Day 6a: Tournai to Cambrai (85km)

I should have known the fat guy would be a snorer. When I came back to the room after dinner, it was dark and he was already in bed, snoring away. Luckily it was a relatively soft snore, not a get-your-earplugs-out snore, but it took some getting used to. The mystery man (the one with the shopping trolley) turned up later in the night; he was a snorer too.  In the morning there was a pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed where he had stepped out of them; on the bed there was what looked like a pile of rumpled bedclothes, but which actually had a person under them. The joy of shared rooms. I dress and slip out of the room, leaving my room mates snoring contentedly.

Tournai - Grand Place; no people, no cars, only bikes allowed

I ride into the centre of Tournai in the early morning and find it is a ghost town. I am riding in a scene from a 'morning after the end of the world' movie and I am the only survivor. It is a little eerie but it doesn't last as I eventually spot a little old lady out for her morning walk. At least there are two of us, I think, but if this is all then there's not much hope for the human race. So much for morning thoughts.

Tournai has an attractive old centre and an impressive cathedral which would be even more impressive if it were not covered in scaffolding and was open. Actually, things being open (or rather, not open) is to become the theme for the day. It is Ascension Thursday, a major holiday in France. Surprisingly - at least I thought it was surprising - all the churches and cathedrals, which I thought would be open to celebrate such a day, are also all closed. Note to anyone thinking of going to France in May: it's the month of public holidays and 'ponts' (taking the day that falls between a public holiday and the weekend off as well so you have a four-day weekend.) A lot of France shuts down in May. The unkind might say that not much work gets done the rest of the year either. Actually, the subject came up during dinner, when one of the guys stated that France has one of the world's highest rates of productivity. I almost choked on my food. He quickly explained that this apparently dubious statistic was created by counting the county's output and dividing it by the numbers of hours actually worked (and not the number of hours actually available to work), so making the result appear impressive indeed. Impressive French rationalisation. We had a good discussion about French politics (always a popular subject for dinner table discussions in France, and with the current President with his record low popularity rating of 15% also an easy subject).

Guarding the border

The border crossing between Belgium and France at Rumegies is marked by a little customs post, with a statue of a French customs official sitting outside, serenely surveying the passing traffic. It's somehow symbolic of bureaucracy: he's not actually achieving much of anything, but he's nevertheless working. A little further down the road an abandoned packet of frites is scattered on the road, another symbol that we are leaving Belgium behind.

It's a grey day, with rain threatening the whole day. I pass gardens with colourful collections of gnomes, including one which has what seems to be an entire gnome village as a front lawn. The front gate has little windmills as guardians.

Naked women and pilots

Just outside Cambrai I pass a memorial to a wartime pilot, Alfred Fronval. This in itself isn't so unusual, but what catches my eye is the fact that this particular pilot is being celebrated with a naked women holding a branch up to him. I think about this, but cannot imagine a scenario that explains why a pilot should be remembered by adulating naked women. Still, this is France, so anything is possible where sculptures and naked women is concerned.

A bit of colour on a grey day

At Cambrai the rains come and I spend some time alternating between sheltering from the rain, and riding around the almost deserted town over the rain-soaked cobbled streets. True to form, the impressive cathedral is closed. But to my surprise the tourist office is open, and I am even able to get a stamp for my pilgrim passport. There's even a little display in the basement of the tourist office where tunnels under the city have been excavated, so I have something to see and explore. As I leave, the rains begin in earnest and I find a McDonalds just on the edge of town where I can shelter from the lashing storm. I am definitely not a McDonalds regular, but I they do offer reliable and free WiFi, and the bathrooms have hot air dryers which I can use to dry out my soaked things. And to my utter amazement, there's even a proper café serving what turns out to be very acceptable coffee. Since I cannot arrive at my destination, which is about twenty minutes away, for another hour or so, I decide to sit it out in the warm and dry restaurant. The rain stops, but starts again in earnest just as I have set off on the final leg of the day's journey, so I arrive at my B&B completely soaked.

Cambrai Cathedral - on the right path

I don't know whether it was the cold, or the rain, or whether I was now riding in France, or perhaps it was the fact that I'd given my bike its 400km service, but my average speed today rose markedly and riding felt easier. Maybe it was me starting to get my 'bike legs'. Even the last part of the ride, in pouring rain, seemed to go surprisingly well. I could have done without the rain though.

Day 5a: Brussels to Tournai (106km)

The Longest Day.

Not only the title of a 1962 movie with an impressive cast including John Wayne, Sean Connery, Richard Burton, Robert Mitchum and Henry Fonda, but also an appropriate title for this post.

Early morning Self Portrait

I passed several milestones today: Furthest ever ridden in a single day; 106km. Longest time in the saddle; just over 7 hours. And I've passed the 400km mark on my journey.

I decide to try Google maps for a route plan for the first part of today's trip, since I will be spending half the day off my map again. Within a kilometre I have been led up and then down a hill to the entrance of a commuter car park. So much for my experiment with Google Maps! I give up on Google maps and self-navigate, choosing a route that heads through an interesting-looking forest. It's hilly and I'm down to first gear for the first time on the trip. Just as I'm thinking: "I have 100km to go today; that's not going to work if it's all like this" I enter the magnificent Hallebos forest and my spirits soar. What a gorgeous place! I ride with a big smile on my face and the climbs are instantly forgotten. A while later, still in the same forest, I am briefly on a road with oncoming traffic. I notice the drivers are all looking glum, probably on their way to work and completely oblivious of the magnificent scenery they are passing through. How sad for them. I'm glad I'm on the bike.

Perspectives

Later in the day a black guy in an approaching car stops and flags me down: "Zeeway eeznot blokkedd" he says. It takes me some time to process what he is saying: First I don't know whether it's Flemish, French or something else he's using. Then, for each of these languages I need to see if the sounds he's just made correspond to something logical that I can parse into a sentence. He turns the booming stereo in his car down, as if this will help me understand his request better. I finally realise he's speaking a heavily African French-accented English and he's asking me if the road ahead is open. As we go or separate ways I reflect on this. You have lots of time to reflect on things when you're riding a bike. Why would he choose someone who's so obviously not a local to ask such a question and then on top of that, someone on a bike, for whom a closed road may not mean the same as for a car? Actually, the other day I was outside the station in Breda in Holland, and a guy pulling a wheelie bag behind him, having obviously just arrived on the train, comes straight to me to ask directions to the Apollo hotel. Again, I couldn't help wondering whether I was really the most likely candidate to ask such a question.

Many houses I pass today have ceramic urns or jugs in their windows. What's in those urns I wonder? Relatives perhaps? The urn theme continues throughout the day.

It's also an olfactory day today with a lot of time spent riding amongst farm smells. From the challenging odour of huge piles of manure by the path to the sweet odour of bales of fermenting hay to the tang of freshly cut grass. Add to that the smell of diesel fumes from the tractors and trucks. Oh yes, let's not forget the putrid smell of decaying squashed animals as you pass them.

Another Vending Machine

At one point the path is completely blocked by a tractor towing a trailer with enormous fat tyres. There's no way I can pass, even on the bike. And above the noise of the engine my little bicycle bell is completely ineffective. Luckily the driver, who is in a nearby field chatting to his mate on an equally impressive piece if machinery, sees me and comes over to the tractor with a wave of apology and drives off.

Previously I've ridden past vending machines selling strawberries and bread. Today's vending machine - which is a hole in the wall - is selling potatoes. In Dutch it's called an Aardappelautomaat, while in French is goes by the somewhat more verbose, but perhaps easier to read Automate à Pommes de Terre.

Lessines, the point I've chosen to rejoin the Camino is an impressively dreary and uninteresting town (except for the nicely restored old Abbey dating from 1242, which sets your expectations rather high for what the rest of the town will be like since you pass it on the approach into town). It's rather run down, although there's are obvious attempts to make it better. But there are no seats anywhere (I am writing this sitting on the steps of the closed town hall; there's a piece of paper taped to the large ornate doors with a handwritten note: 'closed until 15th May') and the town's idea of beautification includes installing speakers on the corners of buildings and on lamp posts, broadcasting elevator music throughout the town. I suppose that sums up nicely the town leaders' approach.

Another Self Portrait

I see an impressive variety of garden ornaments today: from the large pair of concrete lions guarding the front gate (several versions of those), to a collection of various cement farm animals grazing on the front lawn (again, grazing cement animals is a recurring theme). Lots of sheep and lambs also figure prominently. Probably the most impressive were the pair of American Indians with full ceremonial headdress guarding one house, not to be outdone by the two metre high goldfish standing on its head with mouth agape, looking totally out of place in the middle of a lawn.

Tonight I'm staying at the Youth Hostel in Tournai. I haven't been in a youth hostel since the late seventies or perhaps early eighties (when I was a youth, and stayed in hostels) but ever since then I've had life membership, so I thought it was about time to use it! The Tournai hostel is actually not at all a bad place. It's highly rated and it's an easy walk to the centre of town. They even have hotel-style electronic key cards, a far cry from the olden days. My room is on the second floor, and the stairs are something I could have done without after all that riding. I open the door to my room; will I find it full or will I have it to myself? The question is immediately answered when I see some clothes and a made (more or less) bed. I claim the other lower bunk, enjoying the right of order of arrival. Last year on the Camino I invariably arrived later than the walkers, and so invariably had to do with an upper bunk. Perhaps there will only be two of us in the room tonight. I put my bags down, and then notice the shopping trolley of personal possessions in the room. While it's normal to see backpacks sprwaled on the floor in hostels, this is the first time I see a shopping trolley. Who am I sharing the room with, I wonder? This could be interesting. Perhaps he's a clochard, although the rest of the room looks relatively tidy. Time will tell.

A bit later, the third man arrives. First I had The Longest Day and now I have The Third Man. Definitely a movie theme today. My Third Man is carrying a bike helmet and is dressed in bike pants, but he doesn't look like he'd last long on a bike. He's seriously overweight and breathing heavily, presumably from the walk up the stairs. He's not long in the room when I turn around and find myself starting at his enormous naked bum; he's stripping off to take a shower. I could have done without that, I think to myself. Time to best a retreat and go and find a place for dinner.

Tournai - Grand Place at sunset

I wander around the rather deserted streets of the town centre in the area around the impressive (and closed) cathedral, looking for a place to have dinner. I spot a restaurant called "Sur le Chemin de Compostelle" near the cathedral, which of course catches my eye since its name describes me: on the Camino de Santiago. I sense a tourist trap, but it looks reasonable, even though with only one other table occupied things do not look too promising. I go inside anyway and have the "pilgrim menu". This turns out to be significantly more expensive than its namesakes in Spain - not really a surprise - and also not at all interesting. Edible is about as much praise as I can give it. Still, I leave the restaurant with food in my tummy, ready for the next day's adventures.

Day 4a: Duffel to Brussels (76km)

Only bicycles allowed here

I'm in Mechelen. I've just cycled into the city centre when I spot two familiar cyclists sitting at a café: the two Dutch cyclists who shared the B&B and dinner (and an impressively copious breakfast) with me. It is indeed a small world when you're travelling. We say hello and then  continue on our separate ways.

A minute later the square seems to be invaded with high school students, probably on some excursion. A small group of girls walks past and I can just see them out of the corner of my eye exchanging comments that almost certainly relate to me. A second later one of them, perhaps the designated one, approaches me: "Meneer wat is dat apparaatje voor?" Pointing to the rear view mirror mounted on my helmet. "What is that thing for?" I have no doubt I look rather odd: firstly I am almost certainly the only cyclist in the square (and probably all of Mechelen) wearing a helmet, and secondly I have this strange thing sticking out from it.

This morning in Duffel I went to the local town hall to see if I could get a stamp for my pilgrim passport. There are two young guys with a small truck working in the garden out front. One of them spots the scallop shell on my bag and strikes up a conversation about the bike trip. Then when I mention I have come from Australia (but not by bike) he brightens up even more; like so many people on Europe he's always wanted to go to Australia. The conversation is easy and unforced and I've found this often on Belgium; people seem to easily strike up conversations without reservation. Nice. He offers to keep an eye on my bike for me while I go inside to ask about a stamp.

A bread vending machine "Yummy, fresh, and healthy"

Try as I might, I did not find anyone carrying duffel bags or wearing the eponymous coats in Duffel; perhaps fashion has taken precedence over history. 

Yesterday I discovered machines selling strawberries along the path. Today it's the turn of the bread vending machine. Clearly there's a theme developing; people like to buy their food from holes in the wall and machines.

Following the knooppunten

In Mechelen I go to the tourist office to try to get a bike map for my trip to Brussels. The map I have is specific to the St. Jacobsweg and I'm about to do that very thing you should never do when you're travelling; I'm about to go off the map. The only thing the rather inexperienced-but-trying-to-be-helpful guy can offer is a large guide or a brochure that contains a map, but not of the area I am going to. I give him full marks for trying, but he's sort of missed the point; I don't want just any map, I need a map that covers my planned route. Then we are saved by his more experienced colleague, who has the good idea of looking up the route using the knooppunt network website and then to create a route following a series of numbered points. I've become aware of the knooppunt (literally, knot point or more appropriately intersection) system having seen the signs along the bike paths, so now I get a chance to try it out for real. It's a great system but it's not perfect in practice and I have to resort to the GPS a couple of times. The idea is that you plan a route by "joining the dots" and cycle from one numbered knooppunt to the next. That's fine in theory, but it does rely on each intersection being signposted, and there being an indication of which direction to head to go to the next numbered intersection. Like any time you're following signs, if you miss one (or one is missing) then you're lost: you either have to backtrack to your last known signpost, or pull out the map.

The route follows a canal through pleasant scenery until I get close to Brussels and then it all goes wrong. I pass a large power station with its enormous cooling towers and then the numbering stops. And if you make the mistake of stopping as I did, your olfactory senses are seriously abused by all sorts of human-generated material deposited by the path nearby. I don't know why people choose a power station as a place to relieve themselves, but the evidence was there that they did. Essentially I now have to find my own way through some very dodgy neighbourhoods, on to an old port area with abandoned warehouses, dead end streets that force me to backtrack, the sewage treatment works, scrap metal dealer, old cars, and wrecked cars in the streets. It's a depressingly awful and dirty part of town. Welcome to Brussels! Eventually I end up on the N1 heading into town, which is at least a direct route, if not at all pleasant with a constant stream of large trucks rushing past to keep you entertained. Not my preferred type of track, but I don't have much choice.

I am navigating myself through this depressing place but it slowly begins to become a little more interesting, with things to observe along the way. I pass through a clearly dodgy neighbourhood; it's full of little shops advertising halal food. Groups of men sit outside cafes smoking. I spot the local 'Arab du coin' as the French so accurately call these little 'sell everything' shops and go inside to buy a banana: I need some energy after that awful ride in. I am certainly not particularly welcome but the guy takes my money anyway. I am happy not to hang around and ride off clutching my banana. I'll eat it somewhere else.

I pass a woman checking her hair using her reflection in the window of a parked car.

Then all of a sudden I am in the middle of town and the Grote Markt (the main square) is there, spectacular as always. Asian tourists are walking around with their selfie sticks. Beggars shaking paper cups with coins have placed themselves at strategic positions.

Adding a splash of colour to the famous Grote Markt in Brussels

Here I am, sitting on a step at the Grote Markt. I am eating my banana. Next to me a couple of Korean girls are eating Belgian waffles with enormous piles of cream on them, served on little paper plates and no doubt bought at the nearby 'Mannekin Pis' waffle house (an impressive piece of crass marketing).

Authentic Manneken-Pis waffels - only 1 euro

I find the tourist office, 'Visit Brussels', a name which is slightly odd, considering that anyone who goes to this office is obviously already in Brussels, but perhaps I am being pedantic. I am looking for a stamp for my pilgrim passport. The guy apologises that they don't have any official stamps but suggests I try 'inside' gesturing behind him. After a little more prompting I convince him to explain to me that 'inside' refers to the town hall, which is actually in the same building and accessed via a (beautiful) courtyard around the back. I go there to find there are no signs anywhere indicating the nature of the place or what I might find behind any of the imposing doors there. I open a likely looking door and find myself in a sort of lost reception area with a lonely (and bored looking) girl behind an enormous desk. She doesn't look like she has a lot to do, but on reflection that might suit her just fine. I make my enquiry and she draws a blank. But then she makes a call and sure enough, finds someone who can stamp my papers. I have to go back out to the courtyard again and try another one of those anonymous doors, this one with a buzzer, which after I press it produces another girl who appear from the deep within the bowels of the building. She's very helpful and together we go into an office with nobody in it. There are four desks and lots of paperwork everywhere, just no people. The place has public service written all over it - piles and piles of papers and nobody working. She hunts around for a while and then exclaims: "There it is!" And sure enough, she produces from a corner of one of the desks the official stamp of the city of Brussels. The mind boggles, but I decide not to think too hard about this since I've achieved my objective and my passport is stamped.

The path through the Bois de la Cambre - a lovely way to end the day's ride

My riding day finishes with another section of navigation through the streets of Brussels and for the first time on the trip so far I encounter hills, which I'd sort of forgotten existed. My chosen route seems to go up many of them, which is the last thing I need at the end of a long ride. But the ride through the gorgeous Bois de la Cambre, which I have wisely chosen to ride through rather than take the more direct main road, lifts my spirits. The final 10 km or so is again along busy roads (it's peak hour and I'm riding along one of the major roads out of town) and I am very glad when I finally arrive.

I'm staying with the daughter of a friend with whom I travelled in Tunisia several years back and she's very welcoming and gracious, making my long detour to Brussels, even the hills, worthwhile. We spend a pleasant evening chatting about all sorts of things (including her father, but I won't tell him that!)

Only bicycles allowed here too - this is the way to ride!

Day 3a: Kersel to Duffel (75km)

Today the weather was, dare I say it, almost hot. Or at least it was warm enough for me to strip down to just a T-shirt and cycling pants (and my bright yellow cycling vest of course). According to several thermometers I saw on various buildings I passed it got to 27 degrees, which is a bit of a heat wave. Enough for me to get a bit sunburnt by the time I realised what was going on and started putting the sunscreen on. One day I am cycling with three layers and long pants and the next I am getting sunburnt, who'd have thought it?

Dinner yesterday, which was over the border in Belgium as you will recall, included a big bowl of (terrific) chips with - we're in Belgium now - a large bowl of mayonnaise. Dinner tonight was, naturally, also served with a large bowl of chips (fries, for our American readers). So far it seems reasonable to conclude that the stereotypical Belgian meal indeed does consist of a large serving of chips with mayonnaise, served with something to accompany it.

Geese and Goslings crossing

In describing yesterday's menagerie, I realised I'd forgotten the rabbits running across the path (like kangaroos, it's not the one you first see you have to watch out for, it's the one following it you're going to run into). And of course I forgot to mention all the chickens usually accompanied by impressive roosters. This morning I came across a group of geese guiding their goslings to the canal. The bike path I was riding on was between the geese and the canal, and of course I wasn't about to squash those cute little goslings, so I stopped. In any case, given how aggressive the geese were, I'm not sure how well I would have fared in any encounter. 'Gosling' - now there's a word you don't get to write (or read) very often. Another good example of English and its lack of logic, or perhaps I should say an example of the richness of the English language. Ducks and ducklings. Geese and goslings (and not gooseling), Cats and kittens (why not Catling?). What about Doglings? And the list goes on.

The bike path along the river this morning instantly changed as soon as I crossed from Holland (or more technically correctly, from The Netherlands) into Belgium, which was about 100m from where I had spent the night. Although there was still a path, the quality degraded and it was bumpy and not well maintained. The housing was also instantly recognisable as non-Dutch. As someone used to Australian landscapes I am constantly amazed how quickly things change when you travel in Europe; housing styles are a good example. Cross an imaginary line, and suddenly so many things are different. You're unlikely to spot the difference in pretty much anything as you cross from say, New South Wales into Victoria, except perhaps the different number plates on the cars.

As if to support my perhaps slightly controversial statement of yesterday that the wildflowers are really weeds, I come across a guy on a tractor (on the bike path) mowing the flowers along the path. In his wake the sides of the path are strewn with piles of yellow, white and purple wildflowers, now about to become compost.

Cafe con Leche y tapas - Belgian style

I stop at Rijkevorsel for a coffee. Today I don't quite have so much distance to cover and I've settled into a bit of a more predictable tempo, so I can afford to stop more often. In Spain I was stopping regularly for a café con leche and tapas. Here I also order a coffee and a 'broodje' which implies a little bread roll with something on it. I'm expecting something perhaps not exactly like a tapas, but perhaps more like a Spanish raccion, which is sort of a double-sized tapas. The 'je' suffix in Dutch after all implies 'little'. Instead I get an enormous baguette with thick cheese and even thicker butter. The Belgian version of a tapas perhaps.

At Lier I decide to deviate from the path, which tends to go around towns, and head to the centre of town, the 'Grote Markt'. Here, near the main cathedral, I find the St. Jacobs chapel. I go inside, hoping to find someone to stamp my pilgrim's passport. The chapel is open, but there's nobody there. But I find on the noticeboard a little sign: 'Pilgrims looking for a stamp need to go to the tourist office (across the road)'. I step outside and immediately an elderly couple call out to me ( in Flemish, which I used to think was just like Dutch, until I started trying to understand it): "If you're looking for your stamp, go to the tourist office" and they helpfully point to it, which is just as well because I was looking for it across the road (following the instructions on the sign), while in fact I was standing almost next to it. I'm not sure which point of reference the person who wrote that sign had, but it certainly want the same as mine. As I come out of the tourist office, the elderly couple is just leaving their seat in the square, so I go to them to thank them for their help. "Where are you riding to?" asks the old woman. "France" I tell her. She looks at me for a moment and then says, quite matter-of-factly, "Well, you'd better get going then, it's a long way."

A woman on a bike pulls up alongside me as I cycle through Lier on my way out of town. In Flemish she says: "You look like you're going a long way!" "To France" I reply, trying to keep the story simple, and thinking of the old woman who I had spoken to just before. She comments on how amazingly far that is on a bike.  Actually, given how small Belgium is, France is not really all that far away. It's all relative I suppose.

Strawberry Vending Machine nearby

This morning I passed a strawberry vending machine. Not the sort of thing you'd really expect to find along the roadside. And I'm not taking about a red or pink-coloured vending machine, I'm talking about a machine selling fresh strawberries. This morning I thought it was a bit odd. By the end of the day I had passed so many of this type of vending machine I realised that it was actually perfectly normal. At least in this part of the world. It reminded me of the lone Coca Cola vending machine I'd passed in the middle of nowhere last year on my trip in Spain. Totally unexpected but probably  normal.

My day ends at Duffel. I had picked this town for no better reason than it was about right in terms of distance travelled for the day, being on a river it looked like it might have some appeal, and of course I was curious to find out whether I'd see lots of people wearing the eponymous coats, carrying eponymous bags. I saw neither, which is probably not surprising. A little research showed that, indeed, the name of the clothing does come from this town; so my somewhat cheeky thought turned out to be based on facts after all. According to Wikipedia: The town gives its name to a heavy woollen cloth used to make overcoats, especially for the armed forces, and various kinds of luggage.

Dangerous road conditions ahead

There is a couple also on bikes staying at the same place I am. Not surprisingly, they are Dutch, and this trip is just a short four-day long weekend trip for them. We agree to ride back into town, a bit more than a kilometre away, for dinner together. It being Monday there's not much open and our hostess has given us a little map on which she's marked some places to try. The couple ride ahead and I follow. My bike feels remarkably light, which of course it is without the packs on. We've both just ridden in from the direction of town so really all we have to do is back tack. As we leave the B&B the woman rides off in one direction (the wrong one) and the husband in the other. Not a good start I'm thinking. We regroup and set off again, this time following the husband. He rides off confidently, find the main road into town and rides on. He rides past the turnoff to the town centre, then continues riding on confidently. I'm wondering whether he either knows some way I do not, or whether I really do have to intervene. We ride on. Eventually (I have shown remarkable restraint, despite the fact that my legs really don't want to ride any further than absolutely necessary any more) he stops, realising that he ridden the wrong way. We regroup, consult the map and I convince them we have to go back. Later, while we are having dinner after eventually finding a restaurant, I can't help thinking: 'How did these people manage to find Belgium?'

Dinner, with chips and mayonnaise (of course!), is quite nice, and we have an enjoyable meal together.

Day 2a: Zevenhuizen to Kersel (90km)

What a difference a day makes. Today the sun was shining and in the afternoon it warmed up to something like 23 degrees. And the wind calmed down although it was still with (or rather against) me the whole day. It was a long days' riding.

In the morning everyone seemed to be out to make the most of the sunny Sunday weather. As the woman at the place I stayed at had warned me, the racing bike riders were out in force. They are the only ones wearing helmets on a bike on Holland and given their speed and recklessness I think that's a smart move. You're riding sedately along the bike path when suddenly there's a call of "coming through" behind you and a group of them rushes by at breakneck speed. Bad luck if you happened to move to the wrong side of the path at the wrong time. On the waterways there were rowers practising. On the paths lots of joggers. And of course endless streams of people going out for a Sunday ride on their bikes, young and old. I notice that electric bikes seem to be very popular, particularly amongst the older women.

The "Zeemeeuw" ferry at Oudekerk (bikes and pedestrians only)

If there's a theme for today it might be animals, or perhaps nature, since a good part of the day was spent in fields and along farms, as well as following canals and streams. The paths along the streams - all sealed of course, this being The Netherlands - were a joy to ride along.  All along the way there were wildflowers, yellow and white. Of course they were really weeds, but they were pretty just the same. Birds were everywhere: Ducks of more varieties than I knew existed, practising their water landing and take-off skills; geese; the local version of the magpie; various versions of crows, rooks, and ravens; not to mention many more which I had no idea what they were.

I rode past villages with houses with front gardens full of ducks and goats. Then another front yard with an enormous pig mowing the lawn. That was different. I rode past fields with horses and ponies, cows and sheep, including a few black ones just to make things interesting.

Kinderdijk - windmills and people

The route crossed quite a few waterways, with three of them using some form of ferry. From the tiny 'Seagull' (to stay with the animal theme) at Oudekerk to the large passenger and bicycle ferry, the 'Waterbus', at Papendrecht to a large car ferry at Krimpen. There was also the kilometre-long Moerdijkbruggen which was quite a ride (windy and uphill, followed by downhill).

Just after Kinderdijk, a place with an amazing collection of windmills, spoiled only by the hordes of foreign tourists milling around and generally getting in the way by walking on the bike path, I see a man in a black suit with flapping tails and white shirt and tie coming towards me on a bike. I'm thinking 'only in Holland'. Then another guy in a suit on a bike, and then even more. Women in their Sunday best. Young boys in suits on bikes. A baby behind a little windscreen on a seat on the handlebars, ridden by a man in a suit. What's going on? Then the penny drops: It's Sunday and these people have been to church in the next village (Oud-Albas) and are now riding home for their Sunday lunch. This is obviously a pretty conservative party of the country and people are taking their Sunday obligations seriously. 

Breda - Tourist office closed on Sundays

Last night at the place I was staying (a private house which is part of 'Vrienden op de Fiets', a collection of thousands of places all over Holland that open their doors to bike riders) we had been discussing the wind strength. The weather forecast had said it was 'strength 6' which I understood to be a lot, but I wanted to know what that actually meant.  Was this going to be just another windy day, or was I going to riding into a hurricane? The guy says, with an air of authority he himself realised he didn't have, "That means the wind is 6 metres per second". This doesn't seem right to me and I start to do a mental calculation. Before I'm finished he says: " that means the wind is 180km/h". I try and keep a straight face and say gently "I don't think it would be quite that much" hoping that he'll work out for himself that riding a bike into a 180 km/h headwind might be a bit difficult. Besides, 6 metres per second is around 20 km/h - quite different to 180 km/h!

For the record, I think the wind strength numbers relate to the Beaufort scale, which my sailing friends are no doubt familiar with. A strength 6 wind is a "strong breeze" and is between 38.8 and 49.9 km/h (who thinks of these numbers?) No wonder I was having trouble yesterday.

Tonight I walked to Belgium for dinner. Now there's the sort of statement you can't make every day. I'm staying in the Netherlands, but it turns out the house is only about 50m from the border. So when I set off down the main road in search of somewhere to eat, it doesn't take me long to cross into another country. Since there's little on offer on the Dutch side, I settle for what turns out to be quite a nice place just across the border in Belgium. I walk back to the Netherlands after a good meal, wondering what it must be like living on the house that straddles the border itself. You could go to sleep in one country and get up during the night to use the bathroom in another country. Or if you have a big enough room, you might be sitting on a lounge, watching a TV that's in another country. Or maybe you could have breakfast in the Netherlands and then go and mow your lawn in Belgium.

I must be on the right path!

Day 1a: Haarlem to Zevenhuizen (80km)

Wind.

The start in Haarlem - only 2375km to go to Santiago!

If there was one word to characterise the first day of my bike trip from Holland to France, it would have to be wind. Constant and unremitting, and for most of the day from directly in the direction I was heading, so maximising its negative impact on my progress.  The night before I'd seen the weather forecast, which was pretty grim: strength 6 winds from the south-south west, some rain possible and low temperatures. Great, I thought, just the thing for my first day. But then I realised that I would be riding in exactly the direction the wind was coming from, and the situation suddenly seemed a whole lot worse. And so it proved to be.

Riding through the region near Keukenhof, famous for its massive fields of colourful Tulips, I realised that there were white caps on the waves in the canal I was riding next to. The seagulls were flying against the wind, but they were going backwards. Ducks and geese were sitting on the ground, their breaks tucked back into their feathers. At times I was almost almost standing still and I couldn't help thinking back to my first day on the Camino last year when I was struggling up the passes over the Pyrenees in the howling wind and rain;  riding into the wind was just like riding up a steep hill. When it started to rain as well as blow a gale in my face, the memory was completed.

I am stopped to take a break, sheltering behind a roadside bin (the only structure for kilometres). I see a woman on a bike coming up the road against the wind. She seems to be making amazingly good progress making me feel like I must have been exaggerating about the wind. And then as she passes I realise she's riding an electric bike! I am secretly jealous while maintaining an outward air of being justified in my suffering because I am riding using only my legs for power.

Still, I am pleased to discover that despite being late in the season, the are still a few fields of spectacular colour for me to ride past.

Slices of brilliant colour as I cycle through the tulip fields

Later, a guy pulls up next to me at the traffic lights on the bike path (this is the Netherlands, they have traffic lights for bicycles); his face is red with the cold and wind, snot is streaming out of his nose. "It's pretty windy" he says with impressive understatement. "I have an electric bike and it's still hard work. And you're doing this for fun?" I smile stoically; I am indeed doing this for fun I remind myself.

I am surprised by how well the Sint Jacobsweg (Camino de Santiago) is known here. Standing at the 'starting line' outside the Sint Jacob Stichting in Haarlem, posing for the obligatory 'start of the Camino' photo, a bike rider comes down the street, "Have a good journey" he says with a wave when passing. Not quite the ' Buen Camino' you hear everywhere along the path in Spain, but nevertheless nice. Standing in line at a post office, the guy behind me notices the scallop shell on my bag (symbol of Saint James, and the Camino) and says: " You're going to Santiago?" Only in Holland (where everyone is a bike rider) would someone assume you were going on a bike ride of thousands of kilometres without apparent surprise. I'm also impressed that he knows about the route, which even in Holland, is not that widely known. And I'm at a post office in a place which is nowhere near the route.

Timely appearance of the sun highlights the windmills

The weather remains grim the whole day, although there's a few glimpses of sunshine occasionally. I'm particularly pleased at one such appearance of the sun, just when I'm taking an obligatory photo of a windmill. Its in an area where my GPS tells me I am at 3m below sea level. The water in the canal I am riding next to is  considerably higher than I am. In their day, these windmills spent their time pumping water out of the polders and into those canals.

I end up to riding much later than I had planned, a disadvantage of having booked my first night's accommodation beforehand. And so I don't have time, or for that matter the energy, to stop and explore the towns I am riding through. But it's such a miserable day anyway and I do of course get to appreciate the amazingly old buildings in towns like Leiden, some dating from 1276. When I finally arrive, I'm greeted like a friend and am soon sitting with a (well-earned) beer in my hand, chatting with the hosts. "We've been thinking about you today, given this wind" they tell me. Something to be said for booking ahead after all.

If it's Holland, there will be windmills (and wind!)

The café (local pub) where I have dinner has a slogan engraved in their front window: "Hier ga je uit om thuis te komen" which translates loosely as "This is where you go out to come home" which I think is just great; it sums up nicely the feeling of the place.

Camino de Santiago reprise

Here I am, on the train again. It's the start of my second bicycle journey following the Way of St. James. I'm on the train on the way to the starting point in the Netherlands, so perhaps I should use the Dutch name for the route: de Sint Jakobsweg. Just as well I like trains, because I'm going to be spending the whole day in them, in four stages. Actually I suppose that technically the journey started this morning with the drive to the station, in the light drizzle that is spring in France at the moment.

The start of my journey - awful coffee

I order a coffee at the station restaurant (I use the term 'restaurant' with my tongue firmly in my cheek) and it is truly awful. Appropriately, it was served in a paper cup on a plastic tray. Why is it that in a country where the food and the wine is so good, that the coffee, even from supposedly good places, is so bad?

The TGV is right on time and we're now motoring through the greenery at something like 250 km/h, taking an hour to get to Paris. The trip didn't start completely without issues though. After finding my coach I find the entrance blocked by an enormous baby stroller (complete with baby). Why is it that baby strollers nowadays have to be designed like they will be able to negotiate mountains, ford deep streams, and generally take up as much space as possible? These strollers barely fit through a doorway and heaven help you if you're walking on a footpath and two of them are coming at you in the opposite direction. It must have something to do with the same fashion that mandates young urban professionals and young mothers with enormous strollers buying large SUVs and pretend 4WD vehicles. They also take up maximum space and transport you with minimal efficiency. Of course I suppose that if you've just bought your oversize stroller you'll soon discover that is too big to fit into any reasonably-sized vehicle and so are more or less obliged to purchase an oversize SUV to go with it. A triumph in marketing: perhaps the manufacturers of SUVs and 4WDs encourage over-sized stroller sales to encourage the sales of their vehicles: a symbiotic relationship.

But I digress. Once in the train (actually, I think the correct term is 'on' the train: you get in a car, but on a train or a plane or a bus) I find my seat, only to find it already occupied by a slightly disheveled older man. We exchange pleasantries and compare tickets. It's not that uncommon for people to get on (in!) the wrong carriage. But his ticket matches mine: same date, same carriage, same seat. He's already seated and so has a certain right of occupancy. I prepare myself for possible options, scanning the carriage for empty seats, but the train is very full. But it seems that something's obviously not quite right with his ticket because he stand up and mumbles something about going out to the passageway. I do not argue the point and am happy to have the seat. It's an odd conversation made even more interesting when he rudely snaps at the woman next to him who's trying to be helpful; "I was talking to this man, not to you" he says. I suspect that perhaps his ticket has been cancelled long ago but he's trying to travel with it anyway. In the strange way of TGVs, the passageway near the doors is full of people traveling with apparently invalid tickets. It's something I've never understood; how is it possible that on a train for which you have to book tickets and reserve seating, there are always people traveling without a proper seat? And there are always ticket collectors...

Paris Metro: busking and crowds

My train arrives at Gare Montparnasse in Paris, while my train to Amsterdam leaves from Gare du Nord. Despite my having bought a ticket that theoretically gives me a journey from Tours to Amsterdam, I am left to my own devices for the connection in Paris. Luckily I know Paris well, so that's not a problem, but it does seem a bit odd that there's no allowance made for the inevitable metro ride (fortunately a direct connection on line 4, but involving a lot of walking, not to mention the purchase of an additional ticket which many may not have factored into their planning). The metro is as it always is: frequent, noisy, smelly, crowded, and a fascinating place to study people. Eye contact is studiously avoided by all and smiling is definitely not part of the metro etiquette. You have to look like you're having a really boring or bad time down there.

The train from Paris to Amsterdam is re-routed due to bad weather in Holland (it is very windy) and so the arrival in Amsterdam will be delayed by half an hour. But at Amsterdam everything runs so efficiently that I make my connection anyway: I've arrived, found my way through the station, worked out how to and then bought an OV chipkaart (stored-value ticket), found the right platform, and I get on the train just as the conductor signals the (on time, of course) departure - and all this in the space of some ten minutes! Try doing that in France! I take out my phone and discover that there's free WiFi on the train and when I connect, the first thing I am presented is not some obscure and poorly-formatted page requiring me to enter my life's details before being granted the dubious privilege of being connected as is so often the case, but rather I am connected without having to enter anything and then told exactly which train I'm on, what the route is, what time it will arrive. This is the way it should be; clearly someone has done some work on understanding customer requirements. It just works. I look out the window: everything is very flat, and there are canals, cows, windmills, and the sky is grey and the grass is green. Everything looks efficient and clean. On my GPS, which I have on just as a distraction to see our position and check the train's speed (my engineering side coming out I suppose), I note that our elevation is shown as minus 7 metres. 

It could only be Holland.

Double-Decker bicycle parking at a small provincial station in Holland