Amsterdam and beyond....

Cycling in Amsterdam is like driving in London, in rush hour: but unlike a car, where you are largely protected from other humans and their annoying presence, in this capital, on your humble touring bicycle you can hear everyone when they curse at you, feel the clank of metal on metal when someone randomly swerves into you and witness the rage of those that are impatient with you for an unknown infraction of the rules, that don't exist and seemingly vary from person to person.

It is the very best way to get your daily dose of terror/amusement and whilst I would recommend it just for the experience, I will warn that it is not for the faint of heart. All I can say is to keep in mind that it really isn't the strange phenomena of a dawn chorus somehow heard at 16.30, it's 40+ cyclists behind you, their bells chiming sporadically and enthusiastically. One piece of advice: don't get offended by any of it, you are simply another cog in a very large, very busy wheel. So just keep pedalling!

We did the tourist thing there for a day or two, wandered around, spent some money and....went ice skating! Our host from the Warmshowers network (for touring cyclists) was fancy pants on ice skates and so: we gave it a whirl.

Let's agree to pretend we were both phenomenal/agile/fantastic and had offers from the speed skating team to join them because naturally talent like ours had never been seen......

In truth, we both left Amsterdam with a few extra bruises!

After the vibrancy of the city, landscape relaxed and remained flat before turning into another jaunt of wooded areas with ups and downs, trails and tracks. On one particular chilly evening the sun was melting lazily into the horizon; another red stained sky that could could have been the backdrop to some romantic kind of excursion....which would have been nice: for someone with a fixed address to go home to afterward. But we were knackered after riding all day and the woods around us were looking perfect for getting our dinner on the go and pitching our own fixed address, so we stepped off a trail to look for a subtle place, somewhere hidden like always, but alas disaster struck.

[Cue dark and ominous music]
A dusty, sinister looking car approached us, it's progress steady on the sandy path that should have been empty so close to dark. We peered into a window that proceeded to be wound down in what seemed a deliberately slow pace. It was then that we got eyeballed by a stern, surly looking man before being told we had to leave the forest, you could only be there in daylight hours.

Now, this somewhat left us in a pickle, we told him we would go and as promised we did indeed set about heading back onto our cycle route that led out of the forest, however the sun was fading fast and along with it the remnants of heat. To our disadvantage on this occasion, the sheer expanse of this place meant it was dark before we could get anywhere close to the exit, plus the temperature had again plummeted lower than the forecast had indicated it would. To put it bluntly: it was bloody freezing.

We found ourselves in a quandry: risk camping and get caught/get fined/get murdered in a grizzly revenge attack by a park ranger that looked suspiciously like a villain from Scooby Doo. Or keep going and risk hypothermia.

We chose the former.

And so we started looking for places to hide our tent and ourselves, essentially playing a game of cat and mouse with the patrolmen. Now, anyone that knows me, knows I'm terrible at breaking the rules. I'm not a risk taker or lawbreaker, I'm not good at keeping my cool and mostly I'm just a wimp. So you can imagine the scene: heavily wooded area, screeches from birds, bats flying around, owls hooting, the wind causing the trees to bend into strange arches, shadows lurked like monstrous shapes ready to strike and various rangers intent on goodness knows what!

James left me on the path with the bikes to try to find a place a bit more hidden, out of view, so far so normal, this is the easiest way, rather than lug the bikes into places that are not right. And yet, as the echo of his footsteps faded into the forest, there was only me and the night. I started to be very aware of how alone I was, with two loaded bikes, stranded in a massively conspicuous place I shouldn't be.

Nothing bad was going to happen. Right? A noise behind me, humming. The humming of an engine in fact. And it was then I realised, I was stuck in the middle of the path, unable to move, without an explanation for where my companion was or why he was wandering around when we had already said we would leave. To add insult to injury the light on James' bike is faulty and cannot be turned off. Naturally it happens to be brighter than the sun too.

Trivia question: when about to be caught by a lumberjack/psycho killer/passive aggressive grounds person with a thoroughly Germanic desire to have the rules adhered to, do you:

A) Drop the bikes and run.
B) Try to move the bikes off the path, despite them being heavier than you can possibly manage.
C) Cry.
D) Cup your hand over the light and close your eyes with the thought that if you can't see them, they won't see you.

Apparently D was the correct answer. The car passed on the other path literally right next to me and inexplicably missed me standing there, frozen, a Harri in periferal headlights. When the angry red rear lights melted into the black, I freaked out! I dropped my bike and attempted to haul James' into the lumpy undergrowth, being reminded instantly that cycling is a leg day, everyday. My weak arms strained under the weight, the bike budged just a short way before I lost balance and saw it slip from my hands. I was panting like crazy, hearing the humming again, knowing the car was coming back, only this time on my path. I had no time! I turned to grab my bike and FLASH.

A light was being shon into my face, my heart pounded double time and I felt myself dazed by the glare.

"What are you doing?" Those words rang inside my head. It took a moment to realise, it was only James!

For future reference, shining a bright light into the eyes of a crazed woman attempting to hide is terrifying, please do the right thing and speak before allowing them to assume the torch is emanating from a source searching for exotic new meat flavours for bratwurst.

We did find a spot, undedected. And dinner consisted of crisps. Because that's all we had that didn't require us to use the stove, which is as loud as one of the smaller music stages at Glastonbury festival.

I'll just point out: you know your blood pressure may be in a bad place when the roaring of your pulse is louder than the rustling packet and subsequent consumption of paprika kettle chips.

One of our camping spots.

Look at this amazing guy!

This is me, being glamorous.

That morning after the excitement and hysteria of being a total criminal; my feet were a mess. A wet mixture of mud and sand covered my trainers and the thing is: I know that those shoes belong in gyms and exercise classes rather than in the sodden undergrowth of a forest in Holland but somehow I had gotten used to the way the last tendrils of winter creep into every space and claim it for its own. Plus the trepidation of the previous evening was still fresh enough in my mind that damp feet were the last thing I was worried about.

There was a low hanging mist; dawn was blanketed by steel grey and pierced only by a foreground of foliages in elaborate greens and browns so dark they seem charred. Brambles snagged anything and everything as the rain rolled off a sparse yet deceptively robust canopy and hit the forest floor with taps and thuds and silence.

Once we finally got moving (within the bounds of the law) my bike creaked under the weight of me and my gear, it does that sometimes and occasionally I wonder if it struggles with the early mornings as much as I do.

It was at this time, perhaps for the first time, I felt a long way from home; my knuckles were red and aching from the chilly air, joints screamed for a mug of hot tea or a warm glove, but I rode on through the woods, following James over rocks and stumps.

When we ride, still groggy from sleep or lack there of, we don't always speak, but rather move in a slow unison, quietly absorbing our surroundings. And we had just rounded a corner when there was a thumping noise, not distant like a brewing storm but close, unnervingly close and though I was no longer concerned about rangers, I would be lying if I didn't admit I was wracking my brains on whether the reintroduction of wolves in Germany had impacted neighbouring countries. The rustling, shaking, shushing of dead plants became deafening, only made more intense by the loud cracking of wet logs. The thrum of my heart increased, second day in a row, stepping up the pace along with this unknown sound, ever drawing nearer.

I was in front by that point. I started to break slightly, without thought, my wheels slowing just in time to miss a huge wild boar as it exploaded out of the underbelly of a bush next to me, three chunky piglets in tow.

I was awe struck. Unable to speak or move, I just rolled on, the momentum carrying me forward in exact time with them as they ran for cover next to me and then in front, before diving into hidden depths and places unknown.

We made it!

And for that unexpected minute, every plan, every wish, every second of dreaming about travel, adventure, wilderness and nature culminated in that one moment. It was just the best thing, the most exciting thing to see. I became incredibly grateful I wasn't looking at these animals through the bars of a cage, through the glass of a zoo enclosure but seeing them living and thriving in the dark and the light of the forest. How amazing. I still love that we saw that. It is such a high. I adore that memory.

We got to Germany not long after this and life returned to a relatively steady grind without incident, we cycled through agricultural towns and villages, Munster with it's surprisingly spirited teenagers that were drinking in the streets and chanting enthusiastically in celebration of finishing high school. It was here we chatted to a jolly policeman that seemed oddly like he belonged in the 70's, with his friendly disposition and desire to give us a map of the area and tell us where to visit in the city.

Kilometres passed until we had covered quite a bit of distance and we had known that the flats we had become accustomed to were ending soon. We had a small mountain range, if you can even call it that, which were going to be 'strenuous' as described by the cycle route we were using.

Turns out, James doesn't ever want to take the easiest path. We were leaving for our first day into the uphill climbs and we had not been on the bikes more than 5 minutes when he fell off his bike. And I could tell it was bad, because usually he shakes everything off. Not this time. He managed to hit his hip, his forearm and most significantly his wrist.
It's actually quite difficult to cycle on tarmac without the use of both wrists let alone off road: we not on smooth surfaces. But we went on, mainly because when you are in the middle of nowhere, you kind of have no choice. We made it to a village, some 15km away and obtained painkillers and a pressure bandage from the local pharmacy. It wasn't perfect, but hanging around waiting for it to worsen wasn't really a sane option, so we kept going.

Deciding it was wise to take a short cut to our chosen destination for that day, we went off route, as we had many times before, in an effort to have an easier day.

This was a mistake that would see Germany take a sadistic turn....

The spot just before James' accident. :(