14th May to 12th June 2022

It’s been a while since we finished this trip, and we never got round to writing a blog post so I’ve put together all our social media posts so it’s all here together in one place.
The original plan had been for Marcus to run while I carried all our kit on my bike, but a stress fracture meant that running was no longer an option so we decided to both cycle and take our packrafts so that we could paddle some of the wet bits. We decided to stick with much the same route that I had originally planned to ride which took in almost every steep hill between Land’s End and John O’Groats, but it was scenic!
We were very pleased with a total of £1760 raised for the fantastic charity WaterAid.
If you want to follow us we’re now on instagram @shesnotpedallingontheback

Day 1 – 14 May, 2022

And we’re off!
With a 1400 mile journey ahead of us, the first pedal strokes have been taken. Rolling away from a sunny Lands End it feels great to finally be on our way.
You can keep track of our progress on our website here https://boglejog.uk/where-are-we/ with an update at the end of each day.
(There’s the link for donations for Wateraid on there too. 😉).
Time for more pedalling and a pasty I think!

Day 2 – May 15, 2022

A tent with a view this morning

#decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraid #lejog2022

Day 3 – May 16, 2022

The only flat bits in Cornwall are the beaches!

#engagelowgearnow #winchingup #grannygear #niceview #kernow #cornishhills #cycletouring #lejog2022 #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 3 – May 17, 2022

Yesterday morning, after several cups of tea we couldn’t put off leaving our amazing hosts Sue and Dusty any longer and ventured out into the pouring rain.
Luckily it didn’t last long and we rolled down into Padstow to find our planned paddle across the estuary scuppered by a fast flowing, outbound tide.
A new plan took us onto the beautiful Camel Trail (no hills!!) past bluebells and wild garlic aplenty.
Then to finish we climbed up onto the rugged expanse of Bodmin moor. A world away from the busy coast roads.

#soggycycling #changeofplan #cameltrail #bodminmoor #kernow #cycletouring #lejog2022 #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 4 – May 17, 2022

While we cooked dinner in some woods last night an intrigued dog walker asked what we were up to. We explained and handed her a card with our website details. This morning we woke up to a new donation and the following message:
“So pleased to have met you this evening in Wilsey Woods near Camelford. Good luck with your onward journey and fundraising. Such a worthwhile (essential) cause!”
Thanks Georgy! Don’t forget you can find the link to donate on our website BogLEJOG.uk
Once on the road we were blown out of Cornwall and into Devon with a handy following wind. Arriving at Bideford we took to the Tarka Trail to finish by the sea for the last time before we get to Scotland. We’ll miss the sound of the waves and that sea air!

#generousstranger #wildcamping #nosuchthingasatailwind #byebyekernow #devonia #tarkatrail #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 5 – May 19, 2022

Old railway lines make for excellent cycle trails. The Tarka Trail was the third of our trip so far and gave us a beautiful morning ride into Barnstaple.
The debate continues as to how to make a cream tea. Kirsty swears by the Cornish way but I always go with the superior Devon method.
The main task of the day was to tackle Exmoor. Long, steep climbs but epic views at the top.
After being sunburnt in the morning the afternoon turned wet, very wet. Luckily we found shelter at the end of the day in time for an interview with BBC Hereford and Worcester.
41 minutes in on this show:
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0c3fyq0

Day 6 pt.1 – May 20, 2022

The big hills were behind us but we still had to get off Exmoor which meant a glorious decent on narrow, gravelly roads towards Taunton.
Crossing the M5 marked our arrival at the Somerset levels which felt a complete contrast to the saw toothed profile of the previous few days.
A cattle jam gave us time for a break before we made our way to the banks of the King’s Sedgemoor Drain.

#exmoor #downdowndown #somerset #quantocks #cattlecrossing #cycletouring #lejog2022 #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 6 pt.2 – May 20, 2022

Finally a chance to paddle!
Boats inflated, bikes loaded then a tricky entry into the King’s Sedgemoor Drain (more scenic than it sounds).
The cows on the riverbank were even more curious about us than the ones on the road. We had them galloping alongside for a while.
For almost the entire stretch we followed a flock/gaggle/serene of about 20 swans until we got too close and they all flew straight at us. Ducks and geese weren’t so bothered.
Such a peaceful way to end the day.

#packrafting #bikerafting #kingssedgemoordrain #somersetlevels #collectivenounforswans? #Peaceful #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 7 – May 21, 2022

On the Isle of Avalon, Glastonbury Tor can be seen for miles around. A hike to the top gave us great views over the Somerset levels with the Mendips beyond.
Long straight roads then took us to Wells before it was time to climb again. There are several routes up onto the Mendips and Ebbor Gorge is one of the harder options. Lugging a bottle of wine for our hosts didn’t help either!

#glastonburytor #somersetlevels #wellscathedral #ebborgorge #mightymendips #cycletouring #lejog2022 #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 8 – May 23, 2022

We’d planned our departure from Lands End to be able to arrive in the Chew Valley in time for a long awaited wedding on Saturday.
So cycling kit was swapped for glad rags for a superb weekend of celebrating and dancing. Such a contrast from the previous few days on the road and great to catch up with old friends.
There was still time to squeeze in a parkrun at Clevedon just to keep the legs moving. Thanks to our wonderful hosts Alex, Suzanne and Effie and their very refreshing pool too!

#happycouple #happyfamily #offthebike #parkrun #parkrunday #cycletouring #lejog2022 #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 9 – May 23, 2022

As James Brown was fond of saying “Take it to the bridge”!
We waved goodbye to the wedding party and said hello to a few more friends as we pedalled through the familiar streets of Bristol.
It’s always fun to cross the Clifton Suspension Bridge then we were out towards the River Severn to cross the Severn Bridge into Wales. But it was only a short stay before we took the Bridge over the River Wye back into Gloucestershire to find a place to camp before we head up the Wye Valley.
In the tent we were treated to the sounds of the Vengaboys playing ljve at Chepstow racecourse about 3 miles away. The perfect lullaby (!)

#bridgecrossing #brunelsmasterpiece #lovebristol #crosstowales #woahweregoingtoibiza #cycletouring #lejog2022 #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 10 – May 24, 2022

With an annoying ear worm about going to Ibiza yesterday we dropped onto the Wye Valley Greenway to see Tintern Abbey from a new angle.
The road down the Wye valley is one of our favourites: smooth and scenic.
After paying homage to Rockfield Studios and belting out renditions of Bohemian Rhapsody and Wonderwall (both recorded there) the road took us to Whitecastle.
Along the way we stopped at an ancient stone trough to find it had the inscription “Dwfr Yn Rhydd I Bawp” which means “Free Water for All”. It seems even in 1880 people realised how important it is for everyone to have access to clean water. Hopefully our trip will help WaterAid get a little bit closer to that goal.
The day ended at Llanthony Priory at the foot of one of Wales’s all time classic climbs. As the clouds closed in and rain began to fall we decided to save that challenge for the next day.

#cyrmu #tinternabbey #wyevalley #willyoudothefandango #llantonypriory #whitecastle #freewaterforall #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 11 – May 25, 2022

When we woke up in the morning the hill was still there but the rain had stopped. A couple of steep ramps took us up to the Gospel Pass, the highest paved road in Wales. There were even a few flakes of snow at the top.
An amazing descent with fantastic views dropped us into Hay on Wye where we inflated the boats and took to the water again.
Back on the bikes at Whitney, and a few bonus hills later we found a great wild camp for the night.

#wateraid #finishthirst #gospelpass

Our progress so far:
Cornwall ✅
Devon✅
Somerset✅
Gloucestershire✅
Monmouthshire✅
Herefordshire✅
Radnorshire✅
Shropshire✅
🚲🚲🚣🚣‍♀️⛺
https://boglejog.uk/where-are-we/

Day 12 – May 26, 2022

We climbed the last few hills in Wales before crossing into Shropshire where things weren’t much flatter but a useful tailwind helped us along.
Just after The Bog (yes this is a real place), we winched up and over the Long Mynd with some impromptu sheep herding along the way! 🐑
Then it was down to Ironbridge where we loaded Marcus up with several kilos of food before the steep climb out of Coalport. All good training!
At the end of the day we set up camp with a nagging feeling that something was missing. It was our lock, still lying a field 106km away near Presteigne 😓
Marcus had another call with BBC Hereford & Worcester last night and you can listen to his interview here at 1hr 40mins.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0c4rkjr

#wateraid #finishthirst #lejog2022 #longmynd #bbcherefordandworcester #lostlock #decenttoiletsforall #thebog

Day 13 – May 27, 2022

We spotted this old CTC sign on a hotel in Brewood. These were to signify that an establishment offered facilities for cyclists. I’m not sure whether the fancy hotel could have competed with the doggers’ car park we just slept in – it had a picnic table!
After a quick stop in Penkridge to buy some cleaning cloths and use the leisure centre showers, we headed up to Cannock Chase with clean chains and clean bodies.
Marcus resisted the temptation to do a test run on the Commonwealth Games mountain bike race course.
Dropping down the other side, we were soon entering our 10th county of the trip, Derbyshire. A quick stop in Ashbourne to pick up a replacement lock and the start of the Tissington Trail.
The heavens opened to give us a good drenching for the last hour of riding.

#wateraid #finishthirst #cannockchase #tissingtontrail #peakdistrict

Day 14 – May 28, 2022

We rolled into Tissington yesterday to discover they have a tradition of ‘Well Dressing’ that takes place on Ascension Day each year. Each of the 6 wells are decorated with amazing designs all made from natural materials like petals, stones, feathers and fur.
When is Ascension Day? Turns out it was yesterday so we got to take a look at the wells this morning.
It’s great to see water sources being celebrated for being the life saving resources that we all need. Luckily Derbyshire is not short of spring or two but 1:10 people in the world aren’t so fortunate. We’re using our journey to help WaterAid provide clean water, decent toilets and good hygiene for those who need it most. If you can afford to donate to give them a helping hand then it could change someone’s life.
Here’s the link: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/bogLEJOG
🙏 Thanks to everyone who’s contributed so far, it really helps us keep going!

#tissington #tissingtonwelldressing #derbyshirewelldressing #tissinftontrail #valuablewater #finishthirst #decenttoiletsforall #wateraiduk #lejog #BogLEJOG

After a little ride around Tissington to look at the well dressings, we finished off the Tissington Trail.
An unfortunate shopping error meant we had had nothing for breakfast so we waited in Monyash for the cafe to open where we met another cyclist who was interested in our trip. We gave him a card and he later made a very generous donation – thank you!
We set off towards Castleton into a ferocious headwind which made the hills seem twice as steep but the views of the Derbyshire Dales were spectacular.
After Castleton one option was Winnat’s Pass – steep (25+%), narrow and incredibly busy. So we took the other route, the Mam Tor “broken road”. This used to be the main road until numerous landslips made it uneconomical to maintain and it was abandoned in the 70s. Most of the tarmac is still there, just not in its original location.
Marcus managed to ride most of it and then I was treated to the very rare sight of him pushing his bike. I found even pushing difficult because the wind was gusting so strongly it stopped me in my tracks.
Back on the main road we eventually made it to Glossop where we rewarded ourselves with a 16″ pizza and very nearly finished it.

#wateraid #finishthirst #mamtor #brokenroad #peakdistrict

Day 15 – May 29, 2022

Camping in a park where parkrun takes place leaves few excuses for being late to the start! After a nice trot round the Glossop course we were out on the bikes again for a lovely last bit of Derbyshire.
We knew we’d entered Yorkshire when Kirsty was greeted with an ‘Ay up’ by another cyclist. The Yorkshire bingo had begun with various games of cricket, a pigeon racing lorry, steep cobbled streets and a few flat caps getting us near to a full card. Just a whippet left to find.
The riding today was the hardest of the trip so far. Steep drops into gritty mill towns before even steeper climbs out the other side. Then repeat. The last climb of the day from Hebden Bridge took every last bit of strength with a cruel cobbled section to finish us off. Thankfully a camp spot with a glorious view was our reward.
Team BogLEJOG did raise a smile when we found Flush House Lane. But 20% of the world’s population don’t have a decent flush house or even a toilet. Please help WaterAid turn this around.
If you can afford a donation then here’s the link:
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/bogLEJOG
It’s all very much appreciated and every donation helps give us more power for the journey! 🙏

#parkrun #derbyshire #yorkshire #t’hill #howsteep? #needmorecake #hebdenbridge #pavé #cycletouring #lejog #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 16 – May 30, 2022

These days all our views are framed with grey, dry stone walls. And the views kept improving as we crossed Widdop Moor before dropping down to the Liverpool to Leeds canal.
A very welcome lunch stop with our friends Nikki and Dave complete with incredible ginger cake set us up nicely for the climb to Malham Tarn. Now in the Yorkshire Dales National Park this steep climb took us onto a high moor with rocky crags and a thin ribbon of road to follow.
Occasionally the walls were punctured with a ‘sheep creep’ which works well for cyclists to creep through too.
After a brief but chilling shower before the high speed decent to Stainforth we were treated to a clear evening for the final spin up to the Ribblehead Viaduct. A mighty finish line for a great day in the saddle.

#drystonewalls #yorkshiredales #fuelledbycake #malhamtarn #sheepcreep #creepingcyclist #cycletouring #lejog #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 17 – May 31, 2022

A gentle climb and then descent to Hawes served as a warm-up up the main event: Buttertubs. This is a famous climb amongst cyclists, but from the Hawes side there are a couple of steep 20% ramps and the rest is easily ride-able. It just goes on a bit!
Coming down the other side we bumped into Jeff, our friend from Evesham who was heading home in his car after spending a weekend cycling in the area.
We dropped down into Swaledale, the hillsides dotted with the eponymous sheep and stone cow barns, and took the turning for Tan Hill, home of the highest pub in the British Isles.
There was a bit of unpaved road for me to practice my non-existent mountain bike skills, and then we were out of Yorkshire and into County Durham and the North Pennines.

#wateraid #finishthirst #lejog2022 #buttertubs #swaledale #tanhill #100climbs

Day 18 – Jun 01, 2022

A day of superlatives: the highest road of the trip over Yad Moss at 599m where a sleet shower made us the wettest and coldest we’ve been so far too.
Somehow we extracted ourselves from the cafe on the other side to find the South Tyne trail that felt like a bit of a work in progress in a classic Sustrans way.
Then we were up through Hadrians Wall as a nice indicator as to how far north we’d come, and entered Northumberland. Rocky forest tracks took us across Wawk Forest and Kirsty’s off road skills improved with every pedal stroke.
We’ve got 20 minutes more daylight compared to when we were in Cornwall so we kept on pedalling late into the evening for our longest day yet. The end point was a soggy Kielder Water shoreline to be shared with an officious night watchman and several thousand midges. 🦟

#yadmoss #northpennines #northpenninesaonb #countydurham #cumbria #freezingtoes #southtynntrail #sustrans #hadrianswall #kielderforest #kielderforest #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Onwards and northwards!
Cornwall ✅
Devon✅
Somerset✅
Gloucestershire✅
Monmouthshire✅
Herefordshire✅
Radnorshire✅
Shropshire✅
Staffordshire ✅
Derbyshire✅
Yorkshire✅
Lancashire✅
County Durham✅
Cumbria✅
Northumberland✅
Scottish Borders
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿✅
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿✅
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿
🚲🚲🚣🚣‍♀️⛺
https://boglejog.uk/where-are-we/
Nearly halfway to our fundraising target too! 🚽🚰💰🙏
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/bogLEJOG
Thanks folks 🙏

Day 19 Part 1- Jun 02, 2022

We woke up on the banks of Kielder Water and crawled out of the tent eager to see where we’d pitched it. The night watchman had moved us on from our first choice location at 11pm the night before. “If I can’t see you I won’t move you” he said so we’d packed up in the dark and rain and moved a couple of hundred metres further into the woods.
A bit further along the shore we found the perfect beach to launch from and the boats were soon inflated.
The water was flat calm with barely a soul to be seen. We were lucky enough to see an osprey flying overhead with a fish in its talons. The only issue was finding somewhere to land with easy access back to the trail.
Apparently Springwatch are filming in Kielder this week so look out for us – we may feature as some new and strange aquatic life they’ve discovered.

#wateraid #finishthirst #packrafting #packraft #bikerafting #lejog2022 #frontierpackrafts

Day 19 Part 2 – Jun 02, 2022

Back on the bikes we headed out through Kielder forest and soon had to get out our passports for the border crossing into Scotland. A big milestone and the start of the final stage of our journey.
True to form for this country, the sun was out and we had blue skies for the rest of the day. Up we climbed on a beautiful road alongside a burn that opened up to give huge views over the surrounding hills of the Scottish Borders.
A slight catering error meant a detour for one of the team to collect supplies before reuniting and finding a hillside where we watched the sunset while tucking into the best meal a petrol station could offer.
There was another chance to chat to BBC Hereford and Worcester too which you can catch here at 2hr 50m
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0c623p3

#kielderforest #northumberland #scottishborders #scotland #alwayssunnyinscotland #smoothroads #cycletouring #lejog2022 #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 20 – Jun 03, 2022

Arriving in Innerleithen we found the town rammed full of mountain bikers. In the cafe Marcus had a haggis scone and “the best coffee of the trip”.
Outside the Co-op we bumped into James @craven11_ from Bristol who was attempting the fastest known time for the Capital Trail and had 120km to go.
A couple of gentle climbs and we were rewarded with an amazing view of Edinburgh. Marcus thought it was smaller than expected, but maybe it was just far away
Climbing into the Pentland Hills we passed James coming the other way, now with only 35km to go. He returned one of the Snickers we’d given him earlier as it was obviously weighing him down.
Camped next to the reservoir, we witnessed a touching family reunion as a ewe and and her lamb were calling to each other from opposite sides of the valley. Unfortunately the lamb decided the quickest route to his mum was through our camp. He leapt over my legs and then seemed to hover in midair above the bubbling pot on the stove. Noooooooo! Somehow he reversed mid jump and disaster was averted. That was until Marcus dropped the pot as he was lifting it off a few minutes later.

#wateraid #finishthirst #lejog2022 #haggisscone #pentlandhills #cycletouring #boglejog

Day 21 – Jun 04, 2022

A misty, grey and chilly morning took us up and over the pass through the Pentland Hills on a testing, rough track. Then it was down to pick our way through the jumble of towns that make up the M8 corridor between Glasgow and Edinburgh.
It felt like a filler day, simply getting from one side of the urban sprawl to the other using lanes and canals where we could.
Another creature encounter occurred when I was attacked by a swan on the towpath. Its huge bill took a jab for my bike but narrowly missed taking a chunk out of my tyre. Looking back we saw the reason was he had a clutch of cygnets with his partner nestled in the bank. Sorry Mr and Mrs Swan 🦢.
The canal was fairly tedious but livened up with the crossing of an aqueduct on a narrow cobbled path. Water on one side and 50m drop on the other.
Into Falkirk we found the famous wheel and watched tourists queuing up to take a ride. Sadly packrafts were not allowed on board.
It’s a huge and impressive water engineering project that cost £78m. WaterAid could provide clean and safe water for around 5.2 million people with the same amount. Now that’s an impressive water engineering project!
Just £15 per head can change someone’s life. If you’d like to help then here’s the link to make a donation:
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/bogLEJOG

#pentlandhills #midlothian #unioncanal #swanattack #linlithgow #falkirkwheel #waterengineering #gettingitdone #cycletouring #konaute #lejog2022 #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 22 – Jun 06, 2022

If the previous day had been hum-drum then this was a hum-dinger.
Now off the planned route to avoid the canal, we found ourselves on a ridge running parallel with The Trossachs giving us a panoramic view of Ben Lomond and chums.
The sun had most definitely got his hat on and given the clouds the day off too so arms were out and suncream on as temperatures crept into the mid 20s.
A pit stop in Callander gave us the chance to shower at the leisure centre, stock up with 2.5 days food for the next remote section and top up our bottles from a free water fountain. Imagine if every village in the world had one of these?
Then a superb path on NCN 7 took us up the valley on an old railway line before winding through the forest on swooping cinder tracks. The sunshine, the bathers in the loch and the towering hills made it feels like mid summer in the alps rather than June in Scotland.
The day ended with a 400m climb to camp under the imposing hulk of Ben Lawers with a reservoir just below us. Scotland has treated us well so far.

#lochlomondandtrossachsnationalpark #benlomond #sunnyinscotland #sunsoutgunsout #collander #neededthatshower #freewater #ncn7 #benlawers #agranddayout #decenttoiletsforall
#finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 23 – Jun 07, 2022

We set off down the hill with the wind at our backs, amazing mountain views ahead, blue sky overhead and freshly laid, buttery smooth tarmac under our tyres. Cycling heaven!
At the Bridge of Balgie we stopped to take a photo of the red squirrel sign and then literally 2 seconds after I put the camera away a red squirrel came hopping along the parapet of the bridge. It was gone before I could get the camera back on so you’ll have to make do with this photo of Marcus’s best squirrel impression.
On today’s route there were two sections of steep rough stoney track over Rannoch Moor which put my non existent mountain biking skills to the test again. The usually patient Marcus even made a comment about the amount of waiting, but eventually, hot, tired and sunburnt, we arrived at the oasis of Loch Ossian.
A few days ago we saw a sign which said “Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations” and I think this may have been exactly what they were talking about. We pitched the tent next to the stunning loch, and I crawled in and collapsed.

#wateraid #lejog2022 #finishthirst #benlawers #lochossian #rannochmoor #redsquirrel

Day 24 – Jun 07, 2022

After the heat of the previous two days Loch Ossian was all too tempting for a refreshing dip in the morning.
Our planned route out was due to take us through a boggy footpath but some local guides advised against this. Despite being BogLEJOG the prospect of a 4 mile carry with our heavy bikes was not appealing.
Instead we took the service road that had been described as ‘Sublime gravel’ by another cyclist. He was right. This was a wide valley with a newly laid gravel road that we had all to ourselves. Grins hung from ear to ear all morning.
We worked around Ben Nevis, still with snow on the top and down to the main road into Spean Bridge. Despite only being out of civilisation for two days the bustle of the tourist town felt foreign and noisy.
Loading up with more food in our stomachs and panniers we left town alongside the imaginatively named Loch Lochy on a forest road. We were glad not to be on the A82 on the other side which was nose to tail with camper vans.
The top temperature for the day was 30 degrees and our solar panel is being so effective we’re considering signing up for a feed-in tariff.
As the evening drew in we found a quiet road up to Loch Garry to pitch up and enjoyed the silence again.

#lochossian #wildswimming #gravelriding #greatoutdoors #bennevis #rannochmoor #speanbridge #needmorefood #evenmorethanthat #fullpanniers #solarpowered #ibigbluesolar #lochlochy #offthrlebeatentrack #cycletouring #lejog2022 #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 25 – Jun 08, 2022

This was a day that packrafts were made for. When planning the route for this trip I’d found the most amazing road leading down to Kinloch Hourn but it finished at a dead end at the loch. Round the other side of the peninsula was the end of another dead end road which led back to civilization. The rafts would allow us to connect the two.
The Kinloch Hourn road exceeded expectations. Steep mountains either side, a view down to the loch, and a tiny road which twisted and turned through the landscape like a rollercoaster.
Arriving at the loch, the water was calm and the wind was behind us. Inflating the boats we set off on the longest paddle so far (12km/7 miles). We had a brief encounter with a seal and a longer encounter with a couple of other paddlers who turned out to be from just down the road from us in Malvern.
Eventually a village hove into view. Back on the road, a couple of stiff climbs took us into Glenelg where we discovered the shop was shut, but the pub was open. A great camp spot suggested to us by some friendly Belgian tourists was the perfect place to finish a great day.
#wateraid #finishthirst #lochhourn #packrafting #bikerafting #deadendroad #frontierpackrafts #whereweregoingwedontneedroads #wellearnedpint #isleofskye #glenelg #sheenasteahut

Day 26 – Jun 09, 2022

This was a day bookended by two incredible views. The first was overlooking the Five Sisters at the end of Loch Duic. We’d earned it with a lengthy climb up from Glenelg, unlike the coach of American tourists enjoying it too. “Aren’t you cold?” one of them asked “Not after cycling up here!”.
We made our way up to Loch Carron in more traditional Scottish weather with grey clouds and steady drizzle. Then the glen widened out and we were hit by a headwind as stubborn as a highland cow and nearly as strong. Pushing a low gear on a nearly flat road is never much fun.
Luckily after 40km we turned 180° into a parallel glen and the bull was behind us pushing us up to our 2nd view. This time we stood and looked down towards Loch Maree with Bein Eighe Nature reserve all around it. The most rugged and massive landscape of the trip so far. A long day in the saddle took us to the shore of the Loch ready to take to the water in the morning.
Up here the Highland Council have been busy closing the public facilities to save costs. The local communities were devastated, realising how important it is to provide decent toilets and fresh water for locals and tourists. A lot of them have now been adopted as community projects run by volunteers and funded by donations. We’ve been very glad to have them available to use.
The communities that WaterAid work with are often starting from scratch to provide something similar but the aim is the same: Clean water, decent toilets and good hygiene for everyone. If you’d like to help WaterAid get closer to this goal then please make a donation if you can afford it:
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/bogLEJOG

#glenelg #fivesisters #iloveagoosclimbinthemorning #earntheview #liquidsunshine #lochcarron #hateheadwinds #lovetailwinds #highlandcoo #lochmaree #beineighe #communityproject #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 27 pt.1- Jun 10, 2022

We awoke to the sound of waves lapping the shore of Loch Maree a few metres from the tent. Although the water looked a bit rough, the wind had dropped and we decided to go for it.
The wind picked up again as we were launching and blew my packraft side on to the waves, one of which came crashing over the side and filled the boat with water. I hoped the panniers were waterproof…
Getting out onto the water was a bit hairy but once we were going the packrafts bounced around on the waves quite happily. They really are very robust.
I bailed my boat out with a water bottle and with the wind behind us we reached our landing beach in double quick time.
This was probably the last paddle of the trip. They’ve been a great way to get to places we wouldn’t otherwise have got to and to see things from a different perspective. It was totally worth getting Marcus to carry them all this way, I’m sure he’ll agree.

#wateraid #finishthirst #lejog2022 #lochmaree #packrafting #packraft #bikerafting #frontierpackrafts #bikesonboats #paddleontheloch

Day 27 pt.2 – Jun 10, 2022

The wavy water was replaced with a wavy road once we were back on the bikes. Following the coast around Loch Ewe the water was as clear and blue and the sand as white as you’d find on the most exotic of Caribbean beaches.
We passed the most romantic of the Scottish islands: the Isle of Ewe (say it out loud). Heart rates were up and cheeks were flushed but that was probably due to the steep hills!
Eventually we dropped back to sea level alongside Little Loch Broom and found a kind old lady who filled our water bottles. Then we settled in for the 12km climb back up and over to join the main road towards Ullapool.
The midges haven’t been too much of a problem so far as we’re early enough in the year and there’s been enough of a breeze. But the wee beasties were being a bit of pest while we set up camp so the nets were on and we dived into the tent as soon as we could.
The keen eyed will have spotted that we’ve been working our way up the west coast when John O’Groats is in the north east of Scotland. We managed to get ahead of schedule so instead of racing to the finish line and putting our feet up we decided to add some extra distance instead. This was all about the journey rather than the destination after all. After Ullapool we’ll be turning east and we’re now inside the last 300km. Time for the final push!

#isleofewe #nc500 #northwestscotland #northwestscotlandbeaches
#upanddown #clearbluesea #ullapool #weebeastie #midges #thefarnorth #cycletouring #lejog2022 #boglejog #decenttoiletsforall #finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 28 – Jun 11, 2022

We started with a short blast into Ullapool where we found breakfast, a shower and Tesco. The road out was one we had ridden in 2013 and it was good to see the familiar, jagged mountains again.
We shared the road with the convoy of campers and motorbikes from all over Europe on the North Coast 500 which has been a wildly successful driving route, some say too successful with the added traffic.
Soon we were turning away from the west coast with its dramatic landscape and onto a quieter, moorland road. Rolling hills and small lochs with stone bridges over the rivers. A very different landscape from the previous few days.
We rolled into Lairg towards the end of the day with the sprinkling of a shower overhead. Luckily they’d provided a covered picnic table as well as a bike work station with a pump for passing cyclists. This is a popular stop for the traditional LEJOG route.
Tomorrow’s forecast looks a bit grim so we’re bracing ourselves for wind and rain. We’re used to dealing with weather now though!

#wateraid #finishthirst #decenttoiletsforall #cycletouring #ullapool #lairg #nc500 #lairg #lejog2022 #boglejog #rainraingoaway

Day 29 – Jun 11, 2022

The promised rain storm never materialised but the wind was back with a vengeance. Handily on our backs for the first 30km so we made rapid progress with time to stop at the Crask Inn on the way. This legendary house has cared for end to enders for decades and is run by the Scottish Episcopal Church. Great homemade biscuits too. 🍪
Then we were blown along the road beside Loch Naver that was as choppy as the North Sea. We kept the packrafts safely in the panniers. Fly fisherman were trying their luck in the River Naver but we didn’t see anything being caught.
We couldn’t have the wind on our side all day though so a right turn took us into the teeth of the gale for a short stretch and then it was on our sides. The bikes had to be leant at a steep angle just to stay upright while we wrestled with the bars.
In a fitting penultimate day we were now in The Flow Country: Europe’s largest blanket bog. By far the most bleak, desolate and wind-blown road we’d ridden so far. This area is teeming with life though with birds of all shapes and sizes shouting at us all afternoon and a couple of red deer ran across the road in front of us. This area feels very much like we’re at the edge of the island.
Eventually the road bent round so the wind was behind us again and literally blew us up the last small hill. The rain began to fall and the prospect of a night in the tent became less and less appealing. Luckily we arrived at Forsinard to find the station waiting room was large enough to make our home for the night. The bikes were wheeled in and the stove was on. Kirsty managed to catch the very moment I kicked the pan of water on to the floor!
Just one more day to go.

#laird #craskinn #endtoend #lochnaver #tailwind #headwind #crosswind #bloodywind #flowcountry #peatbog #reddeer #tinyhouse #lejog2022 #boglejog #cycletouring #decenttoiletsforall
#finishthirst #wateraiduk

Day 30 – Jun 12, 2022

Spoiler alert – We have made it to John O’Groats! If you want to know how we got here then read on…
We had a very peaceful night in our cosy waiting room. Only two trains stop at that station on Sunday so the chances of us being disturbed were small.
First we went for a walk to the Forsinard Flows nature reserve to see the peat bog up close. The colours in the moss are really amazing.
Back on the bikes we still had a useful tailwind, but not as strong as the blow-you-off-the-road-sideways one of yesterday.
We turned off into the last off-road section of the trip, a lovely 25km of gravel through the bog and forest. Then all too soon we were back on the tarmac for the final wind-assisted blast to the finish.
As if on cue, as we rode up to the famous sign, a bagpiper started playing. It took three attempts to find a passerby capable of capturing us, the bikes and the sign in a photo, but we got there in the end.
There’s still a bit more pedalling to do because we’ve got to get to Thurso to catch our train on Tuesday. And we’ll post some final thoughts once the dust has settled.
Could we be the first to bikeraft Land’s End to John O’Groats?
We’ve had a great journey and all for a great cause. If you’d like to help WaterAid provide clean water, decent toilets and good hygiene to the poorest communities in the world, a donation here would be much appreciated.
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/boglejog

#wateraid #finishthirst #decenttoiletsforall #flowcountry #peatbog #bogride #europesbiggestbog #lejog2022 #bikerafting #packrafting #boglejog #johnogroats #missionaccomplished #gravelriding #cycletouring

The Final Map and Stats

Cornwall ✅
Devon✅
Somerset✅
Gloucestershire✅
Monmouthshire✅
Herefordshire✅
Radnorshire✅
Shropshire✅
Staffordshire ✅
Derbyshire✅
Yorkshire✅
Lancashire✅
County Durham✅
Cumbria✅
Northumberland✅
Scottish Borders ✅
Midlothian✅
Falkirk✅
Stirling✅
Perth & Kinross✅
Highland✅
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿✅
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿✅
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿✅
Total distance: 2243km (1394 miles)
Distance by bike: 2206km
Distance by packraft: 38km
Total elevation gain: 28,858m (94,678 ft)
The equivalent of 3.2x Everest or 38,477 toilets stacked up! 🚽🚽🚽🚽🚽
🚲🚲🚣🚣‍♀️⛺
https://boglejog.uk/where-are-we/
We’re just a few hundred pounds from our fundraising target for WaterAid too! 🚽🚰💰🙏
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/bogLEJOG
Thanks for your support folks 🙏

Here’s a little video we made with an action cam attached to Marcus’s handlebars.

We’re working on a new project that shockingly doesn’t just involve cycling, there isn’t even a tandem involved!

In April this year we’ll be taking on the classic journey from Lands End to John O’Groats which is a rite of passage for any cyclist, but it’s only Kirsty who will be riding it. I’ll be tackling the route on foot and just for fun I’ll also be dressed as a toilet to help raise funds for the charity WaterAid. 

If you’d like to follow our progress then take a look at our website here: boglejog.uk. You can subscribe to the Bog Blog and also make a donation if you like. We’re also keen to meet up with people along the way so if you’d like to trot with the bog for a few miles, feed us cake or even offer a warm shower and a bed then we’d be very grateful. You can see if we’re coming past your doorstep here: boglejog.uk/route/. 

It’s a whole different kind of adventure to what we’re used to which makes it all the more exciting but slightly terrifying too. We hope to be flushed with success by the time we reach the end!

Stood in the middle of a peat bog high above the Hafren Forest we’re surrounded by pools and trickling streams. It’s been raining more on than off for most of the 4 km hike up from where we left the bikes. Hardy sheep shake off the worst of the weather from their water-logged fleeces before resuming their suspicious watch of the passing walkers. Stepping over a carefully laid path of flagstones we arrive at a well weathered wooden post etched with the words “Tarddiad Afon Hafren”. Plynlimon is a hill so wet that two of the longest rivers in the UK spill from its summit. The River Wye begins its life just south of where we are, but the focus for our journey is where the water at our toes will be heading. The words on the wooden post translate as “The Source of the River Severn”. 

The idea for this trip had been brewing for a few months. I’ve found that following rivers is a great premise for an adventure thanks to my brother suggesting that we run the length of the Nene, an ongoing project that we’re taking on in stages (you can hear a bit about it here). Another opportunity to explore the idea came last October with a weekend in Dorset along the River Frome (Mr Bisco made an excellent radio programme about that one). These trips had introduced the pleasure of watching a river grow as it winds its way round hills, through valleys and down to the sea and meeting all of the people and wildlife that live along its banks. The logical next step was to look for something a bit longer and without leaving this country there’s nothing longer than the Severn. Over its 225 mile course it meanders through Powys, Shropshire, Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Some parts would be familiar while others would be new to us. All in all it looked like a beautiful route.

As we walk back down from Plynlimon, the ambling stream quickly gathers pace on the steep hillside. A series of cascading waterfalls broadens out into something that could probably be classed as a brook as it enters the Hafren Forest. Hopping back on the bikes, the descent into Llanidloes is a high speed thrill ride and we spend our first night in the first proper town on the river. 

To get to the source in the first place we’d ridden the 30km over from Caersws, which we’d found to be the nearest train station. It had been a road typical of the national cycle network being very quiet, very pretty and very, very hilly. We now had to head back to Caersws but this time we would be taking a much flatter option because as well as using bikes we were also carrying packrafts. These tiny inflatable boats pack down to the size of a sleeping bag but blow up to be big enough to carry a person, gear and bicycle. They introduce a whole new element to adventure planning as you can include the blue lines on a map in your route as well as the usual roads and paths. So to get from Llanidloes to Caersws we could paddle some of the stretch on the river instead of pedalling up and down the hills alongside it.

While tucking into breakfast in the park in the morning a slightly stern looking woman approaches and asks if we were the ones camping here last night. I nod sheepishly but she smiles and asks if we need a hot drink. After porridge and coffee we inflate the rafts, stow the panniers and lash down the bikes before pushing off from the slipway. It always feels a bit unnerving trusting all our kit to what looks like an inflatable pool toy and my knot tying skills are quickly tested with a little weir just under the bridge.

The river is now 20m wide but only a few cm deep so we wince at each bump and scrape with the rocks and gravel bed. There’s a bit of stepping out to push off but on the whole we keep moving. It’s great to be on the water with the warm sun overhead and little more than the splash of our paddles to disturb the peace and quiet. That is until we reach the rapids. To an experienced paddler this section would probably be classed as trivial but to two novice packrafters the route ahead looks intimidating. The river gets channelled between a series of rocks and boulders with barely enough room for us to squeeze through. I pick a channel and give it a go but get turned on a rock and wedged across the flow. Kirsty gets dragged in after me and we’re then stuck together with water pouring over the side of the boats. The bikes are also a bit tangled up but somehow we shove against each other and I’m freed only to then get tossed onto another rock. This time I’m sat high and dry but the front of the boat with its precious cargo (bike) is hanging precariously down off the rock. There’s nothing for it but to step out and guide the whole thing downstream where it calms down again. We’re both left a bit shaken up by what the fledgling river has managed to throw at us so soon and apprehensive about what might lay ahead. Another short rocky section causes a few difficulties but we eventually make it down to our exit point, conveniently located near to a roadside cafe. The boats are hauled out and rolled up, the bikes are reassembled and we discuss the morning’s events over an egg and bacon sandwich. It’s been the sternest test of our Frontier packrafts so far and it’s amazing how much abuse they can put up with. Although they look flimsy and delicate they are actually incredibly tough and have managed to shrug off the bumps and scrapes with barely a mark.

We’ve got used to keeping our plans fairly loose and flexible when we’re out on the bikes. On a road or trail you can stop where you like and take any turn that takes your fancy safe in the knowledge that, provided your map is up to date then there will almost always be a way to get the bikes through. But on the water there needs to be a bit more planning. You can only get in and out at certain points (made even more tricky when you need to get a loaded bike to a road too). There are some obstacles that can be navigated such as small weirs or the rapids we’d encountered. But larger weirs, raging rapids or fallen trees might not be packraft friendly. Luckily the paddling community are a nice bunch and share useful information to help others plan their trips. I’d used the Go Paddling website to try and work out which bits of the Severn would work for us and it proved invaluable. 

Safely on dry land we continue our journey through Wales back to Caersws then on to Newtown to pick up a trail following the now abandoned Montgomery Canal. In its heyday ‘The Monty’ would have been a busy thoroughfare with boats carrying limestone, coal, timber and slate between Llanymynech and Newtown. The section we’re on now has largely been reclaimed by nature and apparently the wildlife is thriving with reports of water voles and otters. We’re not lucky enough to spot any of those but through the trees and undergrowth we can see our constant companion, the Severn gently following our path.  Resupplying in Welshpool we eventually end the day camping behind the Green Dragon pub close to the Offa’s Dyke path with a clear, starlit sky over the tent and slightly-too-close railway line. 

After a wake up call by the 6:25 from Shrewsbury we’re back on the road early. Although the Dyke marks the traditional border with England we stay in Wales for a few more km in the morning. The Shropshire hills fill our view to the east and the river runs alongside us to the west. Each time we cross the river it changes slightly, either a bit wider or a bit faster. In some places, unseen rock formations have twisted it into tight meanders across the valley floor then further down it flows arrow straight and unhindered. A few Welsh flags before the bridge at Crewgreen signal not only another crossing of the river but also the border into England. Shortly after we spot a couple of cyclists wrestling with a back wheel and so we pull over to see if we can help. One of the men admits that the bike is new and he’s not sure how to get the wheel off to fix a puncture. It’s a new-fangled through axle so I tell him how it works and he’s relieved to finally get the thing off. Both of them are veteran cyclists and both of them are on electric bikes. “I suppose you think we’re cheating?” one of them suggests but in actual fact it’s the opposite. Forget gravel bikes, disc brakes and bluetooth shifters; e-bikes are getting more people into or back into cycling than ever before and for that they have to be the greatest innovation in cycling for decades. One of them is recovering from a stroke but today he’ll be riding 40km thanks to a bit of assistance which can only be a good thing. With a strong Welsh accent one of them confirms that we’re now in England “Can’t you tell from the air that you’re not in God’s Country now?”.

Pedalling on into Shrewsbury a wide, riverside path gives us an easy passage through the town and out the other side. Before long we part company with National Cycle Route 81 that had largely steered our route up to this point. It’s also the point where the river begins to turn south for the first time. There’s a theory that the Severn used to continue north into Cheshire to discharge into the Irish Sea but a big lump of ice during the Ice Age blocked the way and sent it round to form the Ironbridge Gorge. The river has now been joined by the River Vyrnwy and has swelled in volume but gets channeled into this narrow, steep sided gorge. However it was formed, this is a section I’ve been looking forward to. It’s time to unroll the boat again. 

From the water the Ironbridge Gorge is even more impressive but it’s the bridge itself that takes centre stage. Gently paddling up to the towering structure it’s amazing to think this was built over 240 years ago. Kirsty has decided to stay on her bike for this bit and waves at me from the bridge as I float underneath. The town recedes behind me and I’m back in the tranquility of the river. There’s a flash of blue and orange as a kingfisher darts in front of me. Moss covered rocks line the banks and the water is flat calm but moving me along at a useful pace. Rounding a corner the scene changes quickly as the noise of rushing water fills the air and the river is being churned up into swirling eddies, and boiling waves. I’ve arrived at the Jackfields Rapids, a 200m stretch that local paddlers love to come and play on. There are several lines and I chose the right side between a ridge of angry waves and the rocky bank. The boat shoots down and I just manage to keep it running straight as the bow gets pulled by various colliding flows. That was a lot of fun and it’s tempting to go back up and have another go but the day is quickly running out. I find a beach further downstream to meet back up with Kirsty and after transitioning back to cycling mode we’re back rolling towards Bridgnorth. We’re now on NCN route 45 which turns from a smooth road into a bumpy track on the bed of the old Severn Valley Railway. We’d hoped to find somewhere to pitch the tent along here but all we find are muddy fields grazed by sheep. A golf course further along looks much more inviting but we push on to the town and find a large park on the east bank of the river that is just what we’re after.

I’d originally pitched the idea for this trip to Kirsty back in June after running a section of the Severn Way near Bewdley. Running along the river bank with the Severn Valley steam train racing past on the other side made my mind wonder what it would be like to be on the water instead. In the middle of summer the whole thing sounded very appealing so Kirsty agreed that we should definitely do it. But somehow that illusive 5 day window that we needed never quite got booked into the diary and the summer ran away from us. I was sure there was still time to do it before the year ended though and in fact the beauty of the changing colours of the trees and the crisp morning air make autumn an invigorating time to be outdoors. We found a week in October and Kirsty reserved judgement until a few days before we started but when the forecast promised mild and largely dry weather we knew we had to go for it. 

Leaving Bridgnorth, NCN 45 takes on a slightly more adventurous nature as it steers us into some woods onto leaf strewn bridleways. In modern parlance this would probably be called gravel riding. The result is a drop in average speed and I nervously check my watch at every junction because I’ve got a train to catch this morning, or more accurately: a train to spot. The path gets steeper both upwards and downwards and eventually Kirsty sends me off ahead. She’s been feeling under par for the last few days and wants to take her time on this tricky section. We arrange to meet up again in Bewdley. I then push on to Arley to find the slipway and quickly inflate my boat and leave Kirsty’s boat with some friendly fishermen to pick up when she arrives. Taking to the water while scattering the crowds of ducks, geese and small children feeding them I paddle hard downstream for a couple of km. Rounding a corner another impressive bridge comes into view. This is the Victoria Bridge that carries the Severn Valley Railway and I’d wanted to arrive in time to watch the steam train crossing. I can hear the train blowing its whistle at the station just up the track so there’s just enough time to get lined up and set up my camera. The steam clouds billow over the treetops as the train chuffs along towards the bridge. I raise the lens to my eye just as it appears and then the camera beeps three times and shuts down. The battery has died! I fumble to find a spare but by the time it’s locked and loaded the last carriage is rolling off the bridge. At least I got to see it even if I didn’t manage to capture the photo. 

I continue paddling down past the Wyre Forest which is resplendent in its early autumn colours. This is the stretch I’d run alongside 5 months earlier and it’s just as pretty as I’d hoped with a few fast flowing sections to keep things interesting. I check my phone to make sure Kirsty is OK and pick up a message asking me where I am. When I call her back I ask her if she’d found her boat? “You’re joking aren’t you?”  comes the reply “Are you meaning to tell me my boat is at the bottom of this bloody great steep hill I’ve just ridden up??”. It turns out the patchy phone reception meant that she didn’t get my message to go and see the fishermen and she’d ridden straight through Arly and out the other side. “sorry” is as much as I can muster. I quietly continue paddling and pull up at Bewdley Rowing Club before being reunited with Kirsty (and her boat) and finding a cafe for a consolitary lunch. 

We’re back in our home county of Worcestershire now and the surroundings are beginning to look a bit more familiar. Into Stourport we pick up the towpath of the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal which is a stretch of water I’d pedalled a water bike along a few years ago while collecting litter. Rubbish in the waterways is an ongoing problem with plastic waste in particular being a common sight bobbing around in the river. For another trip we’ll have to pack our litter picking equipment as the packrafts would be a great way to help doing some cleaning up. 

After Ombersley we soon approach the outskirts of Worcester. Kirsty hasn’t been feeling much better and being a few miles from a warm bed she makes the sensible decision to head home. There’s a bit of kit swapping and a wave goodbye and then I’m on my way again but it’s a great shame not to be able to finish this together.  I end the day in Tewkesbury and find a picnic spot right by the river to spend my last night. In the fading light the dark water silently flows past a few metres from my tent as I tuck into the staple meal for a cycle tourist: pasta and tomato sauce. 

The sound of a strong wind in the trees wakes me early but I head straight out onto the water. This is the last paddle on the last day and I want to enjoy it in the golden morning light. Since our last encounter the river has been joined by the Teme and I’m launching at the confluence with the Warwickshire Avon so in places it’s swelled to nearly 100m wide. Out in the middle a brisk headwind is whipping up white horses so I try to stick to the bank where it’s more sheltered. Packrafts are not very fast and not particularly manoeuvrable so are susceptible to getting blown about in strong winds. It’s a great morning to be out on the water though with the air filled with migrating geese, herons patrolling the banks and the occasional kingfisher catching my eye. For long sections the high banks hide any signs of human activity and it feels like I’m the only person for miles around. This is what makes the difference compared to being on the bike as these boats allow us to gain a completely different perspective during our journey. I sit for a few moments with a contented smile. 

Eventually Haw Bridge comes into view and I pull in at a pontoon. For the last time the boat gets deflated and stowed away in a pannier and I’m back onto two wheels. Continuing along NCN 45 takes me down to Gloucester and the point where the river becomes tidal. In the middle of the city the docks still display their industrial heritage with dormant cranes alongside towering warehouses all now converted into flats and gyms and restaurants. Moving south I join the Sharpness Canal then swing closer to the Severn again at Epney. On the right day and at the right time this is a good spot to watch one of this country’s great natural phenomena: The Severn Bore. Some very strong coffee at a friend’s house in Slimbridge sets me up nicely for the last stretch which again gains some familiarity from our days of cycling when we lived in Bristol (and the LVIS audax). The river is now a source of great power with wind turbines spinning wildly from the banks and two huge nuclear power stations drawing water up to their reactors. The tide is on its way out revealing vast expanses of mud flats that are teeming with life and I watch wading birds pick out tasty morsels from the sludge. 

It’s hard to define where a river becomes an estuary and where that estuary becomes the sea but for the purposes of this trip I’d decided the Severn Bridge would serve as a fitting finish line. It’s the last point on the river where I can get to the middle (safely) under my own steam so that is where I aim for now. For the last 10km the sky clouds over and it begins to rain. This is the first time the weather has turned since that day on the top of Plynlimon and it feels entirely appropriate. Battered by the weather I roll out onto the huge suspension bridge with the brown water of the River Severn swirling far below me. It’s now 3km wide and the River Wye is pouring into it on the other side of the bridge, the rivers finally meeting after taking very different paths to get here. I stop in the centre of the bridge for a photo as the traffic on the motorway behind me roars past. It’s been a fascinating journey following this mighty river over the course of the last 200 miles, watching it grow in stature and carve out the landscape around it. The combination of bikes and boats has worked really well to allow us to see the river at various angles and at various speeds.

As I look down off the bridge I can’t help but wonder if any of the water below has been accompanying me all the way from that soggy peat bog in mid wales. 

It’s been over seven months since we returned from our jaunt around the world by tandem which is the longest amount of time we’ve spent in any one country in the last three years. Time is a funny old thing though and can be stretched or compressed depending on what you’re up to.  A day full of constant changes and new encounters seems to last a lot longer than a day with a routine in a familiar place. So if you want a week to feel like a month then go cycle touring. If you want a month to feel like a day then stay at home.

Since the bike got parked up life has taken enough twists and turns to keep us entertained. The sore knee that Kirsty was nursing for the last few weeks of the trip decided it hated stopping cycling even more than it hated cycling, swelling up and making for a painful Christmas on crutches. After some head scratching the doctors decided she’d contracted septic arthritis and rushed her into Redditch hospital for an intensive course of IV antibiotics. From a daily routine of pedalling miles and miles to three weeks in a bed on the wards couldn’t be more of a contrast. Eventually she was allowed to escape but it was clear that her knee would take a lot longer to return to its normal state as a pedalling powerhouse.

The poorly tandem has also had some surgery to get the back wheel working properly again. On receipt of our damaged hub the folks at Phil Wood replied with an email that started with ‘Just wow’. The only piece that could be salvaged from the old hub was a single nut but that didn’t stop them honouring their warranty and sending back a shiny replacement all the way from California. The trusty machine has spent most of the year resting with just the occasional short outing but we feel that this is very well earned after lugging us around the world for so long.

Other than this, the main challenge has been adjusting back to life in civilised society where sleeping in parks and washing in rivers is generally frowned upon.  We opened up the container where all our possessions are being stored and after a quick glance shut the door again. Why do we own all that stuff? Besides, making decisions like which t-shirt to wear have become almost impossibly daunting. Getting used to driving a car again has also been difficult and to begin with I had to open the sunroof and windows so I knew I was actually moving.  Getting around by bike is still the preferred method of transport where practical. We’re slowly expanding our diet beyond the limitations of two pans and a petrol stove and don’t need to try and get the maximum number of calories to the dollar when shopping.

Soon we had to face the reality of being back in the UK though and the enormous and omnipresent ‘What Next’ question kept tapping us on the shoulder and asking, well, what happens next? The stock answer for a while was to grin and boldly reply “A second lap”. The world is a huge place and there’s a whole new hemisphere that we didn’t even touch but that’s an adventure for another day. So the alternative, in the meantime is to do what everyone else seems to do and that’s to try and earn some money so we can afford to stay in this expensive country.

The short list of options  looked something like this:

Deliveroo cycle courier
Pro: Get paid to cycle!
Con: Don’t get paid enough to cover cost of maintaining bike let alone buying food as well

Uber driver
Pro: Get paid to drive!
Con: Driving is rubbish

Lidl checkout assistant
Pro: Get paid to go to Lidl every day!
Con: Have to spend all day in Lidl

International bike courier for high price, low environment impact and non-time dependable consignments.
Pro: Get to cycle to other countries to deliver parcels!
Con: Market research suggests that we would have exactly zero customers

Back to what we did before.
Pro: Good salary, job security, benefits package
Con: 9-5 in an office in front of a computer for 5 days a week

For a few dreadful moments both of us had our fingers hovering over the ‘apply now’ button on listings on some faceless recruitment website but there had to be another way.

Nearly two and a half years of cycling should have given us plenty of time to come up with a few ideas to make use of our skills in an enterprising way but to be honest we were so caught up with the whole process of actually cycling that a Grand Plan never really took shape. But in the cold light of a UK winter we began to piece together some of the things that we’d learnt throughout our journey and to mould them into some sort of business proposition.

The overwhelming feeling that we’ve taken from our journey is one of gratitude.  The number of people who helped us get from place to place, day after day runs into the hundreds. Using the theory of Karma we’re seriously in ‘good deeds’ debt. So lots more volunteering and charity work required for starters and perhaps some way to make other people happy.

People would sometimes ask if we ever got bored on our journey but the excitement of new experiences discovering different places never wears off. If we can offer something new and different to people then perhaps they too will experience that surge of excitement?

Being outdoors  and getting to enjoy nature in all its beauty at close quarters is something that enriches the soul and shouldn’t be underestimated. Not enough people take the time to do it and some people think they can’t when really they should and they can.

There’s a risk that smart phones and social media will soon replace conversations and physical communities. Ok, that’s a sweeping statement but almost every city in every country (except Pyongyang) we visited was inhabited by screen watchers who didn’t say a word to each other. It would be nice if there was some way to switch off and look up more often.

Adventure takes many forms and means different things to different people but one thing that I think is clear is that life is pretty dull without it. I’ve mentioned Al Humphries and his concept of Microadventures before and it’s still a fantastic idea. If we can help people squeeze a little bit of adventure  into their daily routine then  they’ll feel better for it.

Lastly we’ve seen a small sliver of how incredible our planet is but sadly we’ve also seen how easily it can be ruined. Minimising our impact on the environment is more important to us now than ever.

So how to wrap all this up into something that actually earns us enough to get by? After a couple of months living on my parents’ farm in the Vale of Evesham an idea took hold. It’s a beautiful part of the world made all the more special having been deprived of it for so long, and more people should be encouraged to visit. So we thought ‘let’s get people to sleep in our orchard!’ The idea needed some work but eventually The Orchard Getaway was born.

Borrowing from what we’d seen on our travels through Central Asia and after some fortunate browsing of eBay we became the proud owners of a yurt (actually a Mongolian Ger).  We added some bell tents and dusted off some dormant carpentry skills to set about providing facilities for people to be able to enjoy a stay in the country in comfort. It doesn’t sound much like the camping we were used to, but the point was that we wanted this to be accessible to anyone, particularly the ‘I don’t do camping’ set. How can anyone go through life without at least one night under canvas?? We hope our site gives them a glimpse of what sleeping outside has to offer: The sound of the birds, the fresh air, breakfast with the sun streaming though the trees, all with a hot shower and proper mattresses nearby.

So here we are today, running an off grid glamping site providing little camping adventures in Worcestershire.  We had no idea what would happen when we got back from our travels but this seems like a good place to have ended up. Our summer is set to be a busy one as bookings are filling the calendar fast but so far the whole experience has been thoroughly enjoyable. New skills learnt, a few challenges overcome and we’ve met some lovely people along the way. Not actually that far from a day on the bike really.  Feel free to drop by if you’re in the area and if you arrive on a fully laden touring bike then you can stay for free.

Is it enough to satisfy our own hunger for adventure though? They say that when the travel bug bites it bites down hard so we still catch ourselves scanning the roadside for nice places to pitch a tent whenever we’re out and about and browsing other cyclists’ travel blogs for inspiration. It’s also a contagious little critter so as we try to settle down several friends are setting off on their own amazing journeys (including these two). But the great thing about our new business is that it’s largely seasonal leaving at least a month or two over the winter available for going places. And a month on a bicycle is a huge amount of time.

How many times have you heard that well used cliche “Live for the moment”? Well we’ve lived through  some very unexpected moments during this trip. For instance the moment the front tyre went pop at a very bad moment in Turkey. The moment when Kirsty woke up to find an Uzbek taxi driver was massaging her feet. The moment I popped my head in the tent and told Kirsty the bike was gone. But for all the unexpected moments there was always going to be one that was guaranteed, the moment when the journey would come to an end. 

11th December to 13th December 2016

After a night being rocked to sleep at the back of the onboard cinema we step off the ferry in Plymouth surrounded by thick fog and a colourless, grey scene that could only be British. Things soon brighten up when we spot some Marmite sandwich vendors excitedly trying to get our attention. Is this how things work in this country now? Returning citizens are immediately welcomed home with cheers, hugs, Marmite and a fry up? Actually this is a special treat laid on by our good friends the Biscos but I think it’s something that the government should consider. Another special moment. 

After mopping up the remains of what can only be described as the best full English breakfast we’ve had for over two years we’re ready to get going again. More familiar faces arrive in the car park in the form of the Whitley family then we swerve from the right to the left side of the road before heading out into the town.

British roads are terrifying. There are queues of cars everywhere and the ones that aren’t queuing are driving at 100 miles an hour down roads that are barely wide enough to fit a mini. Ok it’s Christmas time and we’ve just come from Brittany where traffic only builds up when a farmer leaves a gate open and a few cows get out, but I don’t remember it being quite as bad as this before we left. A fellow cyclist comes alongside us and asks “Going far?”,  Kirsty replies: “Bristol” , “Really! Thats a long way!”, “We’ve been further….”.

We survive Plymouth and emerge onto a lane that begins to skirt round the edge of Dartmoor following the Dartmoor Way, part of the National Cycle Network. Our tyres crunch over wet, gritty tarmac, gaps in the high hedges on either side of us offer a glimpse to church steeples in the valley below, sheep munch away in the steep, rolling green fields. A scene and a road that could only be found in Devon and its simple beauty brings a smile to my face. Perhaps riding on this island isn’t so bad after all.

We pass through the villages of Didworthy and Badworthy then past Buckfast abbey whose Bendictine monks have been blamed for many a Scottish brawl fuelled by their fortified tonic wine. We refrain from stopping for a sample, partly to avoid the risk of any violent tendencies but also because we have any another roadside rendezvous to get to in Ashburton. It’s a sign of how long we’ve been away that we left Kat with an imminent baby under her maternity dress and now she’s in a similar state with her second one. We haven’t even met the first! She and Stu have had an exciting couple of years that have probably been as exhausting as ours. As we’re chatting away and munching on mince pie Danishes someone calls out my name from a car in the street. James and Jess have driven out to meet us too and join in the reunion. James advises that the last obstacle on the road ahead to Exeter is Halden Hill which he warns “…is a bit cheeky in places”.

Only in Britain can you see village names like Bovey Tracey and pedal up through a town called Chudleigh Knighton. Unfortunately we won’t be passing through my personal favourite, Nempnett Thrubwell.  But the smiles soon turn to grimaces as we hit Halden hill. We realise that “a bit cheeky” needs to be interpreted as “near vertical” as the chain dances over the chainrings into the lowest possible gear and we get to work winching up through the forest. The malfunctioning rear hub isn’t enjoying the strain and neither are we but somehow we get to the top in time to see the sun disappearing into the horizon.

I went to university in Exeter so there’s a strange feeling of familiarity as we dash down into the suburbs and circle around the city. We pass the university rowing club, scene of many a cold morning outing on the canal, and then continue on down now pitch black cycle paths to the home of Digz and Lisa. Our first night back in England couldn’t be better, staying with good friends, reminiscing, telling stories and enjoying a home cooked curry, our national dish.

Britain really does have world class weather. There’s nowhere else that can match it for drizzle, mist and what weathermen refer to as ‘overcast’. This soggy atmosphere accompanies us the next morning as we approach the Blackdown Hills.  Since we left in 2014 we’ve crossed the Carpathians, the Lesser Caucasus, the Pamirs, the Himalayas, the Japanese Alps, the Cascades, the Rockies and the Appalachians and this is the final major geographical obstacle that we have to negotiate before home. The lane narrows, the leg cadence drops and we slowly begin ascending. The bike isn’t happy, Kirsty’s knee isn’t happy but eventually we summit at Dunkerswell, some 256m above sea level and survey the views all around us. At least we would have if it wasn’t for the freezing fog that covers the whole village. As we park the bike outside the local shop someone asks “Going far?”, I reply “Bristol”, “Really!…”

As well as the weather, Britain is also a world leader in savoury snacks. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed sausage rolls, pork pies, pasties and scotch eggs until I saw the greasy display in the heated cabinet in the Dunkerswell Co-op. There’s nothing better than a steak slice to keep a cold hungry cyclist fuelled up.

It’s going to take more than some overcooked pies to get us home though. As we push down on the pedals they begin slipping forward without moving the bike. Every other pedal stroke it works then it begins slipping again. The Blackdown Hills seem to be the final straw for the hub. With only 100km left of the trip it looks like this could be as far as the bike can go and in frustration I’m ready to chuck it into the nearest ditch. But no, we can’t be beaten by a mere technicality like this. There was that moment when the front fork cracked in Tajikistan but we managed to get it welded (it still holds to this day). The moment when the old rear hub fell apart in Laos and we managed to find another wheel to get us up to Hanoi. There has to be a solution. Digging into the rear pannier I pull out the finest invention known to man: a bundle of zip ties.

For a long time I’ve been an advocate of the theory that there’s nothing that zip ties, gaffer tape and pipe clips can’t fix and once again this proves true. After some fiddling around and with the sprockets firmly secured to the spokes we manage to get the bike moving again. It’s not strong enough to cope with any hard pressure but with care on the flatter sections we can pedal along quite happily. Unfortunately we’re still in Devon so there’s no avoiding some lengthy pushes over the last of the hills. We make for a sorry sight as I struggle with the bike while Kirsty limps behind, her knee getting more and more inflamed with every step.

Finally the hills give way to the flatlands of the Somerset levels and we manage to get into Taunton, the next large town, only having to replace the zip ties once. Although the bike shop here would love to help, our requirements are just too specific to be able to fix it for us. Our ‘bombproof’ rear hub follows the rule that “The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair.” (from The Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy). Just up the road is St. John Street Cycles which just happens to be home of Thorn Bikes and is the birthplace of our own not-so-trusty steed, surely if anyone can help it’s them.

Begrudgingly we hop on a train for the 15km journey into Bridgewater and arrive shortly before the shop is due to shut. Our high hopes for a solution are quickly dashed when we’re told that they don’t have any spare wheels available for us to borrow. It seems even the largest tandem specialist in the country can’t help. “We can build a wheel up for you tomorrow if you like?”. Now with 60km left this sounds like a very expensive option so instead we ask for a fresh supply of zip ties and decide to continue tentatively on with the bodged solution.

Our last night on the road is spent in Burnham on Sea. A less than auspicious location nestled on the banks of the Severn Estuary but with some very appropriate hosts. Before we get to them however there’s time for a pint of Somerset’s famous Thatchers Cider with my brother Justin. We last saw him as he jumped into a taxi in Tbilisi after our week together cycling through Georgia and the moment of our reunion is full of emotion and laughs.

It turns out that Burnham on Sea is home to some original comedians. Not content with the industry standard “She’s not pedalling on the back!” hilarious jape, one observer shouts “Get yer own bike!” when he sees us ride past. This is by far the best tandem heckle we’ve heard to date so we have to congratulate him for making our day. Our final Warmshowers hosts for the night appreciate this joke too as Allan and Maggie have also travelled the world on a tandem. Being able to chat and share similar stories about the moments we’ve all experienced travelling on a bike made for two is just what we need to round off our last night.

I manage to squeeze a few more zip ties onto the wheel before we set off in the morning. This arrangement means we can change gear but we can’t stop pedalling. If we do, then the zip ties will break which we discover 1km after leaving Allan and Maggie’s house.  I attach a fresh set and then we’re off again. It’s the last day of a very long journey and it’s not far to Bristol now so the sights become more and more familiar. Up ahead we can see the top of Cheddar Gorge cutting into the top of the Mendip Hills, a classic road climb that I’ve scaled countless times. Today we’re looking for something a little less taxing for our route home though so make our way up to The Strawberry Line, an old railway line converted into a cycle path. Railway lines have the advantage of being as flat as possible so this serves our purposes perfectly. It also takes us past the home of Thatchers Cider in Sandford where we’re met by two cycling legends: Matt and Drew. Their warm welcome is aided by some complimentary glasses of the fizzy apple stuff fresh from the brewery. Somerset is to cider as Bordeaux is to wine, Porto is to port, Kentucky is to bourbon and Georgia is to chacha.

Our small and slightly wobbly peloton then continues on to Yatton, increasing in numbers when we meet two lads from Birmingham who are on a trip from Brum to Burnham and back. Aircraft strength zip ties are issued in Yatton by the Las Vegas Institute of Sport‘s very own Director Sportif Dylan who informs us that they are “Stronger than the ones used by police as handcuffs”.  The riding has been anything but hard so far today but I eat a chicken pie to keep my energy levels up just in case.

The roads we’re on now used to form my commute into work. I used to know every twist and turn and pothole but today it feels fresh and exciting and different again. Nick has joined us and we all make slow progress, counting down the kilometres. Even a railway bridge is enough of a hill to force us to get off and push so our lead-out men have to be very patient.

With what must be only 10km left to ride we get a a bit too excited, push a bit too hard and break all the zip ties again. The last batch get fitted and now we have to be extra careful as if these break then that’s it. We could walk in from here but that would be a disappointing way to end the journey. We crawl through Long Ashton then into Bedminster before we get our first view of the Clifton Suspension Bridge one of the most recognisable icons of Bristol. Another moment to capture and remember. A lump forms in my throat as we skirt around the docks, past the City of Bristol Rowing Club where Kirsty and I first met. Past the Cathedral where a car turns in front of us and comes close to knocking us off which could have been an even more disappointing way to end the journey. Unscathed we then roll down into traffic chaos in the centre of the city. It may have taken 54 zip ties and countless boxes of ibuprofen but it looks like the bike and its crew are actually going to make it.

Matt has not only been my wingman on many an adventure but he has also coached me through various races. I remember one piece of his sage advice quite clearly at this point and that is to remember to savour the finish line moment.  It’s easy to get carried away in those last few pedal strokes or footsteps and to not pay close enough attention to what is actually happening around you but it’s really important that you do. So much effort and time has been invested to get to that moment where you finally achieve your goal and if you blink you’ll miss it.

I reach behind me to find Kirsty’s hand as we gently spin up to the Roll for Soul Cafe, the place where it all began back on 16th August 2014, 851 days ago. This is the finish line, the end of the road, the completion of our journey.  We step off the bike for the last time and wrap our arms round each other. We’ve done it!

After this moment it all becomes a bit overwhelming. I’d almost forgotten that it’s my birthday so the celebration of getting round the world is combined with a celebration of another lap around the sun.  Friends arrive to share a few drinks, some have come a long way to join us and it’s amazing to see everyone. There are so many moments in our friends lives that we’ve missed that it’s going to take a long time to catch up properly. Technically we’re still homeless having not had the heart to turf out our tenants just before Christmas. It’s tempting to pitch the tent somewhere in the city but at the same time we’re grateful for the offer of a bed for the night from our friends Lynn and Dave.

Waking up in Bristol should seem very strange but at the same time feels surprisingly normal. We’ve become so used to adapting to new situations that it seems we’re able to settle into an old situation just as quick. But I think it’s going to take a long time to gather our thoughts about everything we’ve been through over the last 851 days. Behind us we can trace a tyre wide path that stretches full circle around the world and all along it are memorable moments.  So many places, views and countless amazing people. I’m not sure if linking up these moments into a continuous line makes the world feel smaller or the fact that it took a long time to ride around it makes us realise how big our planet is. One things for sure is that there’s a lot more to explore either side of that line and certainly a lot more moments left to live.

I’ll be back with the much requested list of statistics sometime soon along with an extensive list of thanks to everyone who made the journey possible or helped us along the way but for now we’ve got Christmas and New Year to celebrate. I hope everyone has a great festive holiday and wish you all the best for an exciting 2017. Thanks for following our adventure.

….and if anyone can guess the exact number of kilometres that we finished on then they get to choose five items from our bag of international single serving condiments.

If there are any followers of our blog left then I must apologise for the increasing scarcity of the posts. One of our aims for this trip was to spend less time looking at screens and as the journey has progressed that aim has been easier and easier to achieve, but at the expense of putting fingers to keyboards and keeping up to date with what we’re up to. Hopefully we’ll have more time to complete the story once the bike has been parked up. An event that is now rapidly approaching.

But to briefly bring you up to speed. We left the States at the beginning of November and found ourselves on the Azores for a few days thanks to a well timed and well priced deal on a flight. From there we had the shock of not only returning to mainland Europe but also hearing that Trump had won the US election. You know how people remember where they were when they hear about a groundbreaking news story? For us the day of Trumpageddon took place when we were in Lisbon.

As well as tiny coffees and tasty pastries, Europe is of course full of ancient history and for hundreds of years pilgrims have been making the journey to Santiago de Compostela in Spain on what is known as the Camino de Santiago or ‘The way of St James’. We decided that these routes would be a nice way to shape our journey north so we attached a scallop shell to the bike and followed the Portuguese Way up to Porto then into Spain to collect our certificate in Santiago itself. Then going against the flow of pilgrims we picked up the Camino del Norte to ride up to the north coast of Spain and along the bay of Biscay to Bilbao.

There are Camino routes all over Europe and in fact one starts in our home town of Bristol. A trail of yellow arrows can be followed up the atlantic coast of France, using the Velodyssey, Euro velo 1 cycle route and then into England for the final stretch.

So we’re now just north of La Rochelle, half way up France. A country that feels strangely familiar as the closest neighbour to England. Even though my schoolboy French doesn’t extend far beyond the first few chapters of a Tricolour stage one text book it’s still infinitely better then any of the other languages we’ve had to grapple with over the last two and a bit years. We can finally enjoy good cheese and great bread. Pain au chocolate for second breakfast. Vin rouge with dinner.

This last stretch has not been without its challenges though. The old saying of the rain in Spain falling mainly on the plane is a lie for the convenience of a rhyme. In fact the rain in Spain fell mainly on the tandem. The days are getting inconveniently short and the nights long and chilly. This does have the advantage of having more camp fires, though we’ve not learnt the French for marshmallow yet.

Getting so close to the finish line it seems like everything is hanging together by a thread. Two tyres exploded in one day. A fork was left behind at a hostel. The stove splutters to stay alight and needs an overhaul. The rear hub on the bike has begun doing some serious complaining. The parts would take too long and cost too much to be sent from the manufacturers in California so we’re trying to nurse it through to the end with a can of WD40 and some tlc.

Kirsty has cause for complaint too after a nasty bout of sinusitis was followed up by a persistent sore knee. Rattling along with a box of ibuprofen in her pocket is not ideal but seems to work. My nose has been running like a tap from a cold that has been hard to shift. Tempers are on edge as if we’ve not spent time apart for over two years. But we’re holding it all together, just.

The question that is top of everyone’s interrogation is now what will we do when we stop? For ages we’ve managed to put off giving a serious answer to that by saying the end was too far away to worry about it. But it’s not now. The end is a matter of days and not many kilometres away. But our answers are still suitably vague.

Our lives have been incredibly simple since August 2014. Decisions have been not much more complicated than to pick a direction to ride in at the start of the day and to pick a place to pitch the tent at the end of day. In between we keep stocked up with water, basic food and cake and it seems to work out ok. ‘What’s next?’ could be something a whole lot more complicated but hopefully not. Either way we need to give it some time to mull over and see what opportunities take our fancy.

To be honest what I’m looking forward to is adjusting back to a life off the bike one step at a time. Enjoying simple novelties like wearing a pair of jeans, cooking something in an oven, sleeping in the same bed two nights in a row or having a shave (actually that might be taking things too far). More than that though we can’t wait to catch up with friends and above all spend Christmas with our families. Once we’re through all that then we can work out how to answer the ‘what’s next?’ question.

For now we’re enjoying the final few days of our journey. The last few evenings under the stars. The last few cafe stops. The ongoing hospitality of strangers. Beautiful winter scenery. Hopefully the last burst tyre. Soon we’ll have the last ferry journey, then the last road back to where we started. And that will give us plenty more to write about. See you all soon.

There was a rumour that the restrictions on visas for UK citizens visiting Iran was only temporary and would be lifted once the much publicised nuclear talks had been completed. Sadly it looks like this isn’t the case, or at least nothing has changed yet so our Plan A route to Central Asia is well and truly closed.

Plan B was to take a boat from Baku to Turkmenbashi in Turkmenistan. Often referred to as the North Korea of Central Asia due to its former dictator’s unusual behaviour (he changed the names of some of the months to include his family’s names, a book of his famous sayings is compulsory reading for all citizens, there is even a gold statue of him in Ashgabat that revolves to always face the sun). But Turkmenistan is the 7th least visited country in the world, not helped by yet more restrictive visa conditions. As with Iran, to obtain a tourist visa we’d need to be on an expensive guided tour. The alternative is a 5 day transit visa but with 900km to cover and a boat crossing that could use up 2-3 of these days it would be hard to cover this distance by bike so we reluctantly rule this route out.

So our Central Asia plan C is to catch a boat across the World’s biggest lake, the Caspian Sea, up to Kazakhstan (no visa needed for a 2 week stay) then ride down into Uzbekistan through vast amounts of desert.

On an extremely windy day, for which Baku is well known, we struggle against 70kph gusts up to the Uzbek embassy and meet with a very grumpy Consul. He reluctantly takes our completed forms and tells us he’ll be in touch within 8-10 days once the visas are ready. Longer than we expected but we hope he’s exaggerating. The embassy is on an unassuming residential street and on our way out we bump into an exasperated motorcyclist who has spent the last hour trying to find it and point him in the right direction.

The next day we find the Tajikistan embassy as this is our destination after Uzbekistan. Here the reception couldn’t be more different with a very friendly and helpful Consul who tells us we should be able to collect these Visas within 4 days. The price is less than half that of the Uzbek visa at $35 instead of $75 and we can apply for up to 45 days compared to only 30 days for Uzbekistan. As a representative of their country and first point of contact for many foreign travelers it’s the Tajik who leaves the much better impression.

So with a few days to spare we have the whole of Baku to explore. It’s a city of 4 million people and has seen rapid growth after oil began being extracted just off the coast, bringing with it lots of foreign investment and plenty of cash for the government.

This wealth is very evident with huge and elaborate buildings crowding the skyline, impressive museums, a shiny marble promenade along the seaside and some of the cleanest streets we’ve seen for quite some months (although most of Azerbaijan was largely litter free too which makes for a refreshing change).

The streets are crammed with vast 4x4s, at least 2 stories high and always fresh from the car wash. Barely reaching their bumpers are a few remaining Ladas but everyone is brought together by a shared love of using their horns. Continuously.

Behind the glitz and glamour there are still a few slum areas but their days are clearly numbered. This summer Baku will host the first ever European Games and the government is keen to present a prosperous image of Azerbaijan. Bulldozers are parked ready to level some of the inner city areas. All routes from the airport and to the venues have been smartened up with new facades on the buildings and walls around the parts they don’t want visitors to see. An entirely new fleet of buses is primed and ready (brand new London Taxis were bought when Baku hosted the Eurovision Song Contest). There are also rumours of street dogs being ‘disposed of’.

The overall impression is of a strange and false city that bears very little resemblance to the rest of the country that we have seen. It’s also no surprise that Baku aspires to be referred to in the same breath as the mother of all mega-wealthy oil cities: Dubai.

Justin and Jess are great hosts and keep us busy when not visiting embassies by inviting us to their local Hash House Harriers event. The Harriers are a global organisation and refer to themselves as a drinking club with a running problem. There are factions all over the world catering for many ex-pats as well as a few locals who enjoy a bit of running and a lot of drinking. For our first outing we opt for a walk rather than a run followed up by much raucous singing, fun and frivolities that are the trademark of the club. Later in the week I get to pull on a pair of running shoes for the first time in 9 months and discover that absence makes the heart grow fonder by thoroughly enjoying stretching my legs with a couple of the Hashers. Then more liquid refreshments and next day discovering that absence also makes the legs grow stiffer after such a long break from running.

We’ll certainly look up more HHH clubs in some of the cities further along our route as it’s a great way to meet some new people as well as guaranteeing a great night out. I may even get to go for another run.

The Hash has provided Justin and Jess with plenty of friends including some high volume and great value Americans, Steve and Kathleen who invite us all round for dinner and some Southern style catering (hot, brown and plenty of it). They also introduce us to Gafar, a native Azeri who proves to be a very useful contact.

Gafar is also a keen cyclist and suggests that, as we have a spare day, we go for a ride up one of his favourite climbs. He provides a bike and brings his chauffeur driven support van to get us to and from the climb that passes through the Candy Cane Mountains north of Baku.

Having the driver, Emin unload the bike, inflate the tyres and check everything is ready is quite a novel experience. Everything feels twitchy, light and unstable compared to the mighty tandem and it takes a while to stop wobbling all over the road. But I’ve been goaded by Justin to give this climb some welly as there is a record to try and break so I give it my best shot.

We fire up the 1000m hill that is consistently steep and weave up hairpins through acres of trees. The last 12000km of ‘training’ seem to have paid off and it feels good to be riding without the panniers. The record falls by just 1 second but it’s enough to take the King of the Mountains title. I can only imagine how much faster I would have been with Kirsty providing her power on the back too. We celebrate with a fine meal in Gafar’s penthouse suite cooked by his maid. Gafar is a very useful person to know.

On the 8th day after applying, a call to the Uzbek Embassy results in the reply we are waiting for, our visas are ready. We had already collected our Tajik visas 3 days before and paid in cash there and then. Nice and simple. The procedure for the Uzbek Visa requires a visit to a bank in the centre of town to pay directly into their account, then taking the receipt to the embassy before they then relinquish the much coveted visa.

Now we are ready to set sail across the Caspian. This is not a passenger ferry route but there are cargo ships that have a limited number of bunks that tend to be used by Mongol Rally drivers, intrepid backpackers and of course the occasional cycle tourist. The boats do not follow any kind of timetable as their departures are dictated by the volume of cargo that needs to be moved, the weather and the whim of the port authorities. So to find out if and when the boat might leave you need to call, or better still visit, the port ticket office and ask if there is a boat leaving that day and if so if there is room on it for two people and one bike.

Justin sets one of his logistics experts on the task of arranging this for us as it requires an Azeri speaker but his first candidate tells him that we should go via Tbilisi as this is the best route. That person has since been sacked. The second logistics expert has more luck and after speaking to the ticket office learns that there is no boat today.

On the second day of asking there is also no boat but there may be one the next day.

On the third day Kirsty and I ride down to the ticket office ourselves. It’s not easy to find being 8km East of the city, down an unlikely rough track and behind an unmarked grey door near the main security gates for the port. We sit and wait for it to open at 10am, which comes and goes. At 11am a head appears at the window and tells us to wait for an hour. At 12pm the door opens and they tell us the boat will sail today at 6pm, not from Baku but from Alat which is 70km south of the city. We hurriedly handover the $110 ticket price, grab the tickets and pedal back to Justin and Jess’ flat to collect our bags.

We had anticipated that it might be a bit of a rush so have Gafar’s driver and van on standby to drive us down to Alat. Gafar is a very useful person to know.

Baku has become a meeting point for cycle tourists travelling across the world and forms a watershed for those heading into Iran (just about everyone) and those heading across to Kazakhstan (Brits, Candadians and Americans). It was no surprise then that we had met two other cyclists at the Tajik Embassy in the form of Rob (allthewayfromstockholm.com) and Josh (joshcunninghamcycling.co.uk) from London. As they were on a similar schedule to us we had agreed to keep in touch with regards the boat. They had also managed to buy their tickets so we all piled into Gafar’s van and headed down to Alat to board the boat.

Alat will one day be Baku’s main port but for now it is a huge building site with a single jetty and a border control office and nothing much else around it for several km. The border guard doesn’t pay us much interest and it’s clear that not much is going to happen for a while so we set ourselves up on the tarmac and wait. With the time I manage to get a swim in the Caspian sea as it looks much cleaner here than back in Baku.

After waiting 2 hours, at 6pm we’re let through onto the boat and I’m the only one to be asked about the registration with immigration control. This is supposed to be mandatory and requires all visitors to the country to register within 10 days of arriving via their chosen accommodation. It clearly serves no purpose other than to allow border guards to hand out a hefty 300 menat (about $300) fine to those who fail to do it. Luckily Gafar had sorted Kirsty and my registrations out for us via one of his hotels. Gafar is an extremely useful person to know.

Our ticket price includes a cabin that we all share and then we have free run of the boat so can explore just about everywhere including the bridge, engine room and climbing the radio tower.

Supper is served at 7:30, again meals are included, then at 9:30 they begin loading the cargo. A lengthy train is slowly wheeled onto the boat which takes about an hour of to-ing and fro-ing before all the carriages are fully on board. Meanwhile we find the volleyball court, midships complete with a ball on a wire to prevent it from going over board. Josh wins 5-0.

Apparently we eventually slipped away from Azerbaijan at 2am but I was fast asleep by then.

In the morning when I woke up I thought we were still still in port because it was so incredibly smooth. Looking out the window the water is like a mirror, broken only by the ripples from our bow wave.

We all scramble out of our bunks before sunrise for what is promised to be something very special. The best vantage point is found to be the top of the radio mast which we take turns to shin up and snap dozens of photos of the glorious blaze of colour as the sun rises out of the sea. The spectacle in the sky being mirrored perfectly in the still calm sea. We’ve seen plenty of sunrises and sunsets on the trip but this is one that will be hard to beat.

The cook is surprised to see us so early and breaks with decorum by allowing us to have breakfast before the captain.

I’d set aside various tasks to keep me occupied during the 30hr crossing the first of which is to service the rear hub on the bike. That’s the only thing that gets done in the end though.

After reassembling the bike again I go and inspect the train and wonder what the cargo is. It turns out to be two Georgian men who are escorting several wagons of frozen chicken, and when they spot me looking up at their carriage they invite me in. It’s about 10:30 so they’re tucking into a late breakfast which, being Georgian, includes bread, cheese and 80% proof chacha. Also being Georgian means that they insist that I join them and offer a toast to my good health.

A few toasts later and I’m sent to round up the others to join in the fun. I’m a little unstable but manage to climb back up to the main deck where I find Kirsty and Josh and tell them to follow me to the train. They look bemused by my big grin.

The chacha gets poured again, more heartfelt toasts are raised, some homemade wine is produced. Rob is finally found and is made to catch up and before long there’s a good old fashioned singsong of Beetles hits.

We’re all back in bed by about 6pm and next thing we know it’s 7am and Kazakhstan is fast approaching in front of us. Despite the crossing being so smooth I’m looking a tad green so I can only imagine the vibrations from the engine and the smell of diesel fuel have caused me to feel unwell.

We dock in Aktau at 9am but have to wait for the border guards to come on board before we can leave. I’m just happy to stay horizontal on my bunk for as long as possible. At 10am we’re told to clear off after an armed guard has had a cursory look in the top of our bags and decided he doesn’t want to rifle through cycling kit so gives us the all clear. We’re officially in Kazakhstan at long last!

And so begin our travels in central Asia with a few days in the 300,000 square km of Kyzyl Kum desert to kick things off. The map of the region looks like it’s had tipex spilt on it, there are few roads and most of them end abruptly at a huge white void. We’ve loaded up with plenty of food, have our 10 litre water bag sloshing around on the back of the bike and some new hats to keep the sun off.

Things are about to get hot and sandy.

‘For some reason a friend from University had a fascination with Azerbaijan. There were a few occasions while we enjoyed a pint or two of Snakey B  in The Lemon Grove that he suggested opening a themed nightclub called “Azerbaijani’s” but at the time I knew nothing about the country so had no idea what that theme would look like. That friend now runs a hotel in Port Isaac and as far as I know has not ventured into the club business but perhaps he’s just waiting for the right moment to open Cornwall’s next big party venue with a Caucasian twist.

There’s no better way to learn about somewhere than by visiting it so after packing Justin off in a taxi in Tbilisi our route was to take us east again and improve our knowledge of Azerbaijan. First we had to collect our visas from the Azerbaijani embassy which had thankfully been approved and we’d been given the full 30 days allowance. We’d also remembered to cancel the hotel booking that was required to gain the visa.

Azerbaijan Fact #1: Azerbaijan is one of only two countries that start with, but doesn’t finish with the letter A.

We hopped back on the George W Bush Highway to get  out of Tbilisi, past a flock of sheep huddling under the slip road in what must be the most inappropriate grazing of the trip so far. Unlike our ride along the same route the week before, we’ve got a cool, dry day so the potholes are no longer hidden in amongst puddles of an unknown depth and as such are much easier to avoid.

This time we turn off the main road before Satichala and ride north towards Sasadilo, crossing our old friend the Iori river on the way. The valley we ride up is densely forested but without my brother we’re stuck trying to identify what the trees are. It feels a lot like a valley in mid Wales with added drizzle for effect. Then the road starts to nudge up a few percent and ahead is a ridge that is a six hundred metres higher than Mount Snowdon, just to remind us we’re actually a long way from Gwynedd.We decide to break the climb up and camp before reaching the top leaving the last stretch for the morning. To help extend the life of the drive train I’ve been swapping between two chains every 1500km and this service interval is long overdue so I decide to change the chain before setting off. It’s a foolish mistake as we have all sorts of trouble getting the gears to engage properly with the new chain on the old cassette (it’s usually fine after a day or two once the chain has ‘broken in’) which means a lot of walking up the hill and a fair bit of unhelpful shouting at the bike. Near the top it starts snowing but we also find a gear that works so can ride to keep warm. Then on the way down the snow turns to sleet then to rain as we lose altitude and get cold again.

Telavi is a town with no cafes, at least none that were open on an Easter Sunday so we grab a Katchapuri from a streetside serving hatch and continue on. It’s our second Easter as the Orthodox calendar is different from the Anglican one and this year they are celebrating a week after the UK. We’ve seen lots of eggs died red for sale but not a single one made out of chocolate.

After a flat and fast afternoon, for our last night in Georgia we settle down on the edge of a field overlooked by the foothills of the Upper Caucasus. Justin is again missed as he was very useful for wood collection and fire starting duties. He would also have been needed for fire fighting duties when a rogue ember lands on my waterproof jacket melting two neat holes in the back. As one of the more essential pieces of kit, particularly with heavy rain forecast for tomorrow, it’s a cause for more angry and unhelpful shouting, this time aimed at the fire.

Unfortunately the forecast is correct and in the morning we hear the pitter patter of rain on the roof of the tent, always sounding several times worse inside than it actually is outside. Once we’ve extracted ourselves from the dry and warm shelter and get everything packed, we quickly pedal off towards our next border. One of our last Georgian towns is Ganjala which also seems to be home to several building supply shops. I pull up outside one hoping to be able to find some gaffa tape to patch up my jacket. It seems to be a flooring shop and we’re welcomed in to scour the shelves for what we need. Unfortunately the best they have is a type of selotape which doesn’t look up to the job but Kirsty is barged out the way so that two of the small crowd that has now gathered can begin covering my back anyway. Meanwhile we’re asked if we want a drink and a tray arrives with çay, water and a bottle of vodka. As we’ve seen all over Georgia, there seem to be jobs for everyone and although this is a small, specialist shop there are at least three sales assistants, a manager and two tea ladies. Also typical of elsewhere in the country, the ladies have a magnificent set of gold teeth that shine brightly when they smile but are always swiftly covered up by tightly closed lips as soon as the camera comes out.

After a cup of cay, a glass of water, two shots of vodka and only just managing to convince them not to try and make us drink any more (my mime of a drunken cyclist swerving down the road then falling off always seems to work) we get back on the road again. My back is semi mummified in selotape which stays in place for at least 500m.

The rain continues all the way to the border where we meet some friendly guards with wide rimmed hats. Seeing us shivering while we wait to have our passports checked they come out with some çay and two Snickers bars. It creates a good first impression that most border guards could learn from.

Azerbaijan fact #2: Out of the 11 different types of climatic zones, 9  are present in Azerbaijan.

It’s no drier on the other side of the border but it is very lush and green as a result of all the rain. After 12km we reach the town of Balakan and head for the first of two hotels that are listed on the Garmin. Since Turkey we’ve been using Open Street Maps on our GPS which are free to download and so far have given a surprising level of detail including shops, ATMs, petrol stations and accomododation.

I’m shown two rooms that at first glance have a similar level of degradation with peeling wall paper, cracked bathroom tiles and the type of bed that allows you to feel every single spring in the mattress when you lie on it. But for some reason one is offered at $20 and the other $10 so of course I opt for the $10 room. We soon learn that the extra $10 would have paid for a heater and hot water.

We head out to find some food after a tasty kebab and çay we stumble upon a sewing shop. I present my waterproof jacket and peer through the holes in the back and the tailors soon get the idea. A roll of faux leather in almost exactly the right shade of blue is brought out and I give them the thumbs up. Their resulting handiwork is better than I could have imagined and I have to admit that the smart new blue diamond deftly attached over the holes is actually an improvement on the original design. It also makes for great advertising space so if anyone wants to add their company logo then let me know and we can negotiate a donation to charity.

 

Back at the hotel we find that there is a new person holding the fort and he tells us to pack our bags as soon as we walk into the reception. Not because he wants us out though, he’s actually moving us to the penthouse suite. Apart from being larger (we now have 4 single beds) its in a similar state to our previous room compete with another threadbare carpet. However it does have the important addition of hot water and a heater. All our kit quickly gets unpacked and hung from every available hook, door and lampshade to dry overnight.

Azerbaijan fact #3: Azerbaijan is one of the six Turkic countries and shares a lot of the same language as Turkey.

The view from the window is of the local mosque with an impressive brick built minaret that looks a lot like a Victorian, industrial chimney stack. This means we get woken early by the call to prayer then make our way down to breakfast. The friendlier of the two hoteliers asks if we’d like to climb the minaret which sounds like a great idea. I begin warming up the vocal chords in case they need a new imam to sing the ezan.

The view from the top back into our hotel room is fantastic, and the mountains beyond aren’t bad either.

Back on the road we enjoy some fine sunshine having left the rain back in Georgia but it’s a shame I can’t try out my new improved jacket. For a couple of days our road follows the foothills of the upper Caucasus on our left with a series of horrendous invisible climbs. It’s the kind of road that looks flat and everything around it looks flat but for some reason we’re forced down through the gears and the trip computer shows that we keep gaining altitude. This continues through Katex (hello Katex) and Zagatala before we get to enjoy the opposite effect. The road looks flat but we pick up speed and effortlessly cruise along at 30 kph.

We’re now passing green meadows, fields of oil seed rape, fruit orchards and nut groves. In amongst the trees nestles a small cafe, not much more than a plywood roof with a stove at the back but two of its patrons wave and call us over with the promise of fresh çay. We’ve barely taken a few sips when they decide we need something stronger and the tea is replaced by two large glasses of beer. Our protests that we have more riding to do go unheard so we bravely finish them up. I even struggle through a second one but when the third one is suggested we have to say our thanks and get going otherwise we’d be there all night (not a bad prospect in hindsight).

Staying close to the mountains, we winch up another long drag into Sheki, famous for its ancient Caravansary, a place to stay for the silk route traders and travelers, and also for its super sticky and sickly sweet baklava that we’re obliged to buy and try. While tucking into lunch we get invited to record a sound bite for a national TV show. We’re not sure what Ziq Zaq is about but apparently we love them.

Azerbaijan Fact #4. They are very superstitious and believe things like:
“Don’t drink cold drinks in winter as you’ll get ill”.
“Do not lend money or bread at night.”
“Do not give sprouts as a present, the plant the sprouts are taken from can die.”
“Leaving scissors with opened blades brings misfortune and even death.”
“If you meet a person with empty buckets, you are bound for misfortune”

There are huge dry river beds at frequent intervals, ready to take the winter deluge and spring melt water from the mountains. In fact spring has well and truly sprung, bringing with it all kinds of flying, slithering, croaking and biting things out of hibernation. The insect repellant gets dusted off for the first time in many months.

Outside Sheki we camp behind an old shack but not out of sight enough to escape the attention of a pair of policemen. They imply we should move on but eventually give up and say we can stay. Later that evening a different pair of law enforcers spot the smoke from our camp fire and also try and move us on with a similar level of success. In the end they even chuck some extra wood on the fire for us and bid us a good night.

We ride across to Oghuz and onto a very tandem friendly road that descends at a 1% gradient. Unlike Turkey where the çay is served by the glass, here the cafés give us a whole pot that seems to be bottomless. Kirsty also notices that all of them have a picture of a strawberry on the side. Except in one case where it’s a flower instead and she nearly sends it back in disgust.

While passing fields of grazing cattle we spot the unmistakable silhouette and laboured pedal strokes of another touring cyclist coming towards us. Jimbo is from Japan though we suspect this isn’t his real name. His itinerary so far makes us very jealous having taken in the Karakorum highway from Pakistan to China and also 3 months in Iran. Our perfect route would be very similar but we’ve got to take diversions at both these areas due to visa restrictions. However his tales of a winter on the Pamir highway enjoying -25 degC sound less inviting. He tells us the road up ahead is very good after Ismaili and with that we go our separate ways. It would be interesting to know how many cyclists crawl out of their tents on any given morning, ready to take on another day in the saddle riding slowly towards a faraway destination.

After Gabala we suddenly find ourselves surrounded by trees in a beautiful forest. Thinking back, we haven’t seen this kind of view since Estonia but sadly these woods don’t have the well equipped camping facilities that were provided in the Baltics. What they do have are cafes and lots of them. As it’s still early in the year plenty of them are closed but even at peak season it’s seems surprising that there would be enough trade to sustain them all. One such closed cafe provides an ideal camping spot but without the fire place and stack of wood that we would have enjoyed in Estonia.

The forest continues for much of the next morning until we emerge into low rolling hills that then brings us to the foot of a long steady climb back up to 950m. The variety of landscape is astonishing as is the rate that it can change from one km to the next. After the sumit we ride a ridge that gives us views to the left to some very stark mountains with little vegetation and another broad but dry river bed snaking between them. On our right are more of the round topped, green pastured hills. Blowing across the ridge is a harsh cross wind that then makes the descent a little too exciting in places and all the way down we can see that our exit from the valley bottom looks to be quite testing.

Hauling ourselves up the other side again at a granny ring spinning, knee creaking 15-20% we arrive puffing and panting at a layby with great views and a cluster of boys trying to sell us flowers. One look at Kirsty tells me this is not the time for romantic gestures so I decide not to buy any and after a breather we continue on.

Azerbaijan Fact #5: It is referred to as the land of fire and claims to have the first fire place dating back 700,000 years.

It’s much better to cash in hard earned potential energy over a long distance at a shallow gradient than splurge it on a short steep drop. The road down into Shamakhi is lovely and seems to go on for ages with barely a pedal stroke. On the way we pass restaurants with cows heads sat on chairs outside, which seems an unusual advertising idea. Later we see butchers with live sheep and cows penned in outside their shops, waiting for customers to pick which one they want for dinner.

Shamakhi is a lively little town and the former capital of Azerbaijan before Baku took over the title. Kirsty pops into a supermarket while a crowd gathers around me and the bike. One curious taxi driver asks for a ride so I oblige by taking him for a quick spin up the street that brings a lot of amusement to the other onlookers.

On the outskirts we pass smart walls that seem to be in place to conceal more run down areas of town which is a common technique that we’ve seen all over the country. It’s a bit like trying to sweep the dirt under the carpet. Its still there but now out sight and out of mind.

Before the end of the day we start to get hints of what’s to come as the vegetation starts to disapear and in its place the landscape becomes orange and red rock and sand. There’s one last long, steady climb to get up before we can pitch the tent and get the stove on for a well deserved cup of tea.

Crawling from the tent and blinking in the morning sun the view could well be of an alpine meadow. Lush, green grass with wild flowers sit in the foreground while the horizon is a jagged range of huge, snowy mountain tops.

This all changes as the day progresses as the greens and browns become reds and oranges and finally the drab beige of the desert. The desert towns are bleached by the sun with dusty tracks between the buildings while a simple tin roofed mosque is one of the few religious buildings that we’ve seen. Islam is certainly nothing like as visible as in Turkey and very few women wear head scarves.

We spend the afternoon charging across the desert with the wind in our faces like s hair dryer, until it begins to give way to more and more civilisation as we approach Baku. The cars get smarter, the drivers more aggressive and the road gets wider and wider until we’re on a six lane highway that probably isn’t really designed for bicycle traffic.

Azerbaijan Fact #6: When a courting grooms parents meet his potential wife’s parents they will drink tea. If the tea is served with sugar then the engagement is accepted, without it’s rejected.

But we make it safely into the centre of this very modern looking city and meet up with our host Jess. She and her husband Justin are friends who we used to share a swimming lane with in Bristol. They moved here 18 months ago after Justin landed a job with a dairy product company while Jess has some very useful and very portable English language teaching skills so works at a nearby school.

While in Baku we have a few tasks to complete before we can continue on so we need to be here for a few days. There are visas for Uzbeksitan and Tajikistan to apply for and also a few running repairs and maintenance needed on the bike and kit. Once that’s all been done we then have to work out how to get onboard the legendary and notorious Caspian Sea crossing but all of that is a story for another post.

As planned, we met up with Marcus’s brother Justin on a rainy Saturday morning in Tbilisi airport. Here’s his account of our week together:

I’m sure I can’t be the first person to have made a drunken promise in The Woods whisky bar at 2 o’clock in the morning… Eight months later, that promise became a reality as my plane came in for a very bumpy landing at Tbilisi International. You always know when you’ve had a rough flight when everybody (including the air stewardesses) on the plane breaks into spontaneous applause on landing!! Having landed at the unsociable hour of 4.20am M and K had tipped me off about a fantastic website called sleepinginairports.net. so the first night’s, (or what was left of it) accommodation was sorted in the form of a strip of Astroturf, complete with fake plastic trees under the large escalator

As day broke Kirsty found me busily trying to get my bike back into one piece -it won’t surprise you that she and Marcus had already clocked up 25 km cycling down a road affectionately known as the George W. Bush highway from the city centre.  (there is a perfectly good train service for those who don’t fancy taking on Georgian drivers coming towards you three abreast).

After a quick logistics meeting over an omelette we made the decision to head south-east to a monastery recommended by a mate from Brigstock who had driven there in his Land Rover 10 years previously. Once there we would see where the roads took us. Georgians are meant to be most friendly and hospitable people in the world, (as already experienced by M and K) and no sooner had we left the airport heading down what would be the equivalent of the M4 motorway that I experienced this first hand, every driver was honking their horn, in some cases, slowing to my pace, winding down their window and waving frantically at me. I duly waved back and smiled….  It wasn’t until I glanced over my shoulder and realised that they were trying to tell me that I had dropped one of my panniers which was blocking the slow lane ½ mile back that I realised what the fuss was about. It’s a great road (even in the rain),  we could have bought anything from a 30lb catfish out the back of a Lada to a box tree almost large enough for topiary should we so wished.

Beyond the road we were flanked by vineyards and had been told on numerous occasions that there has been wine in Georgia almost as long as there has been Georgians, archaeological records dating back to the third millennium BC. It was apt that our first stop should be at a wine tasting shop. Having been presented with three different wines we were all very impressed, particularly with the white, which resembled a personal favourite of mine, Blue Nun.

Once off the main road, we were able to ride side-by-side and engage in conversation. I soon learned that there were three key priorities to each day on the road: food, cycling, food and sleep. After hard haggling with local market traders in a small town and full panniers we headed on past yet more vineyards and now redundant large-scale collective farms. It became clear that the rain wasn’t going to let up and we were never going to make our chosen destination, so we took Kirsty’s “campsite of the day” recommendation of a flat piece of ground next to the River Iori, which by now was beginning to swell into an angry muddy torrent.  It was at this point that I didn’t feel quite so proud about my second-hand purchases from eBay. Dickie Fincher, I will be subscribing to the Outdoor Adventure Guide as soon as I get back.

We were all woken up early the next morning by a strange noise that sounded like an annoying ring tone on someone’s phone.  Sticking my head out of the tent I realised we’d been joined by a bubbly flock of Hoopoes, which we would be seeing throughout our trip. These fascinating birds are the size of a mistle thrush and have a pinkish-brown body, striking black and white wings, a long black downcurved bill, and a long pinkish-brown crest which it raises when excited.  Despite many attempts, none of us were able to get a good photograph of these birds which appeared to be very camera shy.

We eventually rocked up to our destination of the Davit Gareja monastery complex by mid-morning the following day having passed along an incredible ridge (with a strong wind behind us) where we had the high Caucasus out in the distance on our left, and the low Caucasus on our right. With large flocks of migrating Eurasian Cranes heading north overhead.

Over the course of the morning the landscape had changed dramatically and now resembled virtually open desert in which were perched over 15 monasteries, many of which were no more than caves, founded in the mid-sixth century by St David. The place is fascinating, although apparently a mere shadow of its former self as the Soviet army used the area as an artillery range, on account that the landscape resembled Afghanistan! And often aiming directly at the monasteries

The idea was that we were going to spend Easter Sunday bunking up with a monk. However, the monks had other ideas and we were forced to pedal back down the valley to look for alternative accommodation. It didn’t take long, within 1 km we found a lovely open spot perched on top of some old ruins with the Azerbaijani border a few metres to the south and open plains grazed by large flocks of sheep and goats carefully tended by shepherds to the north. It was only later that evening when I was perusing through the guidebook that we learnt of the massacre of 6000 monks by Shah Abbas during the Easter night procession in the early 17th century on the very spot we pitched our tent! Was it a ghost I saw that night or just Marcus taking a pee? I will never know.

Surfaced roads are rare in this part of Georgia. Most of next morning was spent pedalling along a dirt track through open plains, with only the occasional shepherd or isolated AK47 wielding border guard for company. Food and water was running low, so we had no choice but to head to the nearest town of Rustavi. Rustavi was one of Georgia’s leading industrial centres during the Soviet era, and included a vast metallurgical plant now mostly redundant following the fall of communism creating an almost ghost town feel.  It was hard to imagine what the place would have been like when it was in full production, smoke noise and lights. Apparently conditions in the factory were us so bad that workers were forced to retire as young as 45 due to ill-health.

The shortest route isn’t often the quickest as we found out later on that day having headed down an unsurfaced track that had more potholes filled with cow and sheep piss than the average Cumbrian dairy farm.

Kirsty has a knack for choosing good campsites and tonight was no exception, next to an old fort just outside the town of Bolnisi.  It was in pristine condition and home to a convent of Georgian Orthodox nuns. Just as the pasta came to the boil, a white transit van crammed with a group of Azerbaijani workers pulled up to see what we were up to. After offering us beer and some basic sign language, it became clear they wanted us to go with them as opposed to spending the night under canvas. Not wanting to say no, we began to pack things up as darkness descended. Throughout this time, I must admit I felt uneasy as the group got more excited and more interested in our belongings as opposed to us. Our understanding was that they lived 2km away so I was bundled into the back of the transit with all of our bags while Kirsty and Marcus rode behind on the tandem. The final straw came when I was thrown against the side of the van as it did a handbrake turn at a T-junction before coming to a halt in order to recruit more of their mates at the side of the road. This definitely was not right.

We hastily unpacked, made our excuses and headed in the opposite direction as quickly as we could.  The first available point of refuge happened to be a small cafe serving cold beer and excellent sausages which we devoured whilst nervously looking out of the window for transit vans. The thought of having to the pitch the tent again and set up camp was all too much, so after yet more sign language the owners of the cafe very kindly let us sleep on the floor of an adjoining backgammon den.  At worst we missed a good night out with the locals, at best we got away with all of our belongings still intact.

Over every hill, the landscape changed yet again, by day 4 we found ourselves cycling along cherry and walnut avenued roads with the local farming community planting their potato crop on an old-fashioned strip system beyond.

The mountains were always on the horizon and before long we were back, climbing hard along roads you used to see on Top Gear, but instead of an Aston Martin taking the racing line it would be an old Lada Cossack or smokey Russian dumper truck pootling along.

By about 4 o’clock on the fourth day of cycling we had climbed to 1600m with large patches of snow still evident on north facing slopes. As we climbed over a saddleback we were presented with a spectacular view of snowcapped domed mountains rising up in front of us and  it was hard not believe we were in Scotland, looking out over the Cairngorm National Park.  Having rejected Kirsty’s first choice for “campsite of the day” , located on a small plateau some 200m above the road we quickly took up on her second offering which was somewhere that offered equally spectacular views, but slightly more accessible. Although there was no wood to make a campfire we didn’t mind as we watched the sunset on the expansive landscape (accompanied by an eclectic mix of tunes laid down by MC MM).

Villages and villagers became more remote and more desolate as we progressed towards the Armenian border  but the scenery continued to become more dramatic. At one point the road dropped down over 600m into a beautiful oak, hornbeam and hazel coppice clad gorge before winding its way back out at the other end over along a steep, gruelling unsurfaced series of hairpins. Clarkson should be put on a bike to fully appreciate hunger and tiredness after a day on the road.

Four or five times a day, we could expect the quiet enjoyment of cycling to be interrupted by a dog chase.  This involved a rabid canine of either the mangy mongrel variety, or when out in the hills the bear-like Caucasian Mountain dog. Nine times out of 10 their bark was worse than their bite, and after baring their teeth they backed off. Occasionally Kirsty had to give them a squirt in the face from a water bottle, but this was rare.

We did almost get caught towards the end of the ride, by a particularly aggressive beast which would have definitely got us if we hadn’t been able to gather speed going downhill and if it hadn’t fallen into the ditch. Note to one’s self, get the rabies jab next time, just in case.

Time definitely goes slower when you’re on the bike and it felt like I’d been away for ages when we started our descent back into Tbilisi. I’d learnt a lot about the art of cycle touring from Marcus and Kirsty who are consummate professionals at this unique mode of transport.

The whole week had been building up to a big night out with our warm shower hosts in Tbilisi, culminating in a Kinkali (dumpling) eating competition . But before we could enter back into civilisation we cleaned ourselves up in one of the numerous sulphur baths nestled within the old part of the town, it was a bit like the old Malvern lido , but stank of rotten eggs (just what you need to mask the smell of one weeks BO). Kinkkali are an interesting dish, it resembles a pale, shaven scrotum which Georgian etiquette dictates  must be eaten in a particular way. This involves balancing the sack on a knife with a fork, biting through the pastry, sucking out the juice before eating the remainder in one. I still claim to this day that I made double figures, and demand a stewards enquiry.

Every now and then discussions came round to what Marcus and Kirsty plan to do once they arrived in New Zealand, the current line of thinking involves setting up a Artesian bakery based on the many different types of breads and pastries they have sampled on the trip so far. I think that they should get into management consultancy as the way that they conduct their business couldn’t be more efficient. They have set a clear vision which everybody knows and understands, they have assigned responsibilities to the most appropriate person with Marcus taking the role of pilot (often barking orders at Kirsty to apply the drag brake) as well as mechanic, sous chef and wordsmith. Kirsty takes on the role of chief navigator, financial director and quartermaster. They have invested wisely in capital which gives an excellent return (the tent has paid for itself. ten times over) and they’re able to motivate their staff (mugs like me) to keep up. It was a real joy to be part of the team even it was only for a few days. Thank you so much.

In reality we all know what will happen when they get to New Zealand. It’ll be time to come back… Via Santiago de Chile and Anchorage…

 

 

Leaving Trabzon behind us we head out east again. To our right the feet of the mountains keep threatening to kick us into the Black Sea and barely leave enough room for the main road and a few coastal towns. From time to time though the hills make it right to the water so we have to brave the infamous Back Sea tunnels that give this stretch of road a bit of a reputation amongst touring cyclists. They range from 200m to nearly 2km and are not for the faint hearted. As we ride through them the noise of the traffic approaching from behind us builds to a deafening roar and we brace ourselves for what sounds like a juggernaut on a collision course, only to then get passed by a small minibus. In fact all the traffic gives us plenty of room as the tunnels have two lanes and our retina-searingly-bright flashing rear light gives them due warning that we’re there.

Once back in the daylight we begin passing small tea plantations with terraces cut into the steep hillside. There are pulley systems and zip lines for getting the crop down from the top and then off to the many processing plants that we also begin seeing.

Apart from tea and tunnels the most remarkable feature of this part of the journey is the number of green gyms. Here on the Black Sea coast the combined good intentions of the local authority and what must have been a very slick selling pitch from the green gym equipment manufacturer have resulted in dozens of gyms all along the road. We didn’t count them all but there must be one every 2 miles or so. And just like all the others we’ve seen, nobody seems to use them.

The tunnels help iron out the road so we get the easy return to riding that we’d hoped for to test our injured bodies. A few niggles aside we both seem to be coping OK and 110 sunny km pass by quickly.

Just after the appropriately named Çayeli we make a u-turn onto a side road that takes us through a narrow tunnel to a small pebbled beach and a very closed cafe. Once the local goat herder has finished staring at us and ushered his flock away we set ourselves up for the night on the cafe floor. It’s a beach hut with plastic sheeting for walls that should offer enough protection.

Just as we climb under the quilt a van drives right onto the beach and parks within 2m of where we are lying. There’s just the plastic sheeting between us and the vehicle. We both hold our breath expecting to be discovered at any second but the driver and his female companion have other things on their minds. The radio gets turned up and if I could see the bumper I’m sure it would have a sticker that said “If the vans rockin’ don’t come knockin'”.

Two nervous hours pass with the Turkish equivalent of Barry White blaring out of their car stereo and then thankfully they drive away and we’re left alone. Well, nearly alone. It turns out the cafe does already have a resident in the form of a large rat. Kirsty comes nose to whisker with it when it scuttles over to have a look at its new guests and she stifles a scream. I quickly pack away all our food and the rat seems to lose interest. The only thing left out is a large apple that we’d been given in Çayeli and which Kirsty had left in her helmet, suspended from the bars of the bike.

In a Mission Impossible manoeuvre the hungry rat manages to shin up the bike frame, climb into the helmet and nudge the apple out onto the floor where it takes a few bites then leaves it in search of something more tasty. Luckily it’s not able to undo the buckles on our rack bag.

The next day we pedal the last few km of Turkey, enjoying a final complimentary cup of çay on the way, and arrive at our 24th border. We’ve had some of the best of times and the worst of times in Turkey so it’s a country that will leave us with plenty of memories and a few scars but now it’s time to cross into Georgia.

There’s a 1km long queue of trucks waiting to get across but we get waved past them all and have to wheel the bike through what looks like an airport terminal. Apart from an impatient Georgian woman trying to push us out the way to get her passport checked before ours, unsuccessfully, we get through quickly and easily. We also lose 2 hours in the process as Georgia is in a new time zone.

On the other side a friendly tourist information lady issues us with maps and some information about Adjari, the region of Georgia we’re now entering. There are 12 regions in Georgia and each one has its own unique cultural traditions and local delicacies. Some of them have such a strong identity that they function as autonomous states and Adjari is one of those. More controversial are South Ossetia and Abkhaza who are fighting to be entirely independent and as such visiting tourists are strongly dissuaded from going there.

Out on our first Georgian road the change compared to Turkey is immediate. We’re no longer on a smooth dual carriageway and instead have pot holes, Ladas and herds of cattle to negotiate.

Approaching Batumi we get some fantastic views of the lesser Caucasus mountains but the sights in Batumi are even more extraordinary. We pedal along the sea front boulevard where there seems to be a competition to see who can build the most ridiculous looking hotel. The one that looks like half of the Colosseum wins in my mind but it’s a close run thing. Further up the boulevard there’s a tall skyscraper with an enormous TV screen wrapped around it and a small Ferris wheel hanging off the side. Then at the far end we see the Alphabet Tower, an enormous ball perched on top of a twisted structure that shows the unique Georgian alphabet running around it in a spiral.

It reminds us of Las Vegas and like its Nevada big brother, Batumi has lots of casinos to draw in visitors from Turkey, where gambling is illegal, and wealthy Russians. But underneath the glitzy façade the skyscraper is completely empty and the restaurant planned for the top of the Alphabet Tower was never finished. It seems there is still some work to do to bring in the crowds to support the prosperous image that the town is trying to portray.

After a bite to eat we head off to find somewhere to camp and find ourselves alongside a big lake where a huge dancing fountain display is taking place, in time to various classic rock ballads. Another hint at Vegas and it’s almost like standing in front of the Bellagio.

At the end of the lake is a derelict Chinese restaurant on its own island so we set ourselves up amongst the pagodas and watch the end of the fountain display from the tent.

If we’d read the booklet we’d picked up from the tourist information we’d have found out that one of the fountains on the boulevard spouts the local tipple ChaCha at 7 every evening.

After a morning looking round the town we set off up the coast, past bamboo plantations and stalls selling bamboo ladders. It’s hillier than we expected and as we grind up a particularly steep gradient the cars and trucks come a bit too close for comfort. Drivers in Georgia are appalling and every other car has a bumper missing or a cracked windscreen. There’s a Lada with a wheel off or a bonnet open on most street corners and always with a crowd of men in leather jackets gathered round trying to assess the problem.

I’m keen to take my last chance for a dip in the Black Sea so we camp behind some hotels overlooking a long beach in Kobuleti. In the summer the water temperature averages 25 degC but in late March it’s a bit cooler so its a case of splash and dash. Despite being over 30km away across the bay, we can still see the bright lights of the TV screen attached to the skyscraper in Batumi.

Our road turns away from the sea the next day and we ride a roller coaster of small hills through quiet villages, slaloming around various animals in the road. By lunchtime we arrive in Ozurgeti. There are rows of tiny shops most of whom are selling bales of hay and cattle food but in amongst them are a few small windows behind which are bakers and grocers so we stock up for lunch and find a park to have a picnic.

Just as we get everything unpacked a man wanders over and invites us into his café so we chuck our provisions back in the bag and follow him. We thought the offer was just for a coffee but he brings out a number of plates and bowls loaded with bread, cheese, spring onions and a traditional bean hot pot. Our picnic will have to wait until dinner time! We try to pay but he refuses to accept our cash making a gesture to indicate it was his pleasure. This is our first example of the famous and generous Georgian hospitality. Here they have a saying that a guest is a gift from God.

As we ride out of town a police car drives up behind us and sounds its siren. Unless the speed limit is less than 15kph I’m not sure what we’ve done wrong but I pull over anyway. The policeman then tries to tell us we should be riding on the pavement on the other side of the road. Given half the paving slabs are missing and the kerbs are 30cm high at each junction we don’t really think this is such a good idea. I tell the policeman as such so he then suggests we just ride on the other side of the road, against the traffic. Also not good so I smile and try to tell him we’ll just ride carefully on this side thanks and begin to ride off. He then follows us very slowly for at least 3km until we’re beyond the town limits and presumably out of his jurisdiction.

The police presence in Georgia is very visible with American style police cars everywhere and always with their blue lights flashing. There are also very smart looking police stations in even the smallest villages. Kirsty found a statistic that said that 98% of Georgians think their country is 100% safe and given how heavily it’s policed we can see why they might think that. Later that day we see a car pulled over and a handful of cash being offered through the window to the policeman so this security comes at a price.

After a lengthy climb at a comfortable gradient we drop into a steep sided, wooded valley and the village of Chakhatauri. Kirsty spots a picnic table next to a small river which looks like a good camping spot so we roll down to investigate. Before we have time to unload we’re joined by an old man who seems very excited to meet us. After a short conversation where we point and mime to explain what we’re doing he invites us back to his house.

We stroll up a rough track past free roaming pigs and a half dozen geese to his home where he sits us down at a table outside and disappears inside. There are chickens everywhere and they follow the man up the wooden ramp that leads to his front door and some make it into the house. Shortly after the man emerges, shooing chickens out the door again as he brings us bread and a huge round of home made cheese. While we all tuck in, the occasional chicken hops on to the table to try and steal some bread, sometimes successfully.

After a while it’s time to head back and pitch the tent but the man insists we stay with him. He’s very persistent so we thank him and fetch the bike.

Inside the house is very sparse with only two rooms being occupied and the kitchen just having a dirt floor. He lives there alone but he has told us about his daughter and twin grand daughters who now live in Tbilisi but we don’t find out where his wife is. We’re sat down in front of a TV and spend the rest of the evening being made made to watch Georgian game shows, which are probably no less bizarre even if we could understand what they were saying.

There are two single beds pushed together in the room and we realise that is where all three of us will be sleeping. It’s not a comfortable night with Kirsty and me squeezed into one and the man snoring away right next to us but we have to be grateful for his generosity and the wind and rain that lash at the windows overnight mean we probably wouldn’t have got much sleep in the tent either.

When your house is surrounded by chickens there’s no need for an alarm clock so after the first cockerel has crowed we’re all up and get ready to go. There’s no running water in the house so we wash from a kettle filled from an outside tap. After several handshakes we say our goodbyes and roll on down the track. A wonderful display of Georgian hospitality again and given how our host is grinning from ear to eat he’s obviously enjoyed looking after us.

We quickly drop out of the hills and onto a wide plain that sits with the huge Upper Caucasus mountains to the north and Lesser Caucasus to the south. The two mountain ranges create a natural funnel for a strong wind that blows across the plain, which builds throughout the day and of course blows right into our faces.

By late afternoon we’re through Kutaisi, the 2nd biggest city in Georgia and also through with battling the wind so find a sheltered clearing in a wood and hope it’s calmed down by morning.

It hasn’t. In fact it’s so strong the next day that holding the handlebars is like wrestling a particularly disgruntled goat. After being blown off the road two or three times the decision is made that it’s too dangerous to ride so we begin walking. After 13km, where we occasionally have to stop as the wind is even too strong to be able to stand up, we find shelter in a well stocked cafe. A staple Georgian speciality is Katchapuri. This is a baked cheesy bread with plenty of butter that is perfect fuel for hungry cyclists (and walkers). Each region has it’s own version and all of them are deliciously filling.

By the time we’ve washed the Katchapuri down with a coffee the wind has dropped enough for us to actually ride. On the other side of Zestafoni we meet German (prn. Herman) who has ridden from Barcelona and following a similar route to us so we agree to camp together. He’s had a rough time in Georgia having had his pans stolen in Batumi by a policeman who he’d asked to look after his kit (a higher bribe may have been required), and then having knee trouble meaning he’s been forced to rest in an abandoned house for the last two days. He’s glad of some company but needs more rest so the next day we leave him to his morning siesta and hope to see him again later in the trip (www.monkeyonthebike.com).

We have drizzle and a lengthy climb during the morning that culminates in a long tunnel that takes us through the top of the hill then we drop down into Khashuri. On the way we pick up some sweet bread from one of the many road side bakers and it tastes so good we stop to buy another a couple of hundred metres further on.

The banks of a small river on the other side of Khashuri provides the perfect setting for the evening but just as we begin preparing dinner a man arrives and he doesn’t look happy. He motions for us to pack up and follow him. We’re reluctant having just got everything ready but he won’t back down. The fact that he has a shotgun on his shoulder and a large knife in his belt make him very persuasive so we eventually concede and dismantle the tent.

Our armed escort takes to the rear of the bike as we push it up the road into the nearby village, not really knowing what will happen next. But this is Georgian hospitality by force and after parking the bike in his his garage Jimali and his wife Nora treat us to an evening of food, home made wine and much miming and gesticulating in place of conversation before providing a bed for the night.

Breakfast consists largely of cognac and homemade cha cha with ever more animated toasts with each of his neighbours who come round to have a look at us. We then pay a visit to the local church and meet an English teacher who  is able to explain to us that no self respecting Georgian would allow a visitor to their country to sleep in a tent if they had a bed available. If we’d managed to decline the offer then Jimali would have been very offended. Using a gun to round up guests still seems a bit strong though.

We’re sent on our way with a huge bottle of Jimali’s wine strapped to the panniers and some high strength cha cha and don’t have the heart to tell him they’ll be more of a hindrance than a help.

Next stop is Gori that holds the dubious claim to fame of being the birthplace of  one Joseph Stalin. The museum dedicated to one of history’s most ruthless leaders seems to treat him as something of a local hero. Although there is very little in English there seems to be some major omissions concerning some of his most brutal acts, with more emphasis on his role in creating the mighty Soviet Union and defending it from the Nazis. History can be interpreted in many different ways.

The next day we arrive in Tbilisi under the cover of a large rain cloud and make our way to our host, Zak’s flat to make apologies for dragging soggy kit through his living room. Zak is from Dubai and his flatmate Danidu from Sri Lanka, both are studying medicine as the university in Tbilisi offers a very good course for a fraction of the cost of studying in other countries.

Our main task in Tbilisi is to apply for our Azerbaijani visas. Once we find the embassy we hand over our passports, completed application and a confirmation of a hotel booking for our first night’s stay. Despite what we read online, this isn’t good enough and the official tells us we need a hotel confirmation for every night of our stay which is difficult when we plan to stay in our tent. To remedy this I walk up the road and use a travel agents computer to change our hotel booking to 28 nights, print 2 copies of the confirmation and head back to the embassy. This time the official smiles and says that will be perfect, but we now need to pay the fee of $118 each (nearly three times as much as other EU citizens). To do this we must catch a taxi to the Azerbaijani national bank 10 minutes up the road, handover the fee in Georgian Lari and then take the receipt back to the embassy. We arrive back 10 minutes after they are supposed to have closed but thankfully we’re allowed back in and hand everything over. Within three working days our visas should be ready for collection so we have time to kill.

Luckily this coincides with a special guest who we will be meeting at the airport the next day to join us for a week of riding in the Georgian countryside so we don’t mind waiting. My brother, Justin is joining us for his first ever cycle tour and he’s been invited over on the pretext that we want to see him but in reality he’s being used as a useful kit mule for various bits and pieces that we need from the UK. Hopefully he and his bike will make it into the country safely given he only has a 25 minute transfer in Riga on the way over.