Bergholt

Parked Bells

I managed to pull the group together as some were debating Paul’s hat, the rest disappeared to take pictures. We then headed to Dedham through waterlogged fields. At this point Bernard abandoned us as he had something better to do, we can only hope that he made it back to Manningtree.

Dedham

In Dedham we split for lunch (sandwiches/wine, etc in churchyard, pub, coffee shop, etc.) We were spoilt for choice there. From there we followed the Essex way back towards Manningtree.

River Stour

Most people returned to Manningtree for various reasons (dog sitting, dinner waiting, park the car/bike there, etc.). Mary, John and I continued after a prolonged break in a churchyard. On the way to Mistley we barely caught a glimpse of Simon who was whizzing by on his bike having already walked to Manningtree, cycled down the waterfront to Mistley and back. We waved him goodbye as he embarked on his journey to the depths of Bromley.

Mistley Towers

We crawled to Mistley, due to my blister and the fact that John tested every bench on the way. We decided to let a train go and have a drink in a pub a bit further on from Mistley only to return to the one we had previously passed, a posh pub/restaurant where people go dressed up, so we were the odd ones out. Had a nice drink and took the next train back.

Thanks all for coming, great company.

We rode part of the way down on Saturday through some light showers. We started at Winchester (tea stop) then rode over the hills to Romsey (tea stop) then into the New Forest with a break at Lyndhurst (tea stop, you get the picture) then a final stage to Lymington and, this time, dinner at a local fish restaurant we knew from the last visit.

We knew the weather forecast was not good for Sunday but we were not starting until 10.00 and the rain was due to clear before lunch. Others were more cautious: only one third of the registered riders had showed up.

We set off through the pouring rain. Three of us were breaking audax tradition lacking mudguards but it didn’t matter as all were soon wet though, anyway as a mixture of pouring rain, huge puddles and careless drivers ensured a steady supply of water from all directions. By 11.30 there was no sign of the end and we lost Sabina in front as she found a quicker group to follow. The remaining three followed our tea stop instincts as we passed a farm shop near Ringwood with basic café attached, but fortunately I was prevented from staying there “until the rain stops”. It was still raining when we left.

We continued along the Avon valley by the ever-wider river though some very large puddles, Christine leading the way though the water. We stopped again for lunch at the Breamore Tea Barn and then a hillier section cutting though Wiltshire. A puncture (Christine) and faulty brakes (me) necessitated a pause for repairs where a very hospitable local couple lent us space in their garage and an offer of tea (we had to decline as two tea stops an hour would have been too much even for us). It was still raining when we left.

Then the most dramatic part of the ride, a climb on to the plateau and across the windswept plain (wind behind us fortunately) then a gentle decent though the rhododendron-lined Ornamental Drives to Brockenhurst. It was still raining when we arrived there so we stopped for tea at the Thatched Cottage tea rooms (Michelin listed with bone china tea pots and elaborately presented cakes). It was still raining when we left.

By now it was surprising that there was any water left in the sky and one puddle was too large even for Christine to attempt so we had to divert. The freshly fallen tree was less of a problem as we found space to pass through.

Christine and the fallen tree

It was still raining when at last we arrived back at Lymington. We were warmly welcomed and fed pasta and hot cross buns by the organisers, John and Sheila Ward, and by Sabina who had arrived two hours earlier. Fortunately John and Shelia allow 10km/h for their 100km rides so we were able to get our brevet cards endorsed at a slightly embarrassing 9 hours 20 minutes but feeling rather proud we had braved the storm. It was still raining when we returned to the station.

We shall have to wait for another time for a Wessex audax in the dry, but I can confirm that a ride through the New Forest is beautiful, whatever the weather.

On the day the weather forecast was really bad and as a result only one person turned, Mary, out of solidarity. We decided to do the whole ride nevertheless.

It was only light rain till Billericay, where we had our prolonged coffee break. From there until lunch we had head wind and heavier rain, including a road that had turned into a ford. We had a basic, but nice pub lunch in Bicknacre, which took quite a long time to be served.

After 14.00 the clouds broke and we had sun all afternoon. Easy ride to Battlesbridge, where we had our afternoon coffee on top of the antiques centre located in a former mill. Soon after we came to a cordoned off road due to flooding. We decided it was a lot more fun to try to get through, although it wasn’t any shorter than the alternative route. Some horse riders came and showed us that the water went up to the bellies of the horses, so we had to go off the road to the fields, where luckily we managed to walk our bikes with lots of mud and grass getting stuck between the wheels and the mudguard. Passed a stuck car.

Near the end we decided to swap a known off-road route through Southend golf club to a tarmac road on the side and managed to get lost in the suburban streets. When we ended up back at the A127, Mary decided to follow that since she had an appointment and I insisted on finishing the ride on quiet roads and by the seaside. To my surprise, asking locals for directions proved to be fruitful and indeed I found the sea and rode into Southend in the glorious sunshine.

Actually it’s not much of a secret. Every spring more than a million cycles pass through Majorca’s Palma airport as the island becomes a concentrated festival of road cycling for those looking to put miles in the legs ahead of summertime putting in a rare UK appearance.

It isn’t hard to see why Majorca is so popular. April in Majorca promises circa six out of seven days per week of unfettered sunshine; usually tempered by a light, cooling breeze. The quiet roads offer a wide variety of terrain from fast and flat country lanes, sheltered by billowing marshland grasses through to epic Alpine climbs frequented by many a pro team training for the Giro or TdF.

Throw in some beautiful scenery, roads as smooth as the baize on a snooker table, lush coral blue bays and a tourist infrastructure that has geared up completely for the cyclist and you have the perfect destination for some high quality riding and a brilliant apres ride scene. There is even a Rapha pop up shop!

At the heart of the island is the small town of Petra, used by many tour groups and cycle camps as the Day One “sorting hat” ride, designed to get riders into groups of the right pace and temperament. The town square of Petra is a swarming sea of lycra. On arrival freshly cut orange segments are waiting to welcome you and the traditional Majorcan “lunch in the square by the church” is honoured for the first of many occasions to come.

My trip was a ten day affair, based out of Port Pollenca in Northern Majorca, organised and run annually by Dave Le Grys – a track cycling legend.  Each year, for a three week period, Legro (as he is known) and a crowd of his old muckers run a camp providing expert technical coaching, exceptional ride leadership and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the island’s hidden gems and fast lanes. A choice of up to six speed groups cater for everyone from the top flight racers through to those as yet unacquainted with a drop handlebar. Rides and routes are tailored to the ability and appetite of the group and you are free to move up and down as you wish. High quality bikes are available to hire though many bring their own.

The camp runs to a routine starting 18.30 with a group briefing on the ride for the following day, usually preceded by a light hearted post mortem on the highlights (or humorous lows) of the day just gone.

One such evening meeting fell into banter on the correct interpretation of “Car Up” and “Car Down” after it had became painfully apparent that UK and US riders follow opposing traditions.    Sean, our erstwhile ride leader (come diplomat) assured everyone that “the only important word to worry about was CAR”.  Within moments, his quick witted colleague retorted “Yeah – Down your throat and up your ….”  Anyway moving swiftly on!

Typically the rides alternate between hilly days and flat days with one rest day (cake eating fest) sandwiched in between the two Blue Riband rides (read on).

Mornings start with an optional (but highly recommended) stretching class run by the unique and energetic Pam Pinkerton who is also the camp sports masseuse. You won’t need to tell Pam where you are hurting after a long day in the saddle. She already knows. A lifetime of fixing cyclists at the side of racing tracks has helped make Pam into the finest fixer around.

The two biggie rides on the Island are “The Big One” and “Sa Colobra”, offering a total of 4,500m of climbing between them. The Big One is an 135km circular ride taking in the northern mountains and taking you over four cols including the aptly named Puig Major – a sea level to 1000m monster climb over 14km. With stunning views, and fast technical descents on switchback roads, it is every bit the equal of an alpine sportive.

Sa Colobra, whilst involving less climbing, is psychologically the harder ride. You spend the morning climbing up a substantial way to a hut / café known as the Orange Seller (Because he sells oranges – doh!). The ride leader then points a further 3km upwards to the top of a col which is the start of a 10km steep spiral drop into the town of Sa Colobra.

What’s the catch?  Well other than by boat, there is only one way back – the way you came.  The road itself is the star of the show and is an awesome feat of engineering as well as being in a staggeringly beautiful place. You see it snaking down below you and twisting up in front of you all the way. Apparently it is one of only two roads in Europe that helter-skelters and goes underneath itself in this way. One mystery unsolved is why they ever built this road? The town at the bottom, whilst lovely, is hardly metropolis and the road (and stunning scenery on the way) is definitely the most impressive asset.

The road to Sa Colobra

The road to Sa Colobra

The road to Sa Colobra

Back in Port Pollensa, the apres ride centres on Tolos restaurant and bar. Tolo – you guessed it, is also an ex cycle pro and as well as running the region’s cycling social scene, also hosts the annual seasonal time trial event for those of a more masochistic bent.

All in all, ten days with Legro will typically give you … 1000km in the legs, around 11,000m of climbing, over 22,000 calories burnt and an excuse to eat as much delicious strawberry and almond cake as you can find (there is no shortage).

Anything missed? Oh yes. The water! Well it don’t taste quite like what it oughta. Buy bottled!

To conclude a poem dedicated to legendary ride leaders Sean Bannister and Paul Dodds who somehow managed to get me down and up Colobra.

I felt compelled to write a rhyme
About a most appalling climb
That breaks a most important rule
Do the HARD work first then come down COOL

What is this beast and why the gotcha
Time to explain the Sa Colobra
Where you place your bets and raise the stakes
And descend down the road that snakes

You start ok, says this story teller
You reach alright the Orange Seller
Then ask ride leader “Was that it?”
He laughs “Not so, not one little bit”

“You see up there? – he points to sky”
An evil glint behind his eye
Just get up there and then you’ll drop
And down you’ll roll till land will stop

You see the road unfold ahead
It twists and turns and plays with your head
You descend with a concerned frown
“Should I stop now and turn around?”

The most frightening drop you’ve ever met
Each mile rolled down puts legs in debt
And when you’re done – it’s one way back
10k of up! Hard Attack!

Yet there is a moral to this story
The ride is not all gloom and gory
You get to see a place that’s stunning
That defies words and clever punning

And afterwards in Tolo’s bar
You’ll stretch the tale – it will go far
“The road to nowhere” “The climb from hell”
You’ll tell everyone there is to tell

Everyone was pleased with lunch at the Musgrave Arms, food was tasty and staff were friendly and efficient, so I was feeling pleased with myself as we set off back to Stevenage. But my self-satisfaction was short lived. We started shedding riders at an alarming rate. Some decamped a few miles out, and headed for Hitchin station. Stephen waited for stragglers, and I continued with the main bunch. Then we found ourselves climbing a hill. It went on. And on. By the time we’d reached the top, I knew what had happened. I’d missed a turning . I’d led them up the longest hill in Hertfordshire and now I’d have to turn round and lead them back down. They’d know I was lost. I cast around desperately for a cover story, trying to surreptitiously consult my map to work out where we were. But a three foot square OS map can’t be easily hidden, and I’m useless at map reading anyway. Then a miracle happened. Just as I prepared to ask directions at a nearby house, (which would definitely have given the game away), a cyclist came round the corner – it was Stephen, riding to the rescue in his bright pink cap! Someone had told him that we’d been seen heading for a dual carriageway, and knowing my record, he found that entirely plausible. (Another rumour, currently trending on Twitter, that I was last seen leading the group to Luton airport to charter a plane back to Stevenage, is entirely unfounded). Hugely relieved, I relinquished the leader’s role, and stayed safely at the rear for the rest of the day.

We reached the station with no further mishaps, but I confess that the attrition rate on this ride was of First World War proportions – of sixteen starters, only eight made it back to Stevenage. We plan to round up the rest on the May LGR – if they’ve survived.

Paul Carsten Nina Laurence Sarah at Coalport

Nina, Sarah, Laurence and Carsten joined us there having visited Industrial museums in the afternoon and booked our evening meal in a local pub. We crossed the historic Ironbridge the next morning and found afternoon tea in Acton Scott which was used for the TV series Victorian Farm. Their geese made an attempt on one of our panniers, but Ortlieb defeated them.

Later that afternoon a loud “ping” from Carsten’s rear wheel announced a broken spoke block side, but we made Clun for two nights staying in the preserved water mill. The next day’s route was duly amended, and a bike shop in Newport loaned us their tools for Paul and Carsten to fix the problem. We again had an excellent meal that night in the White Horse Inn back in Clun.

Easter Sunday and morning coffee was in style in a five star hotel at Leintwardine. There was time to explore Ludlow with it’s Easter market over lunch; speciality cheeses proving popular with the group. Tea was in the “museum of curiosities” in Craven Arms and then a superb ride along the side of Long Mynd, where a few small snow patches remained along the roadside. The Country Inn at Bridges provided an excellent meal with fine local beers.

Carsten and Sarah on the Long Mynd

Next morning was raining, so the climb over Long Mynd hard wet work, and Sarah beat us all again. There were fine views and an exhilarating descent to the café at Church Stretton.

Sarah on the Long Mynd

On the Newtown Montgomeryshire Canal

From then on the group dispersed for home, and we finally said goodbye to Sarah and Nina at Much Wenlock before heading south again. At Leominster we met Sally from Central London on the fourth day of her End to End but suffering gear problems with her new bike. The bike shed was filled with bikes, and the drying room with wet cyclist’s clothing. It took two more days to ride back to London dodging the hail storms with mixed success, to complete 800km of touring in the English and Welsh countryside.

What follows is a personal and impressionistic account of the 2012 ‘Five Countries’ Easter tour.  There is no attempt at balance and I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies or distortions….

My report begins in Monschau, Germany.

For those of us who opt for early bed rather than late bar when on a cycling holiday, the fragments of chatter at breakfast can conjure up a disturbing picture of events the previous night.

So it was at the Carat Vitalhotel on Easter Sunday morning.  Fortunately I have a typical cyclist’s robust appetite, so the details that emerged did not affect my consumption of muesli and jaw-challenging German bread. The information that Tom is a master of ceroc is digestible enough anyway. But did I hear right when someone described the overall scene in the hotel bar as ‘sleazy’ and used the adjective ‘raunchy’ to describe Michael and Christine dancing together? I have Christine to thank for demonstrating to me (and the rest of the assembled breakfast contingent) the correct lassoing actions to accompany ‘The Cowboy Song’.  Glancing around the other tables, I try to identify the barrel-shaped and abundantly moustachioed gentleman who was apparently last night in the adjacent room sitting astride his male partner, microphone in hand, enthusiastically contributing to the musical entertainment.

Checking my facts at the end of the tour, in the restaurant next to Selwyn’s Paris pad, I asked again about the events at Monschau.  Michael, as ever a stickler for accuracy, attempted to demonstrate the exact position of Herr Barrel and partner by climbing on top of his injured grandson Albert (we shall later come to the cause of the injury).  When Albert protested at the inappropriateness of his Granddad’s action (and undoubtedly he had a point) Michael countered by insisting that it was the inappropriate nature of the behaviour that he was keen for me to grasp…

Well perhaps we should move on.  After all, I believe I am contractually obliged in this blog to say something about the cycling, the terrain, the weather etc.

So. You need to know that the five countries we visited over the course of the tour were: Holland, Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg and France.  The itinerary was greatly facilitated by two historic agreements made at Maastricht (where the Euro came into being) and Schengen (where border controls were abolished).  For most participants* in this tour, Maastricht was our first overnight stop, and we travelled all but the last 20 km there by train.  Of course there are always some who want to do extra, and five** of the total sixteen, the ‘hard rider’ contingent, had already been cycling for two days by then, a long flat journey over from Hoek van Holland in which Tom had sheared a crank and taken a tumble and Richard had demonstrated, to no-one’s surprise, that his fitness had not suffered too greatly during his recent dislocated shoulder imposed break from cycling.  This same hard rider group also put in an extra loop later in the tour between Trier and Luxembourg City, in order to pay homage to whatever memorial exists at Schengen to commemorate the agreement that allowed us to keep our passports in our pockets for most of the trip. (We won’t mention the matter of the Kurtz passport left behind at Vianden, which gave its owner the opportunity to clock up some extra unanticipated km…)

Personally I do slightly regret that we didn’t spend more time in the Netherlands, enjoying the novelty of cycling in a country where the bicycle is king and cars will stop dead on even the busiest main roads and let you to cut in front of them.

If only the typical Luxembourg driver were so considerate.  In the absence of clearly marked borders the behaviour of drivers and the conditions of the roads were perhaps the most obvious distinguishing markers between the countries.  Luxembourg is for the most part an attractively hilly country, where more than one otherwise delightful descent was ruined by the motorists’ reckless approach to cyclists and blind corners.  It was a relief on the final day to cross over to France where an extra metre between vélo and passing automobile is thankfully still the norm.

Given the hazards of cycling in Luxembourg, no-one could miss the irony that the only significant accident of the tour occurred when we had just crossed the border back into Germany and that it involved a collision between a sign post unhelpfully situated in the middle of a bicycle path and our youngest tourist, thirteen year old Albert.  Poor Albert took a hefty knock to his knee and lay immobilised on a grass verge while the rest of us stood around saying “yes, I nearly crashed into that bollard too, what a stupid place to put a sign indicating a cycle path”.  Medical help was summoned and arrived promptly in the form of a morbidly obese, cigarette wielding paramedic and his assistant.  The pair carefully manouevered Albert onto a stretcher and bundled him into the waiting ambulance, to be checked out further in a hospital in Trier. Concerned Granddad Michael accompanied Albert into the ambulance. (Was it just me who suspected that Michael was more concerned about the state of the paramedic than that of Albert?)

The injured party in professional, if rather fat, hands, the rest of us repaired to a pizza joint for lunch in nearby Echternacherbrück.  By happy coincidence the owner came from the same village in Italy as Sabina’s father and had a friend willing, for 50 Euros, to transport Michael and Albert’s bikes to Trier in his Mercedes saloon car.  Loading the two bikes in the car was an interesting process which I watched from inside the restaurant, restraining myself from rushing outside to point out that it would have been so much more sensible to put Michael’s machine on the back seat, and Albert’s in the boot, not vice versa, as Michael’s has a nice clean elastic band in place of a proper oily metal bicycle chain.

To appreciate the next part of the Albert injury saga you need some geographical data.  Measuring distances on my map (so old-fashioned, I know), I make it a whole 16 km as the crow flies, between the accident location and the city of Trier.  It is not that much further by road.  We were not in some remote wilderness.  So when the Mr Blobby lookalike paramedic decided that Albert needed further attention before being transported in the ambulance, was it really necessary for the two doctors summoned to arrive by helicopter?  If that were not evidence enough of the contrasting resources of the German health system and our own beleaguered NHS, the spectacular leg cast applied with Germanic thoroughness to what an x-ray had shown to be a ‘severe contusion of the patella’ (i.e. a badly bruised knee) proved the point.  So Albert, with left leg wholly, and some might say unnecessarily, immobilised, was definitely off his bike for the rest of the holiday.  At least he and Michael only missed the last two days of cycling and were able to follow us to Luxembourg City and Metz by train, and join us in the evenings.  Happily, Albert’s brother George, as a now mature fifteen year old, was able to ride on with the rest of us, causing far less concern with his conduct on the road than a certain tour member fifty-eight years his senior…

Back to the cycling.  Four members of the group, Sarah B, Sarah W, Christine and Sabina, were using this tour as training for Land’s End to John O’Groats later this summer.  So naturally, much discussion focussed on their preparedness for this seventy miles a day venture.  I can’t quite remember on which day Sarah W exclaimed “I am so over hills”.  Better, I thought, at least, than being so over the hill.  It is possible that what she was “so over” was in fact the incessant reminders from the party’s more experienced cyclists, not to ‘honk’ up the longer slopes.  Another subject of much close scrutiny was Christine’s new Condor bicycle.  Was she too stretched out on the frame or was her ‘bumbag’ distorting the picture?  Were her gear ratios sufficient for the forthcoming vicious Devon inclines?  In fact, few of us altogether escaped critical comment on the state of our machines.  When, early in the holiday, I asked Michael to check for the source of the faint noise emanating from my rear wheel area, he replied “faint noise, Gail? It’s DEAFENING!”  I think though that we were all envious, at some point on a hilly day (did I mention that this corner of Europe is not flat?) of Paul’s featherweight load, achieved via his new bike’s titanium frame and his rigorously minimalist approach to packing.

It is of course not possible to write about a cycle tour without mentioning the weather.  In best ‘cup half full’ mode, I shall note that it was bright and sunny for our last full day of cycling, from Luxembourg City and down the Moselle into Metz, and that it only rained all day on Easter Tuesday, and even then the wet did not penetrate my Shimano cycling shoes.  Plus, the promised -5°C overnight in Monschau never materialised (perhaps due to the overheated scene in the hotel bar) and only the lightest of snowflakes fell the following morning.  My pale and freckly Scottish skin was at no point threatened by sunburn and my decision to pack my thicker pair of cycling ‘longs’ was fully vindicated.

When weather is chilly, it is natural that greater attention is paid to the matter of keeping the inner fires burning.  Which is a roundabout way of saying we ate a lot.  Cakes were consumed in abundance, and not only by Sarah W.  This part of Europe is not the easiest place for non-carnivores.  But for those of us happy to ‘pig out’ this was happy hunting ground, and I suspect that the Eisbein (pork knuckle) I ordered at the Aachener Ratskeller could have provided my protein ration for the rest of the trip.  George, I fear, was a little disappointed that the prevalence of pork gave few opportunities to indulge in his now traditional gastronomic adventures.  He did though hastily decline a second forkful of my extreme Andouillette sausage at the railway station bistro in Metz. Was it the overpowering smell or the discernable fragments of a pig’s digestive system that had put him off?

Tom and Sabina did a marvellous job in organising our accommodation, and had most sensibly arranged where possible for us to eat in the hotel or hostel. Getting sixteen people to agree on a restaurant is no easy task, as a slightly tense episode in Lumexbourg City demonstrated.  The tour album will no doubt feature photos of us dining in style under a sparkling chandelier, our cleated shoes hopefully not scuffing the immaculately polished floors of the four-star Hotel Koener in Clervaux.  It is a mystery quite why so much dinnertime conversation on this night and many others centred on Christine’s green/blue/turquoise/aquamarine fleece. Future tourists please note  the ‘take home lesson’. If you want to get away with wearing the same top every night with no-one noticing, then white or black are safer options.

Not every night was spent in four-star luxury with spa and sauna.  A back to basics ethos prevailed at Malmedy Youth Hostel, with erratic showers, school dinner-ish food and some traditional entertainments.  The scrabble board provided an opportunity for Christine to display her competitive instincts, Richard his ‘good loser’ traits, and Sabina her awareness of the word ‘coir’.

I am not going to pretend that the regions of Europe we passed through on this tour were the most dramatic, scenic or picturesque you could find.  Notwithstanding its more dubious attractions, Monschau, a jumble of half-timbered houses snuggling together for protection in the jaws of a steep limestone gorge, would surely win the prize for quaintest town visited.  The gentle, pastoral country of the Our valley south of Vianden and the starker Eifel uplands stick in my mind as memorable landscapes.  For those with a leaning to history and architecture there was plenty of interest, from Trier’s impressive Roman remains, the striking castles guarding Vianden and Clervaux, and on to the graceful and ornate cathedral at Metz. My inner geologist delighted at rock exposures along the steep valleys of the Ardennes and the Alzette River route into Luxembourg City.

But over and above all this, the success of the tour was down to meticulous and intelligent planning.  I have already noted Tom and Sabina’s impressive efforts on the hotel booking front.  Their patience when hotel records proved suspect also deserves praise.  Richard, I understand, was chief route planner, and ensured that none of the days demanded superhuman cycling efforts. Paul’s mastery of train timetables and booking systems in France and Belgium served us well, as ever.  Michael’s co-ordinating efforts as ‘minister without portfolio’ also undoubtedly contributed to the fact that the whole holiday came together so splendidly.

I did contemplate writing a section about navigation devices, but decided that this topic would best be left to our considerable techie contingent. We are so accustomed to superb route finding efforts from Richard, Tom and David, that we take them for granted.  Here I would like also to note the contribution of Sarah B, whose Garmin instrument on more than one occasion came good when confusion threatened as we sought to locate our hotel.

In an account like this one, aimed primarily at entertainment not comprehensive reportage, certain characters tend to dominate the narrative by providing the blogger with material more colourful than Roy’s possibly ill-advised Union Jack cycling shirt.  But I should also mention here the steadying influence of the quieter participants, in particular Derek and Graham, competent, experienced cyclists who with minimal fuss contributed greatly to the smooth running of this most enjoyable ten days.

Finally, to Selwyn, who insisted once again that this will be his final tour, I can only say I fervently hope this isn’t true. Where would we be without the wit, the innuendo, the language skills, the Paris hospitality, the expertise in so many areas and, well, simply the good companionship?

And this is a good note on which to finish.  Yes, Sarah W, the cakes were important. As were the cycling, the landscapes, the food, the history, the weather etc. etc.

But most importantly, for me at least, it’s all about the companionship, really.

Gail Riekie, April 2012.

*Those who joined at Maastricht were: Derek, Michael, Sarah B, Sabina, Selwyn, Paul, Gail, Roy, Sarah W, Albert, George.

**Those who started at Hoek van Holland were: Graham, Tom, Christine, David, Richard.

The randonee is a ride for “cyclosportives” or at least “cyclotouristes” (or “Voor Wielertoeristen” as my ride number has it) who go over the course of the famous race which happens the next day. The race itself is 250km, the first 100km of which are a largely a steady ride on the flat before getting to the heart of the race and serious racing action  – the circuits of the final 140km , which is where the cobbled climbs (“bergs” or “muurs”) are. There are two randonee courses which are both concentrated on the cobbled climbs, the 120km, and the easier one of some 87km which I entered.

I let the hard work of entering, booking accommodation and getting travel sorted be done by Sporting Tours. I had been with them to the Etape du Tour and stages of the Tour de France, so I trusted them. Basically the clientele is club cyclists – almost entirely male – with an interest in cycle sport, so it may not be the natural environment for all CTC members.

Still, the organisation gave us a good basic service: coach and ferry to the hotel in Gent (time to look at a city centre with most cars removed and plenty of good northern European basic city cycling), coach to and from the randonee the next day, and the start of the race in Brugge the day after, and also to watch the race just outside Oudenaarde. All in all a deal I could recommend.

And the event? The Flemish Ardennes is scenic – a bit like parts of the Chilterns, except with some of the hills being cobbled. I got round my ride in just over four hours – maybe next time I’ll try the longer event. You can see me on video on the cobbled climbs of the Tour of Flanders randonee, here and look at the sections on the Kruisberg, Taienberg or Koppenberg.  I look like this:

Bob on a berg

I’m about 2-3 seconds in on each section.

The day after is also worth staying on for even if you are not into cycle sport: millions of mad Belgians enjoying some of however many hundred beers get brewed in Belgium.

Race on Oude Kwaremont: Philippe Gilbert in the centre

And the town centres of Brugge and Gent are well worth a visit.

I must have developed something for the cobbles – I am booked to do the Paris-Roubaix (flat course, bigger cobbles) randonee in June!

Hard to say if he meant its youth culture or its economic power; a little of both probably.

It had been long since my last visit (though not my first), in 1974. Surely none of the world’s great cities can have undergone such profound upheaval in that period, not even New York with its traumatic entry into the 21st century.

As on other of our previous city jaunts, to Marseille and Copenhagen, my wife and I resolved to tour the sights by bicycle. The previous day’s recce had left us somewhat footsore but in no doubt that our range would be greatly extended by bike. The hotel’s rental bikes were utility items with high, wide handlebars and that pesky irritant, the back-pedalling brake, that so hinders taking off from a standing start. But once underway they were fine as long as one relaxed into a gentlemanly (or lady-like) stance and did not try to cut any sporting capers.

Love Parade 2006: Straße des 17. Juni, looking east to the Siegessäule and the Brandenburger Tor

Our route plan was to trace a quadrant of der Mauer, the Berlin Wall, that had been the defining fracture of the Berlin I knew, and indeed of the Zeitgeist of world politics until the reunification of Germany in 1989. We set out from our hotel in the plush bourgeois quarter of the Kurfürstendamm towards Zoo Station. In the divided Berlin this was the central station and, though in the Western sector, was under the control of the GDR authorities, who ran the rail network. Grimy, sleazy, and heavily fortified, it stuck out like a sore thumb in the West sector; the surrounding quarter, redolent of Cold War paranoia, notoriously attracted spivs and tarts.

The old station has been replaced by a light, airy glass structure, though the immediate surroundings still have a residual loucheness. We left this behind instantly as we turned off round the side of the Zoo on an ample mixed-use path well-frequented by pedestrians and bike riders. Next we turned right onto a path alongside the Landwehrkanal, with the Zoo still on our right. A small flock of llamas lazed about in the milky sunshine and the cries of birds in the aviary filled the air. To the left, a bridge crosses the canal on to a broad trail that heads north-east across the extensive, freely accessible woods of Tiergarten towards the Großer Stern.

This ‘big star’ is a five-way intersection on Berlin’s most famous road, Straße des 17. Juni, a broad, straight boulevard that spears westwards for 5km from the Brandenburger Tor to Charlottenburg. At its centre is the 67-meter Siegessäule (Victory Monument), topped by a vast gilded statue of Victoria (Victory, not the Queen of England). Now a major tourist attraction, it has morphed into a symbol of reconciliation. After the fall of the Wall, it was adopted by the liberated youth of Germany as the focal point of the annual Love Parade: for tens of thousands, the new cult of techno reached an apotheosis around this former symbol of Prussian military ascendancy, transforming it into a latter-day Maypole.

Deferring the monument to a later visit, we continued north-east past the President’s residence and veered right along another broad path on the north bank of the Spree River. On our left, superb, low-built modern apartments; on the other bank, the startlingly bright-white post-modern Bundeskanzleramt, the state chancellery, one of the world’s largest government buildings; beyond, the iconic 19th-century Bundestag (formerly Reichstag) with its Norman Foster-refurbished glass dome. Wrecked in the Second World War and only meters away from the sector border, it was disused for a half-century. Only after reunification was it restored to its place at the centre of German political life.

Continuing along the north bank of the Spree, we passed in front of the vast new state-of-the-art Hauptbahnhof (main station) that has replaced Zoo station as the hub of the rail network. On its further side, we struck off to the north along the Schifffahrtskanal that separates the Moabit district from Mitte, in the former east sector.

The well-surfaced path runs alongside the canal through the Invalidenfriedhof (cemetery) and here we saw the first relics of the Wall itself, which ran through the graveyard: several small sections of the so-called fourth-generation wall, L-shaped slabs of crude, rough-cast concrete about 4m tall, still stand. An exhibition panel reproduces press reports, from both sides, of one of the first deadly Wall incidents that took place here. The graveyard formed part of a salient of the east sector known to the guards as ‘Kieler Ecke’ and at the far end of the salient, in front of a modern apartment block, a watch-tower is preserved: squat, crude, and ugly, its sole purpose was to interdict would-be escapers over the canal.

Doubling back to the south, we soon arrived at the left turn into Bernauer Straße. Apartment buildings lined the south side of this street, from which would-be escapers jumped, sometimes to their death, in desperate escape attempts as the Wall was built in August 1961. The apartment blocks were demolished to create a cordon sanitaire up to 100m  wide, grimly known as the ‘death strip’, separating the outer and inner walls. A 500m stretch here is now an open-air memorial of the Wall, and much of the inner and outer structures are  left in place. Standing ‘steles’ offer compelling documents of the Wall’s history.

Here, as in several other places, the Wall ran through a cemetery whose perimeter wall formed the initial exclusion barrier, before being replaced by a purpose-designed concrete structure. Graves were removed and intervening buildings, including churches, razed to create a free-fire zone. One has a powerful sense of the Wall’s affront to all human values. And in the adjacent Nordbahnhof, a fascinating exhibition of ‘ghost-stations’ documents the lengths to which the GDR authorities went to seal off the underground railway in the pursuit of this misguided strategy.

Continuing clockwise along Bernauer Straße alongside the route of the Wall, the death strip is still apparent as a wide band of mainly derelict ground abutted by the blind ends of truncated apartment blocks. Soon the street passes a large sports stadium on the left and crosses the boundary into the Prenzlauer Berg district of the former east zone. The marked bicycle lanes peter out and, even now, the area appears markedly less prosperous, with low-rent offices, cheap grocery and household goods stores, and small restaurants. The massive socialist-realist statue of Ernst Thälmann, leader of the pre-1933 German Communist Party, dominates the eponymous park, an extraordinary relic of the Soviet-dominated post-war period. We were the sole visitors to the garishly graffed monument; a solitary skateboarder clattered away inanely on its vast paved apron.

The writer salutes Ernst Thälmann, one of the last monuments left of the Ossi regime

The afternoon was wearing on, a thin drizzle threatened, and we still had some way to go. We bustled down a large arterial route (still not that scary even at commuter home-time) towards Alexander Platz and turned left into Karl-Marx-Allee (formerly Stalin-Allee). Now this truly was back to the future. A boulevard laid out on a colossal scale, it is almost as if the Soviet-era planners had wished to overtop Albert Speer’s megalomaniacal plans for Berlin (dazzlingly envisioned in Robert Harris’s novel Fatherland). Discrete white concrete apartment blocks (in the so-called wedding-cake style, says the great entry in Wikipedia), eight storeys in height and topped by neon slogans in retro Cyrillic script, march down the 2-km long, dead-straight road. Even at this hour, there is almost no traffic. We pull up outside the grandiose but vacant Cafe Moskva (‘closed until further notice’). Nearby, a well-staffed police checkpoint is shaking down passers-by, not us. With a slight shudder, thankful for that to be the lives of others, we press on and pick up the path alongside the Spree towards Museuminsel, the island in the stream where Berlin was founded in C13.

We pop out on to Unter den Linden (‘Under the Limes’), the avenue that rises gently towards the Brandenburg Gate. Such is the extent of rebuilding taking place on this famous thoroughfare that we are balked for the first time in the day by traffic – tourist coaches. Pariser Platz, on the east side of the Gate, is a honeypot for souvenir seekers; we ignore it and cycle imperiously through the central arch of the Gate, reserved in past times for the Kaiser’s family alone.

Clear before us, Straße des 17. Juni stretches off to the west, woods at either hand, with the Siegessäule at vanishing point. Three lanes of traffic, with 3m of bike lane and 3m footway – on each side. We set sail and bowl back to Charlottenburg, riding at as brisk a clip as is gentlemanly (or ladylike).

The new London? Certainly not. It is the new Berlin, and that is something else again.

Riders: Martin and Jill Hayman

We drew heavily on the Time Out Guide to Berlin, and strongly recommend it. In describing Zoo Station, I realize I have drawn on my memory of Friedrichstraße Stn that served Checkpoint Charlie. Sorry.

But it was not to be, and just as well, because the rain disappeared by the start of the ride. Moral: it can always get better. The crew was Roger and Kay, and newbie Tom Bartlett, who turned up in the sub 10°C in shorts. We chastised him with reprimands about his lack of preparedness accordingly.

No, of course we didn’t! He was informed of the benefits of suitable leg coverings in a non-patronising, empowering and liberating manner, in accordance with our commitment towards encouragement etc., etc. You know me. In addition, my over-trousers were loaned to take the edge of the wind chill on knee ligaments and tendons.

There’s something good about a bleak Easter Sunday in the Chilterns:  motorists seem to get scared by wet weather (at least in the early part of the day), and obviously plenty have departed for other pastures. So we had less motor traffic than usual. Off we went on the normal route which tackles the middle part of the old Hilly Chilterns randonee and we were in Hambleden for elevenses. Then it was up Pheasants Hill and through Marlow for the ultra-steep concrete “wall” which, yet again, we had to walk up due to moss induced wheel slip.

Tom punctured and was spotted trying to pump up an inner tube while pressing it on a flinty road surface, as well as having other difficulties with replacing the punctured tube. We presented him with the contemptuous sneers of the experienced cyclist, mocking his inexperienced.

No … of course we didn’t! Kay in particular assisted in the non-patronising supportive educational experience designed to generate empowerment, autonomy etc. etc., and Tom was soon ready to pedal again with enthusiasm.

Usually the food stop in West Wycombe is at the garden centre, but Easter Sunday closure directed us to a pub in the village: more than adequate and I suggest a better lunch stop venue than the garden centre for the future. Then through Saunderton, over the road for the steepest climb of the day, Speen, top of Whiteleaf Hill and back to Princes Risborough.

About 75km on the clock.

Riders: Kay Bettis, Roger Fretwell, Tom Bartlett, Bob Davis.