the morning. The campsite was frankly awful and barel worth the 10 euros we paid, but had rather epic, if not at all pretty, views of the massive container port of Bremerhaven in the distance with the unceasing leviathans of commercialism, container ships, plowing hither and thither in the north sea, which was our first sight of a sea that touched our home shores.

The road proved rather uneventful plodding along until Iain’s tire exploded. Despite my glee at him also suffering the same fate as me and my tires (he maintains it’s because he was getting cocky and running on a too high of a pressure, but I just feel vindicated that his jibes about me being rotund blowing my tires were in-fact groundless), by now we old hands at exploding tires and knew what the problem was and how to solve it. We (well, Iain worked, I mostly lay down laughing, and going ‘ye-es, the pressure’ whenever he tried to create excuses for his tires) switched the front and back tires over, but as Iain is riding a craptactular old bike in imperial measurements, getting a new tire to replace the rather damaged old one would prove tricky in Europe…or so we thought…

In Bremerhaven town we entered the first bike shop we saw. The chubby german owner stepped forward to talk to Iain, Iain asked if he spoke English, he said no and turned to his friend a man who was dressed every inch like a jazz poet and said in a thick New York accent ‘I don’t speak English, man’. When Iain asked if they had any 27 inch tires (there is only 27inch tire made by Schwalbe, who are the definitive touring bike tire manufacturer, so they are not necessarily common, Iain had to order his online back home). ‘No’ came the reply, ‘No, I have just ran out and not re-ordered, about 50 metres down the road there is another bike shop, he should have some.’ Iain entered the next bike shop and came out almost instantly grinning holding a 27inch Schwalbe tire. (He is making a smug face at you Ryan [Iain’s brother] right now).

The next few days were hard riding into the wind; we were crawling along through Freisland doing about 16kph and despite the pleasant cyclepaths and flat terrain this was hard going. It began to feel like we were never going to make it home and the madness of being on the road for too long began to creep in as the in-jokes began to creep up in number. We would probably sound quite insane to anyone who would join us at this point of the journey.

On our last night in Germany, we encountered a stroke of phenomenal luck and good German hospitality. We had done a meagre 70km but were feeling knackered and had been cycling all day into aforementioned awful wind. It was the first day of June and unseasonably cold, we had taken the last ferry out of Emden across the broad choppy waters of the river Ems to the border.

It deposited us in the small village of Diztum and the weather was boding for a cold wet and windy night. We needed to find a campsite sharpish. In the small villageof Ditzummer-Verlaat we followed a sign for a mobile home park, hoping they’d take a tent. When we arrived we saw a BBQ and a gathering of people. We asked a merry looking man in an apron (meaning he had to be official) walking back from the toilets if this was a campsite. ‘No’ he said ‘but you can camp here if you want’ and strode back to the grill. We pitched up our tent in record time and despite having been initially rebuffed from the BBQ and told it was a private party when we innocently approached asking if the food was for sale, we were invited to join the party by an old sailor, Ham, who said ‘you look hungry, come.’ It transpired this was a clubhouse of a local football team and they were enjoying an annual party, they shared many lamb chops, much potato salad and far too much beer and local strong spirits with us. They were friendly and great fun and very kind, but did manage to ensure we had a hangover the next day.

We pressed on the next day into the Netherlands, the wind if anything got worse and just moving forwards was a struggle. After two days going a fraction of the speed (15kph) at double the effort (we need to average 22kph), we took a 50km train ride (I know this seems a little like chickening out, but it would have added about two days on if we kept going on as we were) to Harligen where we turned south and raced with the wind over a long dyke across the IJsselmeer. Blasting at speeds of above 30kph for over 30km we felt morale rising again and at last and it finally felt like we were getting nearer home.

Amsterdam was the only the city on the entire trip in which we felt no stress whatsoever cycling into. It is probably something to do with the fact that Holland is of course famous for being the bicycle country; the roads all have comfortable cycle paths and we wafted past windmill after windmill and canal after canal (one of the ways of passing time on the road is  playing the guessing game 'canal or river' which is as fun as it sounds) through a grassy pleasant fertile country before reaching Amsterdam and checking into a very trendy and happening campsite in the east of the city in Zeeburg.

We went on a brief bike tour of the city which I consider to be amongst my most favourite places on earth, with beautiful vistas along sweeping canals, beautiful people wafting past on leisurely comfortable bikes and a relaxed friendly atmosphere which makes the city feel welcoming and calm despite being a cosmopolitan thriving metropolis with more culture than Walter Benjamin could shake a stick at. Now we head out to be tourists and let the city that he had only previously seen as a drunken blur on a rugby tour, which is not exactly a sight-seeing trip.

It is sunny, there is cooling northern wind, and it feels like a relaxing summers day is coming our way. 

In Poland tyre blow up you!

So I left you when we were in our “cool” hostel in Gdansk, called the Old Town Hostel, it was certainly not in old town, and not really all that hip and happening as it was mainly full of intense Russian men eating strange smelling vegetables in silence. We shared a dorm with a Polish builder and a Russian organist who were pleasant enough company and talked at us even if we understood little.

I met a sound a Canadian chap called Kasey, we ended up being room-mates and he accompanied us on our evening of fun going out on the town with Marta and Greg. They took us to a massive concert to begin the evening and from there took us on an all-night walking tour of Gdansk. This was conducted in true Polish style with lashings of vodka.

Gdansk at night was amazing, there was the old town with its ornate illuminated spires and Gothic grand Hanseatic courtyards matched in spookiness by the haunting spectres of the cranes of the now defunct shipyards. The city was brought alive by the stories of Marta and Grieg telling us the history and the folklore of the town, interspersed with personal anecdotes and cultural jokes. They took us into the famous dockyards, which were awesome and eerie and all the more spectacular viewed in the greenish hues of night.

Iain somehow managed to become spectacularly drunk. Drunk to the point of him losing his ability to properly walk, this combined with trousers repeatedly falling down (he had neglected to pack a belt, believing this to be unnecessary weight, created a rather comic effect. I basically carried him home.

The next day Iain, for some unfathomable reason reason was not feeling tip top, neither were me or Kasey but Iain seemed to take the proverbial biscuit. So I left him in bed with a big bag of crisps, bread and water to hand and me and Kasey set off to hang out more with Marta and Grieg as we were given a tour of Gydinia and Sopot.

After a struggle with Polish trains which proved confusing and unhelpful me and Kasey made it to Gdynia 3 hours late, feeling like idiots who can’t use public transport. We even struggled to find the Starbucks we were meant to be meeting Marta and Greg at as we had left without doing any research and wandered about Gdynia like lost children. We eventually found Marta and Greg and were given a good tour of the docks of Gdynia and the pleasure beaches of Sopot. Both cities were less touristy and more laid back than Gdansk. Though my abiding memory of Sopot will be Kasey playing the blues on his pocket trumpet in the ornate Victorian station of Sopot and the other passengers looking over and smiling.

We came back late to see if Iain was still alive, he was now on monosyllabic words rather than grunting, which we took be a good sign. The rest of our time in Gdansk was primarily spent sleeping and we stayed a day longer than we had intended, but this was necessary to recover from the fun we’d had.

As we left Gdansk we thought we would try and get the train out of the city so we didn’t have to reckon with tedious industrial suburbs and dangerous motorways. We thought wrong, the trains proved just as bewildering as they had before and we couldn’t for the life of us work out what time our train would leave and all the staff proved unhelpful and the other train passengers looked at us like we were insane if we asked them for directions.

So we abandoned that plan and headed for the road out of town. En route I wanted to investigate why my mud guard was rubbing, transpired that a bolt had sheared that held the rack on, leaving half the metal in the bike, the only option we had was to have it drilled out. So at last I was the one holding us up, Iain enjoyed this, I had not enjoyed him holding us up, so this seemed unjustified. Bike shop fixed this in a somewhat cowboy manner, none-the-less it works (thus far).

So we rode out of town 2 hours later than planned and rode uphill into the wind in heavy traffic out of Gdansk in what was some of the most unpleasant cycling I have had to do. When we finally escaped the tri-cities’ encircling motorways we were into pleasant sandy woodland and looking for a spot to wild-camp.

We settled for a recently cleared section of forest, which must have been cleared but the day before as it was eerily devoid of life and there were none of the flies and insects which we had become so accustomed to bothering us as we camped. It was quite pleasant though, despite being eery, we have decided that if we ever get cancer later in life it was caused by whatever toxic chemicals must have been present here.

Iain started a campfire as I read Lord of the Rings aloud which has been our way of avoiding actually talking to one another in the evenings. The campfire soon proved to be ill advised and we had to promptly extinguish it. Not wanting to waste drinking water we pissed it out. Bodily expulsions being Iain’s forte, he pissed like a horse, unfortunately he didn’t  manage to finish the job and I had to struggle to muster the urine and stop spreading a forest fire.

The next day was a reward for our suffering and we had a perfect days cycling winding through the sandy hills of northern Poland and hitting speeds of 50kph downhill. However punishment was coming our way.

Michelin are lazy bastard mapmakers. They said there was a road along a coastal spit, it looked fairly stunning, so we took that road. The road ended abruptly at a gate and as Iain was hopping it to a reckie a man appeared and sent us onto the beach. We should have taken the hint, but we had already done 6km and thought we’d press on.  And thus began a 4 hour struggle pushing our bikes through soft sand under a hot sun. The whole endeavour felt somewhat like a scene out of Lawrence of Arabia (and I had the theme knocking about my head as I struggled on) as the sun beat down on us the sweat poured and everywhere the sand was relentless. This was exhausting and stressful as we worried about what the sand would do to our poor bikes.

At last at about 9pm we escaped the beach when we saw people ahead; ‘Look Iain, there are people ahead and people are fucking lazy, this means there’ll be a car park, and a road’ Iain nodded in solemn agreement but did not speak (he clearly had gone into the ‘zone’, if you don’t know what the zone is, then you’ve never been in it, I gathered he was in the zone earlier when I turned and saw him lagging behind, which is unusual, so I asked if he was OK and he just looked at me like I was the village idiot). Surely enough there was a road leading us away from the accursed beach (it was actually one of the most beautiful beaches/sunsets I have ever witnessed but due to the circumstances I was filled with a deep loathing of the whole scene).

We reached the holiday village of Lazy (the name is a cruel irony considering our exertions to get there), where we went to the first campsite we could find to beg for a hut or a pitch for a night. We were rather coldly rebuffed and even denied a drink of water, maybe because we did look a bit like tramps. We pressed on, the town looked like a ghost town and all but one campsite was shut and this campsite was fully booked. We were in my mind now royally fucked. I began to feel my heart sink as the sky darkened and mosquitos swarmed, we limped on hope rapidly leaving us, but we joked and laughed none-the-less, however we thinking our luck had run out. Then a man outside a shop approached us asking us in broken German if we would like a room for the night. It transpired he was the shop owner and ran a small hotel above his shop which only opened in the high season. He only charged us ten pounds each but did make me wash my hands and face before doing business with me.

We showered and slept solidly feeling at last like lucky bastards, despite all that had happened that day. The next day, though, we had to see to our bikes, as they looked like we had done something akin to dragging them over 10km of sand, for some reason… The hotel owner appeared shirtless and said something in polish, pointing at the bikes and promptly disappeared and reappeared holding a soft brush he offered to us to use. Between using this and my toothbrush we managed to clean off the worst of the sand and everything seemed to be ok and we hit the road.

Temperatures soared to a roasting 40˚C and we were blasting it along a busy road when disaster struck. Again it was my bike that was causing us troubles, not Iain’s, I can tell he still feels smug about this. I felt a sudden deflation of my tire and put up my hand to signal a break to Iain, however this became an immediate break when my tire exploded with the sound of a shotgun and Iain slightly crashed into me. We managed to roll to a shady spot and switch over the inner tubes; we decided it must have been the sweltering heat raising the PSI on tires that were already at their very limits (80 PSI) to a dangerous pressure (over 85 PSI).  

However, this was to be the first of not one, not two, not three but four blowouts over the course of the next two days. Almost immediately after switching to a new tube the tire blew again and so collapsing in the shade of a bus shelter eating icecreams from the adjacent shop I set to work changing the tube again. I inflated it to a much lower 60 PSI and set off hoping for the best. We limped into the resort town of Kolobrzeg where I found us a campsite and we had to wait until the morning when the bikeshop would open. Kolobrzeg is a strange town, seemingly populated entirely by elderly German tourists, gigantic mosquitos that must feed on their ancient blood and Polish townsfolk who must make a good living in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the mosquitos (though in a more honest manner, I assume).

In the morning we headed to the shop. Iain was nagging me to purchase a trailer, because he theorised that it must have been my gigantic frame plus the weight of the touring gear that had blown it, I remained sceptical, believing it to be the heat, seeing as how the bike had managed 1000 miles with all the weight on it already and I think he just wanted me to get a trailer because he thinks it would be cool. We had however both agreed that putting on a wider rear tire which could spread the weight and run on a lower PSI was a good idea (we discovered later that this was in-fact about the worst idea possible for solving blowouts, but how were we to know, devoid of internet access in a foreign country). So we changed the tire and tube, I managed about 30 yards and the thing exploded again. This caused a minor mental breakdown on a bridge (where I had to fight a strong urge to scream and dropkick my helmet into the river) and several local people ran over and told us not to worry the repair shop was just 30 yards away, but as nice as they were we couldn’t explain to them how fucked we thought we were (it transpires the problem could have easily been solved there and then, but it was exceptionally hot, we were stressed and not thinking terribly straight, more on this later). The shop kindly exchanged the tire and tube and we tried again, this time I inflated the tube again to almost dangerously low PSI (about 55) and off we set. This seemed to solve the problem…

We found ourselves on a cyclepath that stretched all the way to the German border. It was smooth, well-kept and shady. It seemed to be too good to be true; especially so considering that we’d been informed of its existence by a very drunk Polish man we met on the street, who whilst friendly, didn’t seem like the most reliable source of geographical information. However, it ran on and on hugging the coast and racing through forests, it was at times even smoother than the actual road it ran beside. It finished abruptly with a gate, a hotel complex had appeared in the way and seemed to bar further travel west. Now from our tortuous experience of the beach, which was brought about ignoring gates, we were a bit wary of pressing on.

It was at this moment that a strangely dressed man appeared out of the woods, clad in crocs, pinstripe trousers, a tatty red vest, a baseball cap and a small drawstring bag. He was a large man (not as big as me or Iain, but still tall and broad) with a big shaggy beard and deep voice. As we didn’t know what to do we naturally asked him if he knew where the road went. He didn’t speak a word of English and I hadn’t really picked up more than my Ps and Qs in Polish, but we both spoke a small amount of German and so we roughly managed to communicate. He said he’d show us the way to the path to Germany and started leading us down a small winding path into the woods. Iain and I began to become a little bit sceptical and we both thought that he was taking us somewhere dubious, but as Iain and I are hulking cycling giants I decided we could probably take care of ourselves if anything started “going down”. In the event it transpired that he was just a very helpful friendly man who had gone somewhat out of his way to show two idiot Englishmen the way back to the cyclepath which we had missed the turning for. We were very grateful and thanked him in a mixture of Polsih/German (well I did, Iain stuck to safer ground with English).

Our time riding back on the path was not to last long, as the sky seemed to take an ominous turn and go very dark indeed. I decided we’d be best to put all the ran covers on our gear and pop up the outer skin of the tent and hunker under there until the downpour had passed. We put the tent up and sat it over a bench so we could at least be comfortable as we waited, we waited for some time before the rain began and we almost about to give up and declare ourselves meteorological fools when the downpour at last happened. As it began to throw down rain by the bucket load we did the very English thing and had what essentially amounted to a picnic, squatting inside a tent in the pouring rain. With the rain storm showing no sign of clearing off we decided to hunker down for the night. In a brief reprieve from the rain we rushed outside and cooked up our dinner (which consisted, as ever,  of fried smoked sausage, soup and bread) and noticed there was a big sign prohibiting camping, we decided to risk it as finding another spot to camp in the rain would be a palava. Though at this moment a park ranger appeared, Iain said ‘Just ignore him, don’t look at him and he’ll fuck off’, however as he walked towards us my heart sank as I realised he was probably going to move us on. ‘Dzien dobry [good day]’ he said, I responded and pointed at the tent saying ‘sorry, the rain, shelter’, to my great surprise he just cheerfully said ‘OK’ got back in his 4x4 and drove off. The rain soon started again and we had to hurriedly pack away the food and stove and sleep a damp and hot uncomfortable sleep. This was also the night of Eurovision and I can’t help but feel we rather missed a chance for an interesting cultural experience, but needs must, and as I say to Iain whenever he complains about conditions; this isn’t a holiday, it’s an adventure.

The next day we raced to the German border and decided we probably deserved (and indeed for hygiene purposes needed) a bed indoors and a shower, after finding the youth hostel and the campsite fully booked/closed we were left with the option of the town’s hotel. En route from the campsite to the hotel several of Iain’s decrepit spokes snapped and left his bike not only unrideable but also unrollable. So it was left to me to go and find us a hotel, I deposited Iain in a park and set off. The only hotel in town looked a little too nice for my liking but at what amounted to £55 for the two of us to have a comfortable bed, a decent shower and a hearty breakfast I decided I’d rather pay it than spend another night camping in the woods. Alas, just outside the hotel as I leant my bike up I had my fourth (and I hope final) tyre blowout. Bafflingly I was not even on the bike this time so now even weight was out of the equation and it was a cool evening, so why it had blown was a mystery, but I’d  decided to worry about that later, I had to walk half a kilometre to rescue Iain.

Using the hotel’s wifi I read up at length about bike tyre blowouts and discovered that they’re not altogether uncommon, the most common cause being a tyre that is too wide for the rim. So our crackpot scheme of putting a wider tire on had actually been precisely the opposite of what we should have done and probably in-fact caused the blowout and even explains why the low PSI tyre exploded on a cool evening without me on top of it.

When we awoke we ruined the breakfast buffet and promptly set off on a quest to every bike shop in town to try and find someone that would respoke Iain’s wheel and see if someone could find any defects in my wheel. My wheel was apparently fine, a mechanic put more rim tape on it which he thought might help. Worryingly none of the bike shops would/could respoke Iain’s wheel, that was until we reached the last shop where they inexplicably had a 27inch wheel (for those not versed in bike lore, continental Europe never used imperial measurements on a bike so finding an imperial part is in common parlance ‘fucking lucky’).

So with everything more or less in working order we left Poland behind and headed into Germany, where things became what can only really be described as nicer. Whilst I don’t want to cast aspersions on Poland and the Baltic Countries, or indeed dear old Blighty, nowhere I have cycled has been anywhere near as nice as Germany. It is the like we entered the land of bike with well ordered cyclepaths running in all directions. It is in a word lovely. Though we can’t help but feel we’ve left the adventure behind us now and we’re on the home straight. Which is at once a relief and also a little bit sad. After discussing my blowout problems with my dad I decided I should just try and outfit myself with a new back wheel and tyre. So in the town of Wolgast I got a second [German]opinion on my wheel. He gave the wheel a vorpsrung durch teknik seal of approval and suggested I just get a new tyre. Which I did and it’s been a good 500km since and so far there have been no explosions.

After all the drama of Poland, nothing particularly interesting happened as we wound our way along the north east coast of Germany. Enjoying the cycle paths and quickly finding out that if strayed onto the road even for a moment the motorists would politely but firmly inform us that we should be the ‘RADWEG’. We have become scoundrels and petty criminals by avoiding paying to stay at campsites by arriving late and leaving early (we don’t really feel like we’ve committed any heinous crime as we only stay for the hours of darkness, we leave no mess behind other than a pressed square of grass and take nothing but some tap water), we did this first because we couldn’t find anyone of any authority around the reception and continued (we’ve in truth only done this twice so we’re hardly hardened criminals) when we began to resent paying 12 euros to essentially have access to tap water.

The landscape of Germany was that of prosperous small towns and villages amid endless seas of crops, mainly yellow oceans of rapeseed and everywhere the twirling white monoliths of wind turbines. We ambled around this following a cycle-route as dictated by a small and very handy book I had purchased which was actually at a workable scale for easy navigation on the backstreets. Everything seems to be getting too easy.

Then came the last day on the road to Lubeck, we awoke in the tent to the comforting yet awful sound of rain battering our tent and we new it was not going to wear off. We packed up as best as we could without getting soaked through. We had wrapped our feet in bin bags and were wearing our full waterproofs in a feeble attempt to ward off the rain…our minds harked back to that awful day in Estonia. We battled into the wind for the last 50km and naturally we became soaked and chilled to the bone in the unseasonably cold (almost British) weather as we pushed onto Lubeck. We arrived at the outskirts of the town after a ferry trip and winding through the suburbs, we had hopped into a Lidl’s to outfit ourselves with snacks and lunch. Thank god we did. Iain met an exceptionally helpful man in the queue who was at pains to stress that we had to find a tunnel entrance to get into Lubeck altstadt. We listened to his advice but still took the wrong turnings, we then cycled past him on the road going the wrong way, he flagged us down and told us to follow him in his car. Round circuitous motorway roundabouts and backstreets he took us to an obscure bus stop where we had to wait for the a shuttle bus that would take us through the tunnel under a river to Lubeck.

We at last arrived at Lubeck at last at 4pm and passed through a grand brick built north gate in the proud former capital of the Hansa. This was a proud city and its buildings reeked of civic pride, as did the election posters and grinning politicians’ faces festooning every other bus stop. We reached our hostel and though the reception was closed some guests let us in to sit in the lounge where we changed into dry clothes and waited until the owner, a wonderful slightly dotty hippy therapist, who loved to talk to all the guests and find out our stories and tell us her own. It was a friendly welcoming little hostel with a very well equipped kitchen and colourful rooms and I would thoroughly recommend it to anyone staying Lubeck (it’s also the cheapest digs in town).

Here we befriended Saskia, a recently qualified doctor who is hoping to become a plastic surgeon, she was in Lubeck for a job interview and happily chatted away to me and Iain all day. We wandered about the town with her and plagued her with questions about the ins and outs of surgery which she was only to happy to answer.

Right now Iain is cleaning the bikes, we have packed our bags and are about to head for Hamburg and enjoy the sights and sounds of a big city and maybe, just maybe, we [Iain] might be ready to party again.

The wheels on the bike buckle round and round

As the clarion clear bugle call of Iain’s high pitched enormous expulsion of gastric gas ricocheted through two closed doors (farting will play no small role in this update, apologies), around a corridor and echoed about our room inducing a general guffaw from all the denizens of room, I reflected on the mad farcical series of events that had led us to this uncomfortable early morning and vague sense of solidarity with our room-mates. How had it reached this point? How had we come in the space of under 10 hours from a pleasant yet ultimately dull few days in Vilnius to sharing a tiny bed, me with a wound to my foot and Iain with a vodka induced nasty hangover?

The short answer is, as it is all too often, Australians, but we will return to this later, let’s start at the beginning.

Our time in Vilnius began at the train station when we strolled downhill through cobbled streets and past the legions of baroque churches and ornate buildings of the old town, wading through hordes of coach trip tour groups who were clogging up all the pavements and alleyways. Vilnius old town is a prosperous and well-kept place with plenty of cafes and souvenir shops, it has the feel of many old European tourist trap-come-university towns, but it is a pleasant place and very scenic indeed.

We enjoyed an unremarkable but agreeable two days resting from cycling and dabbled in a little sight-seeing about the town (our rest days normally involve the amount of walking that people would consider mildly strenuous, we consider it rest because it’s not cycling). Unfortunately our hostel was not the social hub of activity that the previous two had been and we were in truth a little disappointed that we had not met any fellow backpackers who wanted to party (in truth we need other people to break up the madness of spending all our time together like an old married couple).

It was our last night in Vilnius and after dinner we were preparing to settle down for a quiet evening, which we thought was going to culminate with a tense match of tiny table football (see attached image for hilarious tininess of the football table). The receptionist left for the night leaving us and the guests with strict instructions to only allow in two more guests, about ten minutes after she left a scrabbling came at the main door, Iain and I opened it and in burst a bushy haired buoyant man with a strong antipodean accent and a cheerful (if clearly knackered) demeanour.

 It soon became apparent that he was not one of the two who we were told we could let in, so we felt a little sheepish at doing precisely the opposite of what had been asked of us, but he had the paperwork for and seemed harmless enough and deciding that despite appearances, Iain and I were not the bouncers we left him to his own devices (it transpired that he did in-fact have a bed there and this was merely the first of many fuck-ups on the part of the hostel staff).

His name was Sam and he was the Australian who instigated our ill-advised debauch. He invited us out to a couch surfing party in a nearby bar. Thus began a very peculiar night out, the group was a rag tag bunch of unlikely companions from all over the world (specimens ranged from a shaven headed lad from Bradford who gave off a distinct ‘brit lads on tour vibe’ to shaggy haired metal heads from Finland, or friendly moustachioed Turkish men with a piratical/70s detective look), but the most interesting and my favourite by far were Marta and Grieg, a Polish couple from Gdansk who were touring the Baltic in their car and said they were ‘shower surfing’ rather than couch-surfing. They had a great attitude to life and were very friendly, insisting that we meet up with them in Gdansk (an offer I’m hoping will work out in the next day or so).

They invited the whole group to a muddy yard where they had parked their car to share their (very good Polish Bison) Vodka and sweets (they had a sack of sweets which looked like something out of Willy Wonka’s factory, this was apparently given to them by a hitch hiker who worked as a travelling business to business sweet salesman). When a group of shady shaven headed men (there was something of the mafia, or police, or both about them) started thoroughly investigating the back of an abandoned warehouse we decided it was time to move on. Thus began a saga of a night out which was like herding cats as debates between the locals in the group raged about which bar was best to go to. This night mostly consisted of walking between bars and stopping, trying to keep the group together, I seized the opportunity to flirt with a tall dark beautiful Lithuanian girl with sharp clever eyes (unfortunately, despite my rhapsodising I have quite forgotten her name, like the git I am), that I swear were looking back into mine with flirtatious flickers…but alas it was to come to nothing as it was fast reaching 3am and Iain and I had to be up at 7am to pack-up and reach the train station to get out of Vilnius and continue our adventures. So we left and went back to the hostel, thoroughly drunk (as ever, Iain was drunker than I).

When we arrived in the room, there was a man lying on Iain’s mattress, leaving us with a small sofa bed. He explained that he had booked a bed and I think we had stolen his bed, as we were meant to be on temporary mattresses that night…but either way the hostel staff had fucked up and the room was one bed down. Fortunately we so were drunk we didn’t really mind and he was a sound enough Australian guy, so we just joked that we would cuddle up in the small bed together (which we managed to rather effectively do and actually had a decent enough night’s sleep…worringly).

Our bed problem was trifling though compared to that of yet another Australian who had arrived in the room at the same time as us to find a large bearded Latvian man asleep in her bed atop all of her stuff. Her eviction rant she rained upon this man was delivered in true Australian style; forceful yet good humoured. Iain backed her up in as chivalrous form as was possible in his drunken state, but he burst into hysterical laughter when the Latvian man said ‘I’m sorry, but it should be OK, I haven’t farted in the bed much’ to which she responded ‘oh that’s just fucking great then isn’t it, get out, go on…’. I would have assisted her myself but in the dark I had managed to slice the bottom of my foot open on a sharp and dangerous screw that was randomly sticking out of the floor, I had hopped to the bathroom to wash it in the sink and stem the bleeding with some tissue and waited for the drama to resolve itself before saying ‘Iiiian…Iiiian, get the medical kit, I’ve cut my foot open’. Iain with what can only be described as mildly pissed medical flair managed to dress the wound and seal the dressing in true building site medic style with duct tape (this is apparently de riguer with building site first aid). Duct tape has played no small part in holding things (mostly the accoutrements of Iain’s bike) together on this trip.

With the drama at last over Iain and I managed to squeeze into the tiny sofa bed and slept the sleep of drunken giants for four hours. It was this uncomfortable morning that Iain woke the whole room with his trumpet farting and we left the Aussies in peace and headed for the train station to get a short train ride out of the sprawling suburbs and industrial outskirts of Vilnuis.

Unfortunately it seems that in Vilnius our luck had at last ran out.

On the very steps of the train station Iain’s wheel had managed to buckle itself and we then had to limp over a mile to a bike shop to try and get it fixed. Luckily we already knew where the bike shop was and luckier still the mechanic said he could straighten it, but it would not be done until 2pm at the earliest. Whilst undoubtly a stroke of luck this made me very nervous as the last train that could deposit us outside Vilnius in the direction we wanted to head departed at 3pm. There was no margin for error here. We had to get of Vilnius as all the hostels and cheap hotels were fully booked and I did not fancy camping in a park. 

So as the mechanic set to work we sat on a bench watching the world go by. I whipped out my smelly foot to let the wound get some air and scab over (delightful I know, but it’s not an adventure if you don’t’ stink at least a little bit). As we sat we heard a brass band approach and some booming drums, and a parade of what seemed like the entire Polish-Lithuanian community of Vilnius barrelled past.

The bike wheel was straightened as much as possible with moments to spare we left the bike shop at 20 minutes past 2 and raced for the train station; which was an entirely uphill journey, through traffic. Iain didn’t think I had it in me to go that fast, breaking many traffic laws, over sidewalks, pedestrian crossings, through traffic lights, uphill, fully laden. We made it in the nick of time, even though we were sold the wrong ticket (we didn’t have time to fix this) I managed to get us onto the right train with about 20 seconds to spare. We had to run up stairs with fully laden touring bikes, hoist them at least four vertical feet onto a train. When we succeeded in this stressful endeavour we finally collapsed onto the seats panting, I said to Iain, ‘your fucking bike, Iain, your fucking bike…’ Iain responded with laughter still high on the adrenaline of the race to the station, I went on ‘it’s like there has been a cable tie around my heart all day which is only now being slowly released.’

Then ticket inspectors came. Miraculously, unlike British trains, she didn’t mind we had the wrong ticket. However in the process of communicating what we wanted a crowd of the entire carriage and two ticket inspectors surrounded us, as I tried to explain that I know we were on the right train but our ticket was going to the wrong place. Pleasantly for minor officials they were mostly worried we were on the wrong train, rather than trying to make us pay for anything.

From the peripheral town of Varena we set out for our first night of wild camping. We pitched up in some woods just off the road, but our mild tick phobia meant that we dosed ourselves in DEET and sealed ourselves in our tent after eating dinner.

On the next day we began the first of several days moving through the top corner of Europe’s biggest forest, with sandy soil and endless pine trees lining the roads. We passed Gruttas Park, a bizarre themepark/soviet occupation memorial, which is a gathering of all of the old soviet statues of Stalin, Lenin and friends that were torn down at the end of the USSR. It is bizarre that these ideological leviathans and tyrants have been reduced to kitsch photo opportunities, but it is perhaps the best place for them.

Our second wild-camping location was slightly forced upon us because Iain’s bike had began making a mysterious new ticking noise. As he grew quiet and concerned I said ‘look, we’re by a lovely spot, let’s just stop here, you try and find out what’s wrong with your bike’. It transpired that his chain had broken (which he wants to emphasise is one of the newest things on the bike). He fixed it easily enough as I sat and relaxed looking at the maps, phoning my parents and saw a gargantuan tick, which vindicated our fears and justified our trousers tucked into socks paranoia.

The next day we hit the Polish border, leaving Lithuania behind and threading through through an incredible isolated stretch of forest where our voices echoed for miles (I used this chance to make a load of silly noises). The road here was bumpy to say the least and I glanced back constantly with fear at Iain sat on his bike, which for the purposes of even LIGHT off-roading is essentially made of glass (smug quote from Iain; ‘still though, it made it, fuck you Ryan [Iain’s brother]’).

The weather had taken a turn for the better and we finally broke out our shorts. It had maybe even gotten too hot with highs of 37˚C, it was sharp contrast to Estonia, with us now taking shelter in the shade and enjoying any breeze we can get, instead of shivering in bus shelters.

The polish countryside is beautiful; rolling hills with rich fertile farmland and huge deep clean clear lakes. 60% of the road surface is the stuff of cycling dreams, with just the right mixture of uphill and downhill to challenge a cyclist and stop you getting steppe syndrome. However, 40% is hellish bumpy dirt/potholed roads that slow you down to a snail’s pace and feel like a punishment for some sin committed in a past life. Though for the record, Polish drivers are, contrary to what we were told in Lithuania, very good and quite respectful of cyclists (thus far).

When we found all the campsites were shut at our destination village, we took an executive decision and hopped a five foot high fence (fortunately we’re easily tall enough to pass bikes over this) and just pitch up. Our philosophy was based on an Irish saying I’ve picked up; ‘better to apologise, than always be asking for permission’. Using this adage we pitched up in whatever campsites we saw whenever we could, whether they were open or not (and we have to date gotten away with it). Our only real need is a working tap (which we consider a luxury anyway).

The days passed into a blur, we were moving fast and most notably we did a herculean effort one day, hitting the 141 kilometre mark (88miles in old money), though we were averaging at least 80-100km a day. For anyone who thinks we’re having too much fun, what we are doing is not easy and involves a lot of hard work and determination.

Our second to last day on the road was meant to be an easy day… but for the first time on the trip my navigation got us lost in the fairy-tale magic swamp kingdom around the estuary of Elblag. We were endlessly looping round identical potholed roads which gradually tapered off to dirt tracks through a featureless flat marshy landscape. The map scale made any decent navigation impossible especially with road signs that seemed to point 10k to the mystery town of Marcienco at every junction. They did this no matter which river we crossed, where we were or which direction we were pointed.  At the point where had done 20 unnecessary kilometres I exclaimed, ‘ok that’s enough pissing about, fuck this, we’re going on the motorway’.

And so at half past five running on fumes (we hadn’t eaten since breakfast) and willpower alone we hit the main road between Warsaw and Gdansk.  We cycled into the abyss, heading towards gigantic black stormclouds on the hard shoulder of a very busy motorway with lightning streaking the sky and being dosed by the ominous light rain which comes before a downpour with the smell of a storm in the air, cycling into a 20mph head wind. I was constantly swearing at the weather as I cycled machine- like with my legs screaming in pain and my body wanting to give up. We were both out of water (and “emergency” haribo)… things looked bleak, though there was no alternative but to keep going. Iain was bitten by a gigantic orange and black fly, this didn’t even slow him down, he just sucked the wound dry and kept pedalling, not telling me this till the next day. Our only glimmer of hope was a  McDonalds bill board that promised us respite in 12km. They were the longest 12km I have ever had to do.

Upon reaching the McDonalds the heavens opened (Iain wants to emphasise that the heavens REALLY opened, think monsoon).  We were damned lucky that we narrowly avoided being in this. We sat surrounded by young teens, as we reeked like giant cycling trolls and wolfed down a big mac meal and 30 chicken nuggets each (Iain had intended to by us 12 chicken nuggets each, however he bought 60 in total, due to communication problems…we managed to eat them all though). As we sat contemplating life, we agreed that this was the point where we wished we could bawl like infants and someone would come and rescue us. That was not going to happen, so we used McDonald’s wifi to find a nearby hotel, and amazingly they was one only 500 yards away which cost us the princely sum of £35 for the two of us, including an excellent continental breakfast, that filled a table for four. So salvation in the storm was found. This day was meant to have been an “easy” day. It almost destroyed us.

The next day actually was an easy day, with only a 50km ride to do to Gdansk we managed to fit in a visit to Stutthof concentration camp (at our first planning meeting, after asking whether we going to be eaten by bears, the second question Iain asked was if we could visit a concentration camp). This was as you can expect a moving and fittingly uncomfortable experience. I was mostly struck by the feeling of being a ghost from the future haunting the spectres of a cruel history as I strode around the preserved remnants of this sight of horrors as 2metres of broad well-fed Englishman clothed in high-vis synthetic cycling attire. I have always found the images of the ovens and gas chambers I have seen in history text books particularly revolting and they proved no less disgusting to witness in the flesh. Though what was perhaps strangest of all was the banality of the place, its ordinariness, the paperwork records, and the efficiency of the whole unpalatable affair. I am sure I say nothing new that this place even half a century on fills one with a quiet rage and a deep sadness. Both Iain and I agreed though that it was peculiar that this place had so obviously been preserved, painstakingly maintained, rebuilt in places and even freshly sanded and varnished. I would have left it to rot, letting the ruins be a stark reminder, but I’m sure what to do with the history of the holocaust has been better discussed elsewhere by better authors than I.

Leaving the concentration camp behind and racing on only served to highlight its sickening unusualness in history as we reflected on the road that our generation is the first to be able to travel so freely through this part of the world since the 1900s. We raced along the flat lands on smooth roads to Gdansk, enjoying a ferry ride over a broad fast flowing river and not enjoying a harrowing ride along motorways through the industrial outskirts into the heart of the old city of Gdansk. We collapsed into our hostel sleeping for 12 hours solidly after washing all of our stinking clothes and wolfing down the last of our camping food supplies, which I boiled in one big pot (there was sausage that had been the bag for several days so I wanted to kill anything that might have been living in it).

We are now about to head out to a gig with our friends Marta and Grieg and our Canadian room-mate to sample Gdansk's nightlife.

Pedals off the Metal. [and on the floor].

Iain has been nagging me to write this entry for some time, I can only apologise for its tardiness, but when you are spending you days either cycling 70miles, searching out places to stay in obscure Lithuanian towns, deciphering foreign rail schedules, planning routes according to weather patterns, traipsing around exotic cities sourcing bike parts and lastly being a tourist and backpacker and actually enjoying yourself, things like the blog can get rather left by the wayside. As I pointed out in a jocular manner to Iain, is it not enough you have your own privately organised cycling tour of northern and eastern Europe, you demand a diary to kept as well?!

But as it is I have a spare moment as Iain is napping with his face in what looks like a very uncomfortable position on the train from Sialuai to Vilnuis. Yes we are on a train, but for those of you accusing us of cheating (I for one was always rather transparent about my intention to take the train for this stretch, which is what I said when Iain made a pensive face over the matter, when that didn’t do I had to say ‘OK well let’s put it like this, I’m taking the train, you’re free to cycle to Vilnuis and I’ll meet you there’) we are only taking the train to GET FURTHER AWAY from our course home (also Vilnuis looks nice), look it up on the map if you must…

Right, now to business, I believe I left the story in Parnu. When I had finished the last entry in Parnu, Parnu had not yet finished with us.

The hostel had a distinctly creepy vibe, as we’ve established, so I did my best to avoid talking to any of the other guest [inmates]. However, there were times when we had to use the tiny Kitchen which forced  unwanted friendly proximity with distinctly unfriendly and peculiar individuals. For example there was a tiny old old old man who was entirely bald and had something of the insane hermit about him (he was actually fairly harmless and quite polite so this feels unfair…but still he was an odd fellow), who upon seeing me cook sausages in a pan became agitated and spontaneously erupted into fits of ‘no no no’ (or some other such outburst) and immediately produced a bottle of what I presumed (and I hoped) was cooking oil proceeding to drench my frying sausage in obscene volumes of the stuff, before scuttling off with satisfied demeanour of one who had done a great public service.

Though, one happy time upon entering this kitchen of bizarreness I encountered a young man who started talking to me in fluent English with a strong Canadian accent, despite purporting to be German. This was Max, who was a friendly man, quick to laugh and spread good cheer. However the madness of the hostel wouldn’t quite let us be, the belly laughs of the young had disturbed the small birdlike woman who sat close to the old TV watching a bizarre menagerie of programmes. She intermittently interrupted our conversation with statements such as ‘in the jungle the great apes, make big noise at each other, only way they can get noticed’ when we politely tried to continue conversation (I thought she was probably just lonely and wanted to join in, and I’m sure Max, who seemed a decent sort of chap thought the same) we were met with another surreal statement ‘Estonia has its first satellite this year, I am not Estonian but (bangs chest)’ and upon this patriotic claim she left us.

Max was travelling around the Baltic with his Canadian friend Sam (they had met studying in Vancouver, hence his accent) who was a fashion design student on Erasmus in Helsinki. The two of them made pleasant companions to break from the grim loneliness and surreality of the hostel. They told us of how they had been couch surfing and expounded on the virtues of the website/club, they were planning to meet with two Estonian girls later they had met on the website. We joined them as which took us to ‘Sweet Rosie’ (yet another Irish bar). Sweet Rosie definitely had the craic in spades, with a live band singing old Irish/British folk songs there was lively feel to the place which seemed to be a favourite watering hole for the locals, as the pub was packed out.

The two Estonian girls, were final year high school students from the back of beyond outside of Parnu who wanted to travel. One in particular wanted to see more of turkey, which she felt an especial affinity for (waving her arms in the air and shouting ‘Turkey! Turkey! Turkey!’ with some gusto). They were bubbly and affable girls, which seemed to make a direct contrast to the dour faces and general unfriendliness of most Estonians we had met. Drinks flowed, laughs were had (mainly at the unfortunate expense of the drunkest woman in Parnu, who was dancing to the music with almost endless stamina, despite falling down several times, managed to wrestle Max up for a somewhat erotic slow dance, hilarity ensued). One of the girls seemed to take a shining to Iain, loving his peculiarly British turn of phrase ‘bloody’, alas though it was not meant to be. So we went to bed pleased to be staying in a hostel, no matter how mad, as the night temperatures hit -3.

We cycled out of Parnu on a sunny morning with the wind at our backs and prepared to blast down the coast to Riga. We did an easy 110 Kilometres to Tuja in Latvia along “motorways” which in England would barely pass as a busy road, yet were paved like a cyclists dream and let us fly.

Upon crossing the border to Latvia I was immediately ‘attacked’ by a small dog which I had missed until it was within snapping distance of my feet, between this and the potholes (which amusingly begin at the instant you cross the border into Latvia, where evidently the road tax is significantly lower than Estonia) I was madly swerving, Iain was in fits of laughter, and to add insult to injury, the dog left him alone entirely and he escaped unscathed.

The landscape was becoming less boggy, however the countless horde of trees marched on relentlessly. The buildings were gradually becoming less dilapidated and the villages we passed through looked more well kept. The only architecture of any note though were a few giant chairs which sat impressively at about 20 foot high by the side of the road, presumably advertising for a furniture manufacturer or something more obscure.

We finally ran out of steam by about 6 o’clock and headed to a campsite on the coast at Tuja. We were the first campers of the season (and the only ones mad enough to be in a tent when the nights were predicted to be hitting -2). It was probably amongst the most beautiful views I have ever enjoyed from inside a tent, staring out at the sun tumbling down in the west to the mirror smooth millpond of the Baltic.

The next morning the wind had picked up and though we were still on the smooth roads (and intermittent cyclepaths) and had only 74km to do the head winds made it a damn hard days riding to Riga.

Just outside the suburbs of Riga Iain’s pedal fell off. The whole situation was resolved with some surprising calmness. I turned to Iain to see why he had slowed, when he declared ‘Tom, my pedal has fallen off’…’What?’ said I (we were in heavy traffic with winds so I assumed I must have misheard him) ‘My pedal has come off. I’m going to head over there (pointing to a bus stop), can you go and pick it up?’…’Oh I see.’ So off I plodded along the slim hard shoulder to pick up Iain’s escapee pedal as cars thundered by. To cut a long story short, the bearings were shot and it had spat out a load of its crucial metal balls. Iain filled the sorry pedal with WD40 and got it into a semblance of working order as we limped on into Riga in rush hour.  (There was however for half of this a nice cyclepath running parallel to a tram construction project, Iain, in his professional capacity as a builder, was gobsmacked by the somewhat lackadaisical attitude to health and safety around the dubiously fenced off construction site, especially a worker lighting up a cigarette next to what appeared to be a main gas pipe.)

After the plush suburbs there are endless run down soviet apartment blocks which desperately need some TLC and the outskirts of the city smacked of poverty, but the more we headed into Riga the more it became apparent that this was a “proper” city, it was big with the atmosphere of busy metropolis. Broad streets swept off in a grid of grandiose and charming Art Nouveau buildings.  

We soldiered on into the old town, and  our hostel for two days ‘the naughty squirrel’ which was a similar establishment to the monks bunk; youthful, fun, lively and friendly. After showering we were directed to a Latvian food buffet where we scoffed our fill on potatoes and meat (I also had a salad, Iain just had two portions of meat). Iain insisted we ate here both nights as this food didn’t give him the shits.

As ever we made some friends. My favourite of these was (I’m tempted by the clichéd prefix ‘spunky’, which, whilst clichéd is none-the-less true in this instance) Spanish/Philipino girl who was studying in Warsaw. She was in Riga to see some of the Baltic on her holidays. She went by the name of Flor and was a pintsized powerful package of good cheer and bon homie, and was quite frankly just cool with a streetwise attitude that I couldn’t help be quite impressed by. We stayed happily chatting and drinking in the hostel bar until a boisterous gang of Portuguese lads and a (I’ll paraphrase Iain here) ‘really fucking fit’ (she was) Belgian girl decided it was time to head out. We joined the party, but at 2:30am Flor and I decided we were pooped and headed back to hostel. Iain was adamant that he wanted to continue partying, I thought that the Portuguese lads were clearly in the mood for being drunken idiots and I had no interest in seeing out whatever debaucheries they had planned. So Iain went out out ‘out’ with them, I was worried that if anything went wrong his mother would never forgive me for leaving him alone, but I decided he’s a grown man and can surely make his own decisions. I for one had a very pleasant “early” sleep.

The next morning we were sleeping in, like everybody else in the dorm, except for a Spanish man who had been continually snoozing his alarm for an hour, until the Australian on the bunk above him snapped; ‘Mate are you getting up, or are you just fucking trying to piss me off?!’ and suddenly we heard a load of ‘sorry, sorry, sorry’ from the Spanish man as he scurried around turning off his alarm. If only this had been the end of the episode, later whilst the Spanish man had slunk out to the shower a girl came knocking at the door asking for him, the Australian declared to the room at large ‘great even when he’s not here he’s fucking waking me up.’

Unfortunately we had to miss the walking tour of the town and taking in the culture and history because we had the important business of sourcing an old british imperial-threaded pedal for Iain’s bike; a task which we were somewhat concerned about, to say the least. We were directed by the hostel staff to the Velo Depo in the north of the city. This proved an interesting enough excursion in and of itself. Threading our way through the busy foot traffic of Riga we headed down the broad bustling boulevards of which make a delightful contrast from the tumbling quiet warren of the old town, to an inauspicious warehouse opposite the main police station.

Housed inside is the most amazing bike shop we have ever seen. Hundreds of bikes are piled up as a busy crew of mechanics quietly and competently fix up all manner of bikes. There were a steady stream of customers wheeling in their rides and the proprietor is an exuberant man who evidently really loves old bikes, he speaks a little English and showed us his collection proudly. As to the pedal, despite Iain and myself being slightly panicky that they wouldn’t have imperial-threaded old British pedals there was an entire drawer packed chock full of British pedals from the old pre-metric days.  These were promptly replaced for the bargain price of £8 including all the work. The mechanics were rather taken by Iain’s bike and stopped working to admire the fine machine that it is.

 Iain also seized this opportunity to replace his panniers, which he had received for free from my father (who said they were shit at the time) and had fallen apart and were held on with duct tape and bunjees. His new panniers were a rather snazzy waterproof set of saddle bags he picked up for the princely sum of £12. He bodged this onto his rack with the aid of our hostel owner, a buoyant Australian man with endless enthusiasm for just doing stuff. So now sat on the back on Iain’s rack is a two foot long piece of ply, which was attached by means of the Aussie’s power-drill and some screws through the old rack. Working with wood and screws Iain was in his element.  

During Iain’s foray into bodged rack mechanics I was busy trying to figure out where the fuck we were going next and how in hell we were going to get there.  Vilnius by way of Sialiau was the answer, but, bank holiday weekend had struck and there was nary a bed to be had in any decent hostels. This induced a mild panic in my previously laissez faire attitude to accommodation.

I had overheard our room-mates, the two most Canadian men alive, [eh?] were also facing a similar dilemma. Thus began a subtle and deadly race for the last beds in Vilnius, that were not in a hostel which was described on trip advisor as one smelling of poo. With Iain providing unwitting aid in the form of pleasant conversation to distract the Canadians victory was certain as I raced through the bookings online, I felt guilty because they were very nice lads, but mostly relief that we had somewhere to stay.

After this frantic episode was over, Iain and I could finally relax and meander around the town. The old town is a labyrinthine collection of Hanseatic medieval architecture interspersed with Russian baroque colonial influence, but mostly it is Art Nouveau which shines through, every other building has elaborate and intricate corbelling and friezes lending their facades a sense of Arcadian detail. I climbed the tower of the highest church (and paid £5 for the privilege) and took in the breath-taking vistas of the flat plains of the Baltic lowlands and the urban sprawl of Riga. Iain didn’t think this was worth £5 and watched a cat take shit, ‘which was priceless’.

The next day we started pedalling for Sialaulai, with the wind at our backs we blasted down more of the apparent “motorways” of Latvia/Lithuania. For the record, as soon as you cross the border into Lithuania the roads become almost instantly better than in Latvia, where the road maintenance is clearly a low priority. We were setting a record pace (our own record, but still…) as we raced on the arrow straight roads for 70miles. However, dreaded steppe syndrome began to set in, as the repetitive terrain combined with large scale of our maps made it feel like we were going nowhere. It didn’t help that we had set our sights on the oddly elusive (and badly sign-posted) hill of crosses which always seemed like it should have been just over the next “hill” [slight incline], but we never quite reached it and must have unfortunately flown past it.

We reached Siaulalai and collapsed into bed in an exceptionally cheap hostel based in a university dorm, the caretaker didn’t speak a word of English (and beyond my Ps and Qs I haven’t mastered Lithuanian), but it didn’t stop her talking to us and we roughly managed to communicate what we were after with hand gestures.  Iain befriended some Turkish students who were at the university to improve their English of all things! He valiantly tried to go a bar with them but had to return exhausted when his legs were giving up on the dance floor (might have had something to do with 100 odd kilometres we had cycled…) despite the fact that the bar was full of six foot tall beautiful blonde women (or so he reports).

We were up at the crack of 8am next day to head to the train station and that is where I leave you for now. By now I am already in Vilnuis, but we’ll leave our adventures here to the next post.

Estonia. Land of trees, bogs and sometimes trees and bogs.

Our adventure began at 5am on Monday the 22nd of April, when Iain and I had somehow managed to trick and cajole our respective parents into driving us to Gatwick Airport. I have a sneaking suspicion that both our fathers would have liked to have come on the trip, especially Iain’s dad Nigel, who took an interest in bike maintenance and our gear which bordered on obsession. Though, his help was invaluable none-the-less. I myself feel a deep debt of gratitude that I’m sure I was far to English to express towards my own parents for all their help towards beginning this trip, and Iain does to his.

We effectively scammed our overweight luggage onto the plane by carrying massive hand luggage and writing a weight on the bike boxes which was a good kilogram less than they actually were.

After a rather uneventful flight, where we ended up sitting next to a member of the tourist board who said to us that we’ll probably get bored if we stay in the town for more than two days (I am rather curious how she is still in a job), we were sat on the floor of Tallinn airport (the world’s cosiest airport should you be at all interested in the cosiness of international airports) assembling our bikes. I for one was about the most stressed I have ever been in my life during this process (thus far). It is probably a disappointment for you, dear reader, that absolutely nothing bad happened whatsoever; it all went perfectly to plan. Despite this we were still very stressed, we didn’t say anything but it showed; conversation and our demeanours were tense. As we rolled the loaded bikes out of the airport gates Iain declared ‘that if anything, it’s all gone rather too well’ I agreed something bad was going to have to happen to make up for this.

We walked into town following the major motorway, initially it resembled the outskirts of any modern conurbation anywhere in the world. Retail parks, petrol stations and concrete overpasses. Gradually though a sense of place began to emerge; ramshackle wooden buildings with a distinctly Eastern European feel to them, trams and peculiar Estonian shops proliferated. Whilst I rhapsodised about one such rustic wooden building, Iain remained doggedly unimpressed, declaring ‘it’s a shit-hole, and should have been painted about 14 years ago’.

We pressed on into the medieval heart of Tallinn and our hostel the Monk’s Bunk, which sat above a hookah bar and next to a sex shop. It was a great friendly little place ran by a motely crew of Aussies, Americans, Brazilians, Belgians, Britons and of course Estonians.  

I ended up eating a fittingly Baltic meal of herring, dill, sour cream and potatoes (Iain had a burger) in the rather unfitting surroundings of an Irish pub; ‘The Dubliner’, which was of the type of ubiquitous ‘pub’ establishment which proliferated further than the Irish diaspora ever managed to do. It was however delightfully cheap and satisfyingly generous with the portions and really as hungry large lads, what more can you ask for?

We took in the sights of Tallinn which is a small town on a walking tour lead by a beautiful (by and large all the women in Tallinn are beautiful and well dressed) blonde and rather bouncy (in the least euphemistic sense) tour guide. The subject matter of the tour seemed to largely revolve around the various subjugations of the Estonians over the years by foreign powers. Be they the Danes, Crusading [land grabbing] Teutonic Knights, German Merchants, Swedish and Russian Imperial Armies and lastly the terrible occupations by the Soviets the Nazis and the Soviets again. She seemed to glance over the rather charming architectures that these various invaders left behind (with the obvious exception of the Soviets and Nazis who managed to destroy swathes of the town through various exercises with high explosives and bombings). I remember mostly the fairy tale gothic spires and narrow cobbled streets brought to the town by the Hansa. Estonia though, despite having a history many thousands of years old, is a young country and they are understandably pleased with their current 21 years of independence. They do however hold their recently erected freedom monument with contempt, viewing it as an expensive and largely meaningless piece of nation building, which I feel is the requisite amount of self-loathing to be considered a self-confident nation. (Iain thought it was a fancy shaped rock that had been double glazed).

That night we saw to the proper business of being a Northern European and being in Tallinn; getting drunk. The hostel staff were relaxing with us in the common room as we were the only remaining guests along with our French roommate, Xavier. We ended up sinking several (very good value) strong ciders and beers before heading out to an open mic night in another more bustling hostel. The climax of this evening was a booming cockney accented man taking the stage and singing a raucous rendition of the Proclaimers’ ‘I would walk 500 miles’ and the entire bar joining in.

Needless to say we were very hungover the next day. This was meant to be our first day cycling. It was not a successful day. After languishing around until about 11am we finally packed our bags and hit the road at about 2pm. This was much to amusement of the hostel staff who were cajoling us to stay another night, but we demurred deciding that if we did not leave now we never would.  But as we rounded the corner heading for the edge of town I turned to Iain and said ‘are you scared’, he replied ‘yes’, I said ‘good, because I’m fucking terrified’.

Escaping from Tallinn proved to be a harrowing ride on pavements and cyclepaths next to thrumming and endless heavy traffic. Upon our eventual escape to the west we hit a lovely cyclepath and enjoyed glorious sunshine but had to endure brutal and relentless freezing headwinds, which made it feel like we were moving through treacle and the gusts were like being hit by a hammer. We reached the perfect campsite by 5pm and though we were barely 10 miles out of Tallinn we called it a day and pitched camp.

It was very cold camping, everyone had told us it was too cold to camp, we laughed and declared that mad dogs and Englishmen fear no discomfort. Turns out we didn’t enjoy it much despite the perfect locale and elected to press on to a town to stay in a hostel on the next day rather than camp.

So we did a solid 60 miles, again into the wind, but our limbs were not full of the ache of our hangovers and so it was not a too painful ride to Haapsalu, where we stayed in a very well kept hostel above a bowling alley, unfortunately as a plot device there was nothing amusing that resulted from being above a bowling alley. I could make up a funny bowling related anecdote but that would be a lie. The most striking feature of Haapsalu is its grandiose episcopal castle which looks like it has leapt straight out of a fairy tale, especially with a full golden harvest moon hanging over the marshes and bogs of Estonia’s flat lands. But for all its impressive battlements and towers I was most taken by its brilliant play-park.

We left Haapsalu in the late morning, aiming for the seaside town of Parnu, almost as soon as we mounted our bikes it began to rain. It rained, it rained and then it rained some more. It was cold rain, it was cruel rain, it was fucking bastard shite rain, we were soon soaked through and despite all our layers we were bitterly cold. We were riding through what can only be politely described as the arse end of fucking nowhere, there was no shelter, if we stopped pushing our heavy bikes even for a moment we would probably die of exposure. It was hard. It was miserable. Our only brief respite came in the form of a petrol station were we used the hand drier on our sorry chilled bones to try and gain some warmth and life back and we wolfed down without question a dubious petrol station Kebab. This was at the half way point. I remember little else of the next 35 miles other than the fact it was wet, cold and hard. There were no opt out points until we reached Parnu. If we camped we were so wet and so cold we would probably have died.

We finally reached Parnu as triumphant yet shivering wretches at about 7 O’Clock. We found a hostel and peeled off our soaking layers and enjoyed the central heating soft warm beds. Mostly though we were happy to be indoors, we would have paid to sit in a bare room, let alone a dorm. It did however become increasingly noticeable that this hostel had a distinct ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s’ nest vibe. With broad dark corridors and solid doors, a strange and almost bizarrely elderly clientele, a sad solitary chair sat in front of an old fashioned cathode ray tube TV playing operatic music in the common room and other than this noise a deathly silence hostel made the place feel a bit like a “special” kind of hostel.

Parnu itself is much like the other towns we have passed though in Estonia, a charming old town surrounded by grim and thoroughly dilapidated soviet block architecture. Outside of the centres the buildings look like they’re crumbling back into the sad past of the 1970s.

In the back country there are a few farm houses which all have gigantic and vociferously loud barking wolf dogs acting as sentinels (the barking of dogs is how I think I will remember the back country of Estonia), brutal and again grim soviet crumbling factory structures, and burnt out ruins, but mostly there are endless trees and even more endless bogs. (Iain and I cannot decide if there if there more bogs or more trees, and confuse matters, to quote Iain ‘to be fair sometimes there are bogs and there are trees’)

This is our last night in Estonia, so  what can I say of the country I have experienced? I could try reducing it to a series of nouns; cold, flat, forested, boggy, charming old towns and sad suburbs full of unfriendly people who are slow to even acknowledge the presence of another human being. The country of Estonia seems to sit in a direct contrast to Tallinn which is a thriving metropolis, full of young friendly faces, beautiful women and trendy bars. There is life in Tallinn, the rest of Estonia seems a little sad by comparison.