A bus ride back to the Sixties

or perhaps to a post-apocalypic world. In the early Seventies I backpacked the equivalent distance of twice around the equator, much of it along the fringes of hippydom. I was keen to find out the changes in forty years. A bus ride to the eco-village of Beneficio, near Orgiva in the far south delivered enlightenment of a kind. About two hundred live here in an assortment of yurts, tipis and homemade shelters. Visitors are welcome to stay at the communual tipi and join thirty or more for the evening meal of dahl and chappaties or rice and veggies. A five-foot wide fire dominated the tipi and there were magical moments when stars shown through the open top or the shadow of dreadlocks danced against the wall like an Indian´s feather headdress to the sound of violin, clarinet and a dozen drums. However, the music and free-wheeling conversations of the earlier days had been replaced by a woeful ignorance on how to live successfully and sustainably in a near-cashless society. Dialogue is challenging when you ask someone where they are from and the reply is as likely to be an unknown planet as it is a country. I pointed out easy ways to make life more pleasent - using car windshields to sprout beans, black plastic pipe for solar hot showers and intensive raised beds for gardening.
In the village I met English ex-pat builders living a similar hardscrabble existance. There dilemma was how to plough with a pair of mules and help refugees from the city who were weary of fighting police and just wanted to grow food to survive. One of the mule´s was too old the other too viscious. I gave them my business card informing them I was both an equestrian consultant and a compost expert.  Well-stewed tea gives life to the jaded and tranquilizers calms the crazy; as for ploughing, a better alternative are goats followed by pigs. Then, the cost of dead stock removal came up, I gave them the www.wormdigest.org website and told them that a composted mule will make a raised bed that will keep them in veggies all year. After five days I left, wondering why some people choose to live a post-apocalypic life when the buses run and markets flow with fresh fruit.

Walking Blues

My first walking experience was similar to my first biking trip - I got it all wrong. I´ve been in the company of walkers for the past month and am full of admiration of how they cross countries, if not continents, effortlessly. There are three tricks to walking: the first week you should only average 25km a day, you only carry 10% of your body weight and there is no need to carry three day´s supply of food when you pass through a village every three hours. I did over 40km the first (and only day) which left me knackered. My error was compounded in that many of the cheap pilgrim alburgues are closed for winter, the weather is bad and their is nobody else on the trail to commisserate with. I missed the advantage of the bike and the ability to cook and camp anywhere. The bike still works, although we both know 3,500km has taken its toll. I´m only a day´s ride from Sandander, the departure point for the ferry to the UK. Tomorrow I leave the bike here and take a bus to Madrid, the following ten days are a mystry.

Go south until butter melts, then turn west

Those are the instructions given to mariners sailing to the New World - I only wish my navigation was so simple. Somedays I have brilliant sucess and other days dismal failure. Yesturday I experienced both. I ask for direction at a gas station on the edge of a city, the Spanish are generous with time and kindness in helping wayward strangers, however, it is like memorising the hand signals of an orchester conductor or perhaps, a priest giving a blessing. More then an hour later I bike past the same gas station after a stint on the motorway.
Then in the evening I need to find a village not marked on the map, then find the house of a woman named Angel to get the key to the hostel. I expected to be there by 4pm, but I had a series of punctures. I´m ruthless in reducing the weight on the bike, I hyrate at a bar instead of refilling my water bottle and can,t find the pin-hole puncture in the growing darkness without water. The yellow arrows painted on the road or walls cannot be seen in the darkness, despite all this I´m safe and warm in the hostel by 7pm.
Tomorrow I leave the bike at auberge at San Vincente, near Sandander, and set off to walk the Camino along the coast for two weeks.

Are you lucky?

Those are the instructions given to mariners sailing to the New World - I only wish my navigation was so simple. Somedays I have brilliant sucess and other days dismal failure. Yesturday I experienced both. I ask for direction at a gas station on the edge of a city, the Spanish are generous with time and kindness in helping wayward strangers, however, it is like memorising the hand signals of an orhester conductor or perhaps, a priest giving a blessing. More then an hour later I bike past the same gas station after a stint on the motorway.
Then in the evening I need to find a village not marked on the map, then find the house of a woman named Angel to get the key to the hostel. I expected to be there by 4pm, but I had a series of punctures. I´m ruthless in reducing the weight on the bike, I hyrate at a bar instead of refilling my water bottle and can,t find the pin-hole puncture in the growing darkness without water. The yellow arrows painted on the road or walls cannot be seen in the darkness, despite all this I´m safe and warm in the hostel by 7pm.
Tomorrow I leave the bike at auberge at San Vincente, near Sandander, and set off to walk the Camino along the coast for two weeks.

On the beach at the end of the world

Last night I camped on a wild beach, the last in Europe, the waves thundered and the wind howled. Then I climbed a mountain high above the cliffs in the pre-dawn light to catch the sunrise like the Druids who gathered here eons ago. Giant breakers crashed on the shore and I swam, or rather was tumbled in the surf, the water was surprising warm, but then I´ve been soaked to the skin so often that warmth is just a memory. A Polish girl I met on the beach came to dinner with a bottle of wine, fresh water flowed out of  a rock ourcrop and driftwood fueled a cooking fire.

Gravity and Gravitas

The middle section of the Camino de Santiago is on top of the mesa thru medival villages - Decameron country - with the sharp ring of church bells reminisant of spaghetti westerns. The trail down is like a narrow dry river bed. I stop for a beer mid-morning and at noon to get my pilgrim´s passport stamped (more about that later). I hurtle down the trail bouncing off rocks and ledge,the panniers provide ballast and I have the authority of gravity yelling ¨Buen Comino¨to startled perigrinos; somedays I´m just a bad-assed pilgrim with hell hounds on my trail. Stayed the night at a Benedictine monestry, a plainclothes monk handled the paperwork, no kitchen so discreet beer and bagette behind a wall.
Made it to Santiago, the 800km offroad was a blast, will stay here for three days to eat and sleep.

The Druid String and Black Diamond Biking

Dropped Ikm over 15km, the bike became skiis as we flew down the switchback turns. In the valley was a Templar castle built with a piece of string. The ´Druid String´has thirteen knots each equidistant apart and then these are sub-divided into 12 equidistant apart segments, with this basic ruler many geometric problems were solned. It was with this device the Templars built their castles. As I peddle I try and remember long forgottem theorems because I like the idea of going to work with a piece of string in my pocket.

Camino de Santiago

Each day rolls into the next, I have to write down where I am , the day and the date, this morning I´m in an ancient farm house about 50km west of Leon. It is like travel might have been centuries ago, the path is marked by various signs, generally faded yellow arrows. I go until dusk and then am welcome into  a hostel for 'pergrinos'. Every nationality and age gathers around the kitchen table, the conversations are as diverse as the people, sometimes it´s a crazy impromt party , the next chats on Templars and tapas, the snack that comes with the afternoon beer stop. The trail is also as varied, we had clay so deep it seized the wheels solid, washed it for in a fountain, then there might be a wild downhill spin.

A party and two wipe outs

Pamploma. There was a spontanious party at last night¨s  pilgrim¨s  refuge. It began when Mary from Scotland played Celtic tunes, then out  came the spoons and harmonica. Everyone had a story to tell and a song to sing. Ava, 19, had walked on her own from  Austria, Vincent and his girlfriend had travelled from the South Pacific, a mix of Europeans kept the action  going and the wine flowing.
Then, today I had two spectactular wipe-outs. The track was barely two feet wide and wet clay, I lost balance bouncing over rock ledges, the bike flipped over me as we tumbled down the embankment, panniers and bushes broke the fall. It´s a real adventure following the scallop shell route markers that guide one through ancient castles, along river banks and woodland paths.

Boldly going where no bike should go.

I,m at 4000ft and should be in an airplane instead I,m pushing the bike into the clouds. The Lepoeder Pass is at 1427m and there,s a howling gale, luckily it,s not rain or snow or this would be dodgy, as it is I push twenty steps then take a breather hoping my heart wont burst out of my chest like in the Alien movie. Stayed the night at the Roncevaux monestry, Napoleon was a relatively recent guest, Charlemagne and Richard the Lionheart whooped it up here too. The trail has been in use since the 10th Century and shows it, much bouncing over jagged bedrock. Essentially it´s a 800km off-road bike ride relying on the signs marking the pilgrim route to Santiago de Compostella.

St. Jean Pied De Post

I,ve crossed Ireland and France and tomorrow I go off_road for about 800km on the old pilgrim route across north west Spain, expect to be pushing the bike uphill in the mud. Done 1200 miles and all is well, the adventure begins tomorrow.

Scotland to Spain.
So far I have covered 600 miles in ten days. Started at St. Fillans west of Perth, Scotland and coasted downhill to Oban, stayed at hostel. Long ride in the rain to Tarbert, camped at the castle, Robert the Bruce stayed here nearly 1000 years ago. Beautiful ride across the Isle of Arran, ferry back to the mainland, camped by roadside at Ardrossan. Long day south for Belfast ferry. Arrive Belfast on a wet Saturday night, scaled chain-link fence with bike and camped in bushes near the docks. Up at 3am and biked thru empty streets, streetlamps lit the way until daybreak. Stayed at hostel in Ballycastle, long ride with 1000ft climb at the end, knackered. Made it to Letterkenny the following day, thru Glenties and Ardara, camped by roadside before Killybegs. On to Sligo and hostel, met Teri, a retired Frenchman walking across Europe, "the secret to this lifestyle is for your mind and body to be friends" he said. Currently only bits of me are on speaking terms with other bits. Another long day to Edgeworthstown, sleep behind derelict house. Lucky stop at Netti's Cafe in Delvin for the best traditional breakfast so far, accompanied with huge steaming pot of tea. On towards Navan, had first puncture, exploded new inner tube with too much pressure. Stopped at bike shop for supplies, now wearing flouresent lime green cycle jersey and am warm and dry for the first time despite another rain shower. Leave for Rosslare in two days.

Through the Past Slowly - Scotland to Spain on a Bicycle
October - December 2012

I'm leaving soon on another pedalling adventure. I plan to visit family in the UK and travel by bicycle through Scotland, Ireland, France, and Spain. More details to follow....

Hugh.

Bus Blues

Bicycling through the mountains and across the steppe is a breeze. But, travel by bus with a bike and you enter a pythonesque world with a Spanish script. At the Buenos Aires bus terminal I played an hour long game of snakes and ladders as i followed directives from bus officials. Twice I took the fully-loaded bike down flights of stairs and once up a flight of stairs and once up an escalator. At San Julian they refused to take the dismantled bike, even though the rear of the bus is for freight.

Patagonia Unplugged

Wind, long stretches without water and heavy truck traffic made biking Ruta 3 up the Atantic coast too much of a challenge. My first stop was at Puerto San Julian. Magellan, Drake and Darwin all touched shore here. This little town would be perfect, with it´s speedbumps instead of traffic lights and a main street of single story bungalows. But, by midday I had to shelter in my tent from the gale force winds. Rose at 3.30am to get fifty km in by noon. At times I was pushing the bike downhill. Whirlygigs of dust rose vertically in the distance and then shot across the landscape horizontally. Suddenly the bike and I were lifted off the road and carried in the air, like plastic garbage, and dumped twelve feet away in a mangled heap. I hitched a ride in a Ford Ranger. The speedometer held steady at 140km until the next town 4 hours away. Bus ride a few hundred km north To Trelew. I´d lost track of the date. The explosions started early evening and between midnight and 2am on Christmas Day there was a heavy fireworks bombandment on all sides. The campsite the next morning was covered in a low cloud of smoke from the grills roasting slaps of beef. Smell of burning flesh filled the air. Next stop was Puerto Madryn, more wind, dust and a monster cruise ship tied to the pier. Ride the bus to Buenos Aires and then biked south to the perfect hidaway in the sun. Chascomus is a former cowtown with cobble streets and a ramshackle 1950s look and feel. Best of all the temps are in the high 20s, the vegation green and almost sub tropical and no wind.

Newfoundland By Bicycle

NEWFOUNDLAND BY BICYCLE


St.John’s is like Galway town in Ireland tipped on its side. The downtown is a crescent of colourful pubs and shops hugging the bowl-shaped harbour. I arrive at the Youth Hostel the same time as a windswept blonde dressed in red. Heike has just biked from Vancouver. We celebrate her achievement with Guinness to the lilting melodies of a musician who played with the intensity of Van Morrison.

My plan is to go as far north as possible before snow drives me back. It is early October and my friends say I am mad biking on a rain-soaked island during the stormy season. I am here because the meaning of life is to be feel alive and I am never more alive than when setting out at dawn into the unknown. I also do it because I can. Air mile points pay the airfare, bike-touring costs are minimal and fitness and energy magically appear when you hit the highway. Living off the grid gives me the affluence of time.

First stop is Cape Spear; I am closer to Ireland than Vancouver. The tang of the sea complements the sharp taste of the partridgeberries growing along the cliff top. Hunger and thirst put the wheels to the road. I fuel up at the general store in Petty Harbour and I am collared by a marauding CBC reporter travelling the back roads for a story. I have been talking to the bike all day (we had not been together since Patagonia two years ago and had much to catch up on) and continue the conversation to the microphone. Now my oats addiction is public knowledge.

It is ‘Fabreze’ country for a hundred kilometres around the city. A world of new bungalows and mown lawns. Late model pick-up trucks and Harley Davidson’s are roadside company. The language, however, echoes the past. “How are ya, me darling,” says the waitress as she shays over, like Bette Midler, with the menu. Nautical terms splice roadside chat - “Where are ye bound?” Twice I strip off and wash in lakes, which still have a faint memory of summer temperatures. I take a circuitous route west via Conception bay to avoid commuter traffic on the Trans Canada Highway. Roadside camping is a breeze and the low-tech canned fuel stove works every time. It burns with a single flame and this means a hot meal without leaving the tent or sleeping bag – essential when I learnt to stay inside during downpours. The radio warns Hurricane Ophelia is getting closer. Hamlet’s Ophelia drowned after falling into a pond, this does not bode well. Steady rain precedes her arrival and I am soaked and chilled. Cycling becomes a balancing act; on one side - rain, spray from eighteen-wheelers, sweat and wind chill and on the other are huge plates of pan-fried cod and chips and constant peddling. Ophelia will be overhead tonight and I have never camped in a hurricane. A campground sign beckons; it is closed for the winter. I pitch the tent and warm up with a hot meal. The owner is surprised to find a camper; he generously welcomes me to stay the night.

During the night, the noise from the rain is like being under a waterfall. The Eureka Spitfire solo tent and Silshelter flysheet keep me dry and the sky clears by noon the next day. The 100kph wind gusts are not a derrentant on the relatively sheltered coastal road. I keep peddling enjoying the crashing waves, although hunger pangs are a distraction, finally at 5pm there is a roadside diner.

Clarenville is the kind of town you always hope to find. Bicycles travel at the same speed as a horse or sailboat and are equally exposed to the elements, when in the wilds the present joins the past. That said, it is really nice to sit down to a hot meal or to the library internet. I bike on through steady rain and pass a spot marked with bright yellow flowers. A cyclist had been hit by a truck loaded with overhanging roof trusses. The temperature is 5 degrees C, it is late afternoon, I am chilled and the forecast is for two more wet days. A technician’s van stops, David, the driver, offers me a ride to Bonavista. I gladly accept. We splash through picturesque Trinity Bay and past John Cabot’s monument on the headland. The Youth Hostel is full and I stay at a bright B & B. The next day I move to the hostel. Interesting characters, most are either local workers or tech students at the college. I dry everything and eat every few hours.

I have been a week on the road and am in the groove. The radio and internet give me a head’s up on the forecast and the laundromat dryer is my confession box – I bare all, dump everything in and after thirty minutes of mad whirling and crashing I walk away a new man – and all for $2.50. The trick with food is that it is the food you ate yesterday gives you the energy for today. Sometimes I keep peddling long after I should have stopped to eat, I later regret this. The landscape opens up to stunning vistas of balsam fir, black spruce and wild rivers in flood. Twice along the middle section of the island, a young couple, fellow guests at the B & B, stopped and gave me a ride. This is good because I will travel this road on my return.

The road from Deer Lake to Rocky Harbour on the west coast is spectacular, steep glaciated valleys and dramatic Lord of the Rings landscape. Hills make biking fun, the speedometer edges higher to the mid-fifties; I crouch low and grin madly. Pushing the bike uphill is a reminder to travel light; it is also gives one set of muscles a break. I stay at the KOA campground a few kilometres from Gros Mourne. Luckily, it is still open this late in the season. It is Thanksgiving and the manager’s wife gives me a huge plate of turkey dinner.

Climbing Gros Mourne is the highlight of the trip. The temperature dropped to -5 during the night, dawn brought bright sun and a cloudless sky. This is fortunate because it is a tabletop mountain and not advisable to climb when the summit is in cloud. It is a 16km hike with an 800m climb and takes 7 hours. The first section is through a forest, the trail opens up at the base and then it is a steep scramble up a scree-covered gully. Just below the flat-topped summit, there was twenty feet of ice-hard snow. I was glad to have picked up a discarded walking stick; even then, I still cut steps with my hunting knife. The view on top is magnificent and unchanged since the Paleo-Indians stomped the landscape as the ice-sheets receded 10,000 years ago. I sit on the top and watched six moose in a valley far below. For some people ecstasy is a pill, for me it is a mountain.

The forecast warns of snow to the north. I wanted to continue biking up the coast and give the Viking settlement a nod. Instead, prudence prevails and I turn back east. My plan is to explore the peninsulas and outports along the way.

I return to the Trans Canada Highway in tune with the melody of the countryside, the sun shines bright and the autumn colours are sharp in the crisp air. There is no wind and the bike glides effortlessly eating the miles, the only sound is the click of gears changing with the grade. On two occasions, I stay in the tent to avoid the rain. I read The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins is a kindred spirit. I take the turn off for Twillinggate. There are frequent picture post card views of rocky shores lined with kelp and drift wood. The road continues over a series of islands joined by causeways and high bridges. Crow Head juts out into the bay, on the horizon I can just make out flat-topped icebergs. Weathered clapboard houses fit into the landscape. Generations lived a hardscrabble existence here by living off the sea. The cod are gone and global warming and a generation who prefer iPods to ice flows will likely decide the future of the seal hunt.

Two days of leisurely peddling and I am back in Gander. The late afternoon rush is on; it is a culture shock after days of being on my own in the wilds. Big feed at Subway, a shower at the public swimming pool and then the library for the internet.

Moose are the IEDs of Newfoundland roads and cause about 700 accidents each year. This results in an unexpected benefit to cyclists. Vehicles travel noticeably slower and drivers scan the shoulder for the lumbering beasts. Many people avoid driving at night and it is a relief to camp close to the road without the rumble of wheels.

I turn off the TCH for Placentia; it is a long day with food stops. Late afternoon I crest a wicked hill and look down on the historic harbour. First stop is the clothes dryer and then really bad fast food chicken. The growing darkness enabled me to camp in some bushes on the waterfront at the edge of town. The next section was over moorland on a gravel road, I hardly saw a car all day. The radio warns of approaching storms, Gander has its first snowfall of the season.

I camp in front of a long-abandoned cabin reclaimed by nature. The only flat ground is close to the standing trunks of rotten silver birch trees. Through the night, the 100kpm wind howls with a sound like a maniacal high-pressure hose. I worry about falling trees. I stay in the tent the next day, rainwater fills my pots and I continue with Bilbo Baggins’ adventures. The forecast calls for two days of day followed by snow. I am only 70km from St. John’s and so it does not matter if I get wet. I covered 1,700 km in five weeks, three of which were sunny. It is an exhilarating ride; the high wind is either behind me or a crosswind. I wear the jacket hood under my helmet when my cheek goes numb from the wind-chill. The driving sleet stings my face and I love it.