Prologue

Just occasionally the planets align and circumstances conspire for opportunities to be presented. The Grand Tour (no, nothing to do with clapped-out Clarkson and his posh-boy pals) proved to be just such a case. For many years I’ve followed the Tour de France and when I noted it was passing directly through one of my favourite regions, specifically via several of my favourite towns, it was an opportunity too good to pass up. The plan, as such, was to load up the bike and cycle 500 miles in five days, ride Stage 10 (Perigeux to Bergerac) on the (real) Tour’s rest day, watch the pros do it properly the following day, and spend a while recovering round the pool at Les Lavandes (a pal’s Dordogne gite complex) thereafter, before flying back.

Now returned, my only advice would be ‘do it’ but don’t underestimate the size of the country, don’t overestimate your ability to ride big-distances in 38 degrees heat, and don’t take a 1998 map on a 2017 tour. Let the games commence.

The Grand Depart – Sunningdale to Portsmouth

Cards on the table, I’m surprisingly nervous, perhaps even a little daunted by what lies ahead. I’ve cycled big distances in the UK before and I’ve cycled in France before, but never the two combined, and on the wrong side of the road. Once laden up with camping gear the bike weighs the proverbial ton and I decide to ditch the stove & kettle, and the second pair of pants. At Portsmouth, I tentatively engage a motorcyclist in conversation who, all of a sudden, loses his footing and disappears under his brand-new Triumph Tiger. Uh on, not a good omen for his tour, me-thinks!

Four young Peckham auditors, who shop at Khan’s and often enjoy Salas’s spiced haloumi shawarmas, rock-up and over a few sherbets we discover many shared contacts (including squash demon, Stuart Hadden) and even before we touch French soil I realise once again that it’s a surprisingly small world. We’re all kinda heading the same way but they’re talking animatedly about canal paths, used-railway tracks and windy back-roads whilst I’m thinking nice, long, flat N roads. Railing against the traditional view of cycling tours, for me this is all about the destination and the journey can go whistle; the journey is merely a means to an end. Probably.

Stage 1 – Caen to Mayenne (160km/100miles)

My lack of planning is brought into sharp focus straight away as we’re not even docking in Caen, but some God-forsaken port, Ouistreham, which, as it turns out, adds an additional 20kms of pedalling. I don’t even have a map page for this section (I’d cut the relevant route pages out of the aforementioned 1998 Michelin Map of France). Oh well, no worries, it’s a straight road and will only be another 45 minutes. Two hours later I wobble into Caen an almost broken man. The road turned out to be an equivalent of our dual carriageway, with no hard shoulder and no provision made for an unsteady cyclist with a skippy front wheel (as all the weight’s on the rear) and poor sense of direction. I detour into villages I’ve never heard of and rely upon my ‘allo, allo’ French to carry me along: “Bonjour, je suis Anglais et j’ai necessite de assistance, sil vous plait? Ou est le Tour?” Needless to say, I got lost. Everywhere. All the time.

Jelly legs eventually carry me through Caen and belatedly, I hook-up with the D562. When exactly did this slip of red-ribbon become the major autoroute to the south of the country? Now, I don’t think for one second that any long-distance HGV driver ever intentionally tried to force me off the road but by the time five or six had loudly signalled their displeasure, or concern for my safety, by me being on this road, I decided discretion was the better part of valour and turned-off. To show how supportive they truly were, I even heard one exclaim out of his open window “See you next Tuesday, you delightful British boy!” Probably. Despite their best intentions, the huge articulated and double-jointed vehicles couldn’t help but scare the cleats off you when they passed. First, the huge bow-wave of air would shove you forcibly towards the gravelly verge; then a powerful vacuum of slipstream suck would yank you back to the centre of the road. One was bad enough but the usual procession of three or four played havoc with both my forward momentum and my heartbeat.

At May-s Ome I politely enquire of two runners if the D562 is indeed safe for cycling and am forcibly informed “Non, c’est non permitee” with the lycra-clad lady enforcing the point further by standing directly in front on me, raising a palm to my face and declaring “Non, non, NON!” The subsequent detour confirms small roads are far, far more hilly and the slower speed brings the rising sun to my attention. It’s at least 30 degrees and is only mid-morning. Aha, hold on a second, a little later I come across one of the beautifully straight and perfectly flat railway tracks the Peckham boys had spoken lovingly of and 20kms later I roll into Thury Harcourt and all’s well with the world. Except this is where the track sadly comes to an end. I confirm with two ol’ boys that the D562 isn’t quite as busy as it has been, tentatively re-join and get my head down – I’m way behind schedule already and need to get a bit of a wiggle on.

Thankfully, all is one and several hours later I’m sat in a lovely roadside bar in historic Domfort and a couple of 1664’s fill me with enough confidence that my original target, Mayenne, is on the cards. Wicked beer you, wicked beer. The next 35kms/20miles show me how little training I’d done for this particular escapade and Mayenne eventually greets a distressed, dishevelled & dehydrated cyclist before the office de tourisme directs me to the closest camping site via the largest supermarket. Two cold ones, a whole roast chicken, a seven euro pitch and I’m asleep by 8.00pm. I can’t recall ever being this tired. And I haven’t needed a wee since the ferry at six in the morning. Nui-nui.

Stage 2 – Mayenne to Saumur (170kms/105miles)

I can’t remember the last time I slept for twelve hours and I’m greeted by a summer morning French tourism dreams of. I fill my bidons (water bottles dontchaknow), pop in a couple of tasty tablets and hit the road, Jack. In fact, I hit the LHS of the road, Jack, and am thankfully/luckily greeted head-on by an equally slow moving ancient Renault 4. We both stop and I fully appreciate my European shortcomings. Francois bade me a gentle farewell, probably with the French equivalent of ‘ and don’t you come back, no more, no more!’

Drrr…thwick, drrr…thwick, drrr…thwick. Almost immediately I knew what was wrong – not being secured by lugs (screw holes in the actual bike frame) the pannier frame had started to slip down the rear-stays and was clipping the top of the gear cassette – as the same had happened on my LEJOG escapade and I thought I’d fixed it this time by wrapping the frame in sticky insulation tape. What was I thinking? OK, what to do? Well, first let’s try and ignore it for twenty miles and then, when it doesn’t go away, pull into a garage and plead incompetence. Not a petrol garage but a real, proper ‘engine-out, brake shoes off’ garage. “Bonjour, je suis Anglais et j’ai necessite de assistance, sil vous plait?” Hey presto, who else do you know that could pull into a garage that’s run by an 8000km/year-riding proprietor who wants to tell me about his new Look carbon frame and Campag groupset! Half an hour later, bidons replenished with cold Evian, I’m pedalling out to the waves of three mechanics, when my foot slips out of the cleat I smack my undercarriage on the alloy crossbar and skid out onto the open road. How I didn’t drop the bike remains a mystery to me. My, how we all laughed…

The first of several jambon et fromage baguettes is dispatched at the truly beautiful Sable sur Sarthe and several hours later I’m sat in a lovely bar in downtown Bauge for a well-deserved cold one. Or two. The barman doesn’t believe I’ve cycled from Mayenne but does inform me that the Slovakian green jersey contender, and my favourite Tour rider, Peter Sagan, has been disqualified for giving Mark Cavendish the ‘Spanish fiddle’ (el-bow) on the sprint finish the day earlier. This brings home a bit of an irony: I’m here for the Tour de France and I’ve yet to actually see a wheel turn in this year’s edition. Apparently, Geraint Thomas has been the first Welshman to ever wear yellow but now he’s out; Richie Porte has had a helluva crash and retired; Cav’s retired injured; Froome’s worn and surrendered yellow; Quintana’s nowhere to be seen; And it’s all news to me. Anyway, back in the bar, my advice is to never start-up a conversation with the wiry-pastis-drinking midget in the corner (it’s a legal obligation that every French bar does indeed have one) as no-one has spoken to him since D-Day and he will try and then follow you to your next destination. Au revoir mon petit ami. And now please let go of the paniers…

Tortuous back-roads appear to enjoy my obvious discomfort (I resort to loudly berating French topology) and 7.00pm sees me dismount at a flag-flying campsite on the riverbank of stunning Saumur. Two steel-riding French teenagers arrive at the same time and I (stupidly) play the British gentleman and hold the reception door open for them. Yep, they stroll to the desk and take the last ten euro camping pitch available on the site. B*gger. I get offered a vast 30 euro Winnebago settlement with electricity, an aerial for Eurotrash and pumped water. Non! I beg, I plead, I point out I’m travelling with nothing more than a short-wave radio on which I can receive nothing but the crackling & distant BBC World Service and for once, it works. The receptionist enquires of her counterpart if the boss is coming back tonight, and, as he isn’t, she lets me pitch in the middle of three-unused mobiles homes, for the aforementioned reduced charge. Game on and merci-beaucoups, Amelie.

Stage 3 – Saumur to Civaux (130kms/80miles as the crow flies. 155kms/95 miles as this cyclist pedals)

Drrr…thwick, drrr…thwick, drrr…thwick. Uh oh. Even before I exit the campsite it’s back. B*gger. Double b*gger. My expansive toolkit consists of three tyre levers, three allen keys and a tiny Swiss army knife with a one inch blade and plastic toothpick. This isn’t going to be easy. Think. Think again. Think more. Think harder. What would a Wyatt do in these circumstances?

Many of you will know Grant and Grant is known for thinking things through and coming up with solutions. Grant is to objectivity what I am to a lack of foresight. So, thinking like a Wyatt, I scale up the objectivity:

• Firstly, Grant would be on a bike that had proper lugs so the pannier frame could never slip.
• Secondly, if he wasn’t, he’d have ensured he’d’ve bought the correct size of pannier frame fitting set.
• Thirdly, he’d’ve tested the set-up for hundreds of miles beforehand to ensure it was up to the job.
• Fourthly, he’d travel with a massive Leatherman multi-tool that would comfortably handle any eventuality the apocalypse could possibly throw at humanity.

B*gger. Let’s forget doing a Wyatt and return to my default setting: a combination of Heath Robinson meets Bodge-It & Scarper. Three cable-ties and one small bungy later and I’m on the road with drrr…thwick representing only a dim & distant memory. All I’ll say is that the inventor of the humble, ubiquitous cable-tie deserves a Nobel prize and if he hasn’t already been awarded one, then I’m going to start a social media initiative to ensure he does!

Ah, a headwind. Where did that come from? Today’s already hot, humid and now I’ve a headwind to deal with. It’s going to be hard work and the D761 & N147 to Poitiers are both displaying worryingly similar attributes to our own M1 & M6. I came to view N roads as ‘Nil life expectancy’ and D roads as ‘Don’t think you’re getting off lightly, cycling boy’. I also did end up on one A road (a formal motorway) and that has to be ‘Already dead’.

From the onset it was obvious to me that French drivers really do treat cyclists as fellow road-users with every right to use the proportion of the lane as they feel comfortable with. Notwithstanding this, following an alarmingly close 90mph wing-mirror, I think back to James Cracknell (go google his RAM incident if you don’t know what I’m referring to) and turn-off at Montreuil-Bellay in search of a lovely canal path that teases me with the potential of fifty flat miles. An hour, and many directional requests later, I finally find it. F*ck. I doubt anyone’s ridden this in a decade and you’d now be hard-put to cycle on it with a full-suss mtb let alone a fully-laden road bike on skinny tyres and side-pull brakes. B*gger.

The upside of the roads I now find myself on is the countryside. It’s green, lush and all a bit British. And there’s a lot of it. Before setting off some wag had mentioned that I’d finding the terrain somewhat rolling. He wasn’t wrong but sadly he failed to mention that I’d find it always rolling upwards. His wry smile I now know means he knew all along that would be the case. Here in ol’ blighty, tightly-packed herds of black & white livestock nibble the grass down to a level that would satisfy a Wimbledon centre-court green-keeper. En France, their blonde kindred spirits appear lost within fields of waist high pasture the size of your average airport cark park. It’s certainly a big, good-looking country. Furthermore, HGVs had rightly decided to give these roads a miss and the only vehicles I seemed to share them with are the ever-present tearaway teenage two-strokes. Ah, the Castrol GTX of the stinky ‘ped so reminds me of my yoof.

The downside to these roads is that they’ve not benefited from any upkeep since they were probably laid. The pockmarked and holed surface are uncomfortable to both a*se and eye. ‘Chaussee Deformee’ warned the road signs unnecessarily as I could feel & see that quite clearly. If they’d spent as much money fixing the road surface as they’d done warning me of the fact then they’d have the best roads in Europe. Does this make you think I’m starting to lose my en-route sense of humour? No sh*t, Sherlock! I’ve also just swallowed my first massive fly. I don’t know why I swallowed a fly. Perhaps I’ll die.

Lunch in Loudon satisfied my carbohydrate cravings but precious little else and it’s a town that doesn’t quite deserve its billing, so I took my life in my hands again and re-joined the N147. Mercifully, the next couple of hours were as undramatic as they were painful and I scooted through the south-eastern edge of Poitiers in search of the (supposedly) idyllic village of Civaux. WRT to the weather what it gives with one hand, it takes away with another: the headwind meant that the burn of 36 degrees was kept at bay (also suppressed by a healthy dollop of sun factor 50) but it turned every kilometre into a strength sapping time trial.

Civaux was already closed when I wheeled in at around seven-ish. And it should be sued for misrepresentation and the overly-dramatic use of creative copyrighting. Civaux is not fit for purpose. And there’s no campsite. Circling the place I see a sign for a sports stadium and a leisure centre, decide to go have a nosey and voila! there’s the campsite. Phew. I wander over, am surprised the entrance is secured by a barrier but manage to gain entry and, to no avail, go in search of the reception. “Bonjour, je suis Anglais et j’ai necessite de assistance, sil vous plait? Ou est le reception?” I enquire of a young blond mother and she courteously leads me back to the barrier, where there’s a number to call, calls it, to no avail, and signs me to just go and find a spot to pitch my tent. At the same time there’s a boy kicking his ball against my bike to which I shout out, kick the ball to his young father and exclaim “Allez les Anglais”. With hindsight not the smartest move I’ve ever made.

So, I go find a spot and pitch the only tent on the park of, what I’ve now realised, is exclusively large static mobile homes. That’s a helluva cloud up there, where did that come from? Ah, it’s smoke from that pair of massive cooling towers over there. How exactly have I managed not to see them before, especially when I must have cycled pretty much directly past them? It still took a further fifteen minutes for the truth to dawn.

As I’m scraping-off the day’s road dirt I hear a helluva smash and I suspect one of the shower block windows has just been broken. It’s followed in short thrift by the banging of doors and the smashing of a mirror, and as I turn round I see a boy, no more than six or seven, trying to squeeze under my shower door! OMG, it’s not a campsite but a gypsy encampment filled by itinerant workers of the nuclear power station just up the road. Uh oh. I make a swift exit to check all my gear’s OK and settle down for, what can only be best described as, a somewhat restless night. The subsequent hours proved to be a combination of Shameless and The Wicker Man, and when the bonfire was lit (upon arrival I had thought it a quaint touch for the impending Bastille Day celebrations) I almost made my excuses and departed into the night. Almost. 6.00am saw every man on the site arise and leave en-masse for the day’s early shift. I followed shortly thereafter after sleeping fitfully with one eye most definitely open.

Stage 4 – Chivaux to Nontron (140kms/90miles)

A cooler, windless morning heralded some good miles, a great coffee & croissant breakfast in the lovely l’Isle-Jourdain and lunch in Confolens. Entering the town, I could not believe my luck – ‘The Chippy!’. Haddock, chips, mushy peas, curry sauce, slice of bread & butter and two cups of strong northern tea, served by an Everton supporting owner from Warrington, seemed a great idea at the time but an hour later, when the mercury hit forty, I had to question the wisdom of such a choice. And my bidons were dry. Again. And the tarmac was now melting, which made pushing the pedals even more tortuous. It’s like trying to pedal with two flat tyres and the tar just drags & claws at the wheels. To such an extent that on two occasions I had, with my trusty one-inch blade, to scrape the tar off the tyres as it was picking up stones and jamming the wheels on the underside of the brakes. B*gger. I need to get some water.

An open window with radio music tinkling out (by law, French radio still has to play a high proportion of French music and perhaps accounts for their strange love of all-things Johnny Holliday!) heralded my latest request: “Excusee moi, excusee moi? Ah, bonjour, je suis Anglais et j’ai necessite de assistance, sil vous plait?” The ol’ boy who popped his head out saw me drain two litres of his corporation pop, fill my bidons with a further couple, and sink a third. Dressed in an aged cycling shirt we then bounced famous tour cyclists’ names off each other: Moi, Jacques Antequil, vous, le badger, Bernard Hinault! Moi, Ricard Veronique, vous, le professor, Laurent Fignon! This was only going to end one way and I was delighted to be asked in and we shared a couple of celebratory pastis in his living room. When in Rome, so to speak. Tres bien, Thomas Vockler (his obvious nickname escapes me!), merci et au revoir.

A relatively early finish saw me cycling through rush-hour traffic at Nontron and gratefully ease myself into a lovely pitch next to a bubbling stream. Mind, as I hadn’t washed my riding kit in four days I suspect they put me there as it was next to the toilet block and there was the definite whiff of French effluent in the air! I knew now I’d broken the back of the journey and celebrated with a pack of Weiss bieres – I was obviously becoming deranged as I don’t like Weiss bieres at the best of times, never have done and, as this celebration confirmed, I never will do. Earlier, when approaching Saumur, I’d stopped to ask a poor passer-by where I could find ‘Rappel’ as it wasn’t on my map? Rappel as he  gently pointed out, before exiting sharpish stage-left, means ‘speed limit’. Extreme effort does strange things to us, me-thinks.

Stage 5 – Nontron to Le Bugue (90kms/55 miles)

An easy half-day’s cycling beckoned and, with no drama whatsoever, a lovely breakfast baguette (yep, jambon et fromage) was enjoyed in the fantastic town of Brantome (surely the most stunning & picturesque I encountered all week) and I was sat in my favourite tabac bar in central Le Bugue, cold one in hand, watching the French go about their weekend business, at one o’clock that very afternoon. Game on and I toasted both my good fortune and the constant help & support of everyone I had begged a favour from, and they were legion. After three it almost felt worth the effort.

Stage 6 – Le Bugue and Everything Thereafter (c.300kms/200miles)

I was greeted like the Prodigal Son at Les Lavandes by old friends Ken & Linda, who looked more relieved to see me than I was surprised at actually being there! Les Lavandes is truly a spiritual retreat and, in that true spirit, Ken & I opened a lovely bottle to celebrate my arrival, or at least that was our excuse. I hit the sack shortly thereafter and didn’t emerge for a good half day. Or two.

I have to admit that the next couple of days went by in a bit of a blur. I rode Stage 10 but cut it short by about 50kms as I just didn’t have the legs, or the motivation of having to get somewhere. The Tour flashed by the following day and it really was a case of ‘blink and you’ve missed it’. I blinked. The pre-race caravan was an absolute laugh-out-loud hoot and sooo much more than the cyclists themselves – what’s not to love about a comical twelve foot giraffe riding a miniature two-stroke motorised tea-cup whilst being mounted by a voluptuous advertising brunet courtesy of sponsor, Confidis! From two different vantage points (Les Eyzies & St Cyprien) I meet people from all over the place (Glasgow, Shrewsbury, Madagascar, Belfast & New York to mention but a few) and, back at the tabac bar in Le Bugue, one of the regulars crosses the road to shake me by the hand and enquires how I’d done? I’ve finally arrived and was only disappointed that he didn’t kiss me on BOTH cheeks!

Back at Les Lavandes a family of German cyclists had pitched up and one had even spent her teenage years climbing up the scaling the likes of Le Col du Izoard, Galibier & Tourmalet. Me, I was happy to decamp to Le Bistro du Tremolat! And my, did I eat for the days after I stopped cycling. I had a five foot body in a fifteen stone appetite. Believe me, I took another dessert & the cheese board for the team.

Following a couple of short days’ fantastic recuperation, Ken drops me off at Bergerac airport (you didn’t think I had the b*lls to cycle back did you?). In accordance with flying regulations the hardy Pinarello is fully dismantled with the wheels, tyres, saddle, pedals & handlebars off and everything tightly cable-tied (God bless you again, Sir!) in a newly purchased tarpaulin. Lovely Pierre feels it still necessary to point out that a) I’ve not mentioned in booking my hold-luggage that this is a piece of specialist sporting equipment and b) it’s not technically constrained in a mandated bike-bag or box, but we both know it’s OK. My off-the-cuff quip re nothing I’ve ever done sporting wise could possibly be classed as specialist AND I voted to remain, both fell on deaf ears! Sadly, Muscles from Bergerac doesn’t feel the same as 20 minutes later I see the tarpaulin being launched onto the conveyor belt into the plane’s hold. Ouch. I’m glad I’m not riding that home. Home, Jacques.

So, what did I learn en route:

• OK, it’s all about the journey. You knew that all along didn’t you!
• If you don’t ask, you don’t get. Ask, in the right manner, and you shall be given.
• Travel light. And then take half of it out.
• What the weather gives with one hand it takes with the other. I was sooo lucky in that I only got soaked once and 20 minutes later I was as dry as a bone.
• What goes up doesn’t necessarily have to go down.
• Continental Gatorskins are the only tyres to shod your rims with. Can you believe it, no punctures.
• It could have been worse: I could’ve been on a tandem, in the rain.
• Put yourself in the shoes of other road-users and they really don’t want to hit you. No, really.
• Beer’s good. As is a SW transistor radio and BBC Radio4 (LW) is all you need to stay connected with the outside world.
• Don’t buy a Triumph Tiger if you’re under 5’10” tall.
• Go off-line and off-piste, it’s where the good stuff happens.
• Ask things of yourself and, trust me, you are capable of coming through. My, you could even surprise yourself.
• Bonjour, je suis Anglais et j’ai necessite de assistance, sil vous plait? Translate accordingly and perhaps even occasionally practice.
• God bless the inventors of cable ties: Thomas & Betts!

Kit List:

Cycling – Bike (trusty alloy Pinarello with a Campagnolo Centaur 10 speed groupset, Stronglight 50/36 compact chainset, Fizik Arionne saddle; superb Continental Gatorskin tyres; alloy pannier rack and two textile panniers and a front handlebar bag; three Knog cycle lights; two 750ml water bottles & cages; three bungee cords; a Swiss army knife, three allen key; pocket pump (unused – u); puncture repair kit with additional patches & vulcanisation glue (u…amazingly!); three spare inner tubes (u), three tyre levers (u); assorted cable ties and elastic bands; assorted brackets, screws and plastic padding; cycling helmet; waterproof overshoes (u); heavy-duty lock; 20 fizzy berry tabs, chain grease;

Camping – One man tent (Terra Nova Saturn, thanks Mr. Fox); thermal sleeping bag & alpine mattress (thanks wee Tom); lightweight travel towel; toiletries (small container shower gel, toothpaste and brush; Gillette razor; pillow case (into which all the soft stuff was thrown into to make a respectable pillow; insect repellent (u), soothing/antiseptic creams (u), oily rag.

Clothing – s/s cycling jersey; pair bib shorts; riding socks; Nike cycling shoes with SPD cleats; casual shoes; sports socks (u), pair boxers; t-shirt; pair summer riding gloves; washing-up goves (essential for those oily moments); Calvin Kleins (u – yep, u); riding cap; Sportful racing cape; sunglasses; ear plugs, Speedos & swimming goggles

Miscellaneous – Balckberry & charger; transistor radio; notebook & pencil, marker pen; various pages from a Michelin French road atlas, cut to size; lots of energy bars; reading book (French Revolutioons by Tim Moore; tea bags; various spare batteries; tarpaulin (bought in Le Bugue on final day)

Food Diary:

Tuesday 4th July –One banana, one bar, four bidons, four cold ones, a whole roast chicken.

Wednesday 5th July – Two bars, one banana, a jambon et fromage baguette, one lovely warm quiche, two cold ones. Or possibly three. Ten bidons. Oh, and a plum. No, really.

Thursday 6th July – One jambon et fromage baguette (with crudités this time!), one bar, one banana, two croissants, twelve bidons, two beers. And a peach this time.

Friday 7th July – One bar, two coffees, two croissants, haddock, chips, mushy peas, curry sauce, slice of bread & two cups of strong tea, two pastis, four Weiss bieres. More bidons than I care to mention, at least twelve, maybe fourteen, and still I didn’t need to wee. Eventually, it came out like string!

Saturday 8th July – One jambon et fromage baguette, two bidons, a few cold ones and half a bottle of red. No bars or bananas.

Thereafter – I ate everything that was within striking distance. Seriously, I’d lost half a stone on the way down and put on at least double that on the way back. I arrived home feeling like Adam Broadhurst after a Tenerife all-inclusive!

Needless to say that with being constantly on the move, being unable to carry anything other larger than a banana or bar, and often arriving at a camping site after everything had closed, didn’t really prove to be enough. Good if you wanted to diet though. Also, contrary to what Martin Litherland would have us all believe, bananas are not the Devil’s food, they are in fact the on-Earth equivalent of the God’s ambrosia…I just don’t want to see another one for quite some considerable time!

Costs:

As expected as I’m a tight-fisted northern so-and-so, I did this trip on a bit of a shoe-string. Consequently I blagged and borrowed as much of the stuff I needed as possible and I thank all of you whom unselfishly and generously stumped up what I needed. I started out with £500 in my pocket and came back with b*gger all. Most of this was spent on camping, food, beer and any necessities. Travel tickets cost a total of £50 outbound and £130 for the flight back. Campsites came in around 10 euros per night but the ‘wild’ camping in the pikies squat was obviously free! In total, I’d estimate the total cost of the escapade as being somewhere in the region of a grand and it’s been worth every penny.

Do it again? What d’you think… Who’s in? Ta, Carl.