Movember Madness

Movember, formerly known as November, has arrived and we are half way through a month that is now celebrated by thousands of men worldwide, growing moustaches.


From the famous sporting stars (I offer up Lance Armstrong, Jensen Button, Kevin Pietersen and Gary Lineker for a start), to the ordinary man in the street, there is a kinship to be had during this month; a joyous togetherness in producing hairy top lips.......


Why? The answer is simple. Cancer.


Cancer? What's the connection between moustaches and cancer? None really, except a tenuous, but powerful one. If you get cancer and start a course of chemotherapy, you will lose all your hair...including your moustache. If you are lucky, you'll make it through and your hair will grow back, even your 'mo' should you want it (and who would to be honest?). 


Sadly, too many people still don't get the chance to regrow their hair, too many people succumb to this pervasive, unremitting, vicious disease. As I have moved into my 40's, so the number of people I have known who have suffered from or have lost their life to cancer has also increased. Only a week or so ago, an old college friend lost her brave battle against cancer.


So this growth spurt / sprouting season is motivated by a desire to raise awareness of and funds for cancer, specifically male cancer charities; in particular prostate and testicular cancer.


Hence the awful pictures at the top of this post. I wouldn't ordinarily walk around with a beaver nesting under my nose. But if it helps people understand and gain more knowledge about cancer, I'll gladly grow my mo. 


If it helps in the fight against cancer and towards finding a cure and in the treatment of cancer patients, I will be proud to sport my moustache and will happily encourage all those people staring at the under-nose-slug to ask me what I have a mo for. 


Maybe they'll grow one, maybe they'll donate, but maybe they'll think more about the need to tackle cancer and to check themselves for lumps and bumps in places they shouldn't be and hopefully be one of the fortunate ones who, should they develop cancer, catch it early enough, get cured and keep on living life to the full.

Weekend in Germany...Macht spass mit Fussball und Bier!

The newest Borussia Moenchengladbach fan

Wheat beers....2 with, one without alcohol

The Rhein as seen from the top of Cologne Cathedral

Germany, Football. Beer and  Moustaches

It's been quite a while since I have put finger to keyboard.

It is now November and the clocks have gone back, bringing in another winter to chill the bones and freeze the extremities. 

Since the last blog post, way back in July, I have travelled to and from the other side of the world - twice,  and popped over to Germany for a weekend. You may think of this as a jet setting lifestyle, but it is far from it. Flying for 16 hours, with all the family, in economy class, with a change in Dubai is not the best way to relax. A trip on Flybe is not exactly the height of luxury either. But I am not complaining.

The Flybe journey took myself and Simon, he of many previous blog posts, Paspartout to my Phileas Fogg, traveller supreme and consumer of beer and wurst, to northern Germany to visit Oliver at his home in Marl.

Oliver had very kindly invited us to visit him following the successful cycle challenge we had completed in June, 750km from Worcester to Dublin and back in 6 days.

I had suggested to Simon that we cycle to northern Germany, but the pained grimace on his face, couple with an expression that I believe was two words long, second word '....off!', meant that we left Birmingham at the particularly early time of 6:50am, bound for Dusseldorf with 10 other passengers. Yes, including the pilot, co pilot and crew we numbered 16....and they'll still charge you an arm and a leg for an additional bag.

Tour de Deutschland

Oliver met us in Dusseldorf and I made the classic 'I haven't been to Europe for a long time' mistake...trying to get in the car on the wrong side. Moreover, whilst sitting in the passenger, I continually tried to grab an imaginary steering wheel and press the non existent brake pedal...it's an odd feeling.


Friday was spent visiting Oliver's industrial production site in Duisburg, home of the company he works for, Grillo AG. I am now fully competent in the various processes and specifications required to extract zinc from industrial waste and in rolling zinc into cables and sheets. For a full discourse on zinc, I will be happy to send a Pdf document for which you can reimburse me £45.99.


Oliver drove us to Marl, a quiet town of 90,000; leafy residential streets with beautiful individually designed houses, supermarkets that have bakeries that sell delicious fresh, warm bread rolls and have a stock room with a floor to ceiling wall of beer.


We celebrated our first evening in Marl with a traditional German meal; the Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet. It was great, though I couldn't quite recall the German for 'more prawn crackers please'. 


The pretty Chinese waitress gave me a quizzical look when I asked for a non alcoholic beer - in German - a look that said..'er, I am sorry, I don't speak Mongolian'. Oliver came to my rescue and I thanked the waitress in Mandarin; 'Xie, xie'. She smiled and looked suitably impressed. Proof positive that my Mandarin Chinese is a lot more fluent than my German. My German teacher at school, Ronald Tidmarsh, affectionately known as Freak, would have given me piles of extra work.


Oliver suggested we retire to a traditional German pub for a couple of beverages. We crossed the road to 'Mulvaney's Irish Pub'. We had been forewarned that the German government had, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the smoking ban, so effectively introduced in the UK in 2007; wouldn't apply to German public houses. Immediately we walked in, our eyes began streaming. I had forgotten how unpleasant a pub full of smoke was. Come on Bundestag, sort it out.


We decided to go for wheat beers all round. As a non drinker, I was in heaven. One thing the Germans do extremely well is non alcoholic beers. All the major brands sell non alcoholic beer and it tastes great, as good as the real thing; though I don't really know as I haven't drunk the real thing since 1998. None of this terrible Kaliber nonsense for the Germans. 


In fact I drank so many delicious non alcoholic beers during the weekend, that my bowels produced what can only be called a 'beery sh*t'. The likes of which I haven't had since the aforementioned year, 1998. Ah, the memories.


We walked home, stinking of fags and half an hour before the live music was due to start. We had already been approached to pay 4 Euros each...1 hour before the music started; much to our annoyance. The 'bouncer / doorman' would have had trouble kicking Mr Bean out...a lanky, greasy haired, skinny youth....mind you, he could have been a black belt in Jujitsu. He didn't quite seem to understand that we were not paying 4 Euros each to sit in smoke, waiting for live music we weren't intending to watch.


Saturday.....Football, football, football, fussball.


Saturday dawned bright and warm. We wandered over to the supermarket bakery and bought breakfast; cheese, warm rolls, cold meats, sausages. After a good feed, we were ready to get in the mood for a long, exciting day out. Oliver had somehow managed to secure 4 tickets for a VIP box at the Borussia Park stadium to watch his beloved team, Borussia Moenchengladbach against Hannover 96 in the German Bundesliga.


The mood was set by Oliver's flat screen TV. No matter how many buttons I pressed on the remote controls, there only seemed to be one channel. SKY BUNDESLIGA....wall to wall football coverage, reruns of games that had finished 2 minutes before, analysis of what was going to happen, what was happening and what what going to happen afterwards in the world of German football. I can now tell you the name of every player in the Bundesliga, the managers and the coach driver for each team.


At around 1 o'clock, Oliver's work colleague and friend, Patrick turned up to take us all the 100 or so kilometres to Borussia Park. I had selected a suitable t-shirt, but Oliver allowed me to wear his hallowed Borussia Moenchengladbach shirt from the Bundesliga winning side of 1996. Topped off by a nice BMGladbach baseball cap.


VIP Status....living the German dream.


After parking up at the stadium (private reserved parking space) we sauntered to the VIP entrance. The sight that met us was absolutely stunning. No, not the architectural magnificence of the new stadium, nor the crowds flooding in to watch the match. No, the army of stunningly beautiful girls checking tickets, putting on VIP bracelets on trembling arms, smiling and welcoming you to the game. They were everywhere. Every beautiful girl over the age of 18 had been recruited. It was like a wall of Claudia Schiffer's and Heidi Klums (the early years). I think the recruitment interviews would have gone like this;


Knock on the door....'Come in'


Girl; 'I am here for the interview for the hostess job at Borussia Park'


Interviewer; 'Age?'....Girl  '18'


Interviewer, 'Experience?'....Girl 'Well, I have watched Borussia Moenchengladbach since I was 4 years old....'


Interviewer, 'Stop, enough....you're beautiful, you've got the job,. Get your uniform outside and see you Saturday'.


Interviewer, 'Next!'


Knock on the door...in walks someone who fell out of the ugly tree


Interviewer, 'Out munter!  Don't ever darken my door again'.


And who says discrimination is dead?


We climbed the stairs to our VIP box and were met by a lovely, friendly hostess who plied us with unlimited drinks and a wonderful buffet. During the game, as I sat in a plush, comfortable seat, she even dangled a strawberry Cornetto in my face. How could I resist? It was amazing. Even after the game, the feasting continued, with an unlimited free bar and buffet downstairs.


So to the game.


The build up to kick off featured rousing songs from the Gladbach fans; singing their hearts out - mostly in the direction of a bloke dressed in the club mascot's outfit; a foal. He ran up and down in front of the rapidly filling terraces (yes, you can still smoke in pubs and stand up at a football game in Deutschland...it's like England in the 70's and 80's, without the hooliganism) waving a flag and whipping the crowd into a frenzy.


As the teams emerged, the club anthem rang out and 50,000 people sang as one;


'Am Samstagmittag gehts es los, ins stadion zum Boekelberg'....a rousing Euro-pop anthem, in the true spirit of Eurovision. Actually, it was great to see the passion of the fans who sang with real meaning, furiously waving their club flags. If it didn't inspire their team, then nothing would.


And it worked. The game was not quite an epic in the style of English Premier league matches....Tottenham 4 Arsenal 4, Liverpool 5 Newcastle Utd 4 (still hurts that one), Manchester Utd 1 Manchester City 6 (enjoyed that) and on the same day as the Borussia game, Chelsea 3 Arsenal 5. 


But as games go it was enthralling and had just the right amount of drama, coupled with good skill and some moments of genius from a player we English need to take notice of; Marko Reus. Young, fast, skilful and a lethal finisher in front of goal. After taking a well deserved lead, Moenchengladbach were pegged back to 1:1 at half time. 


The second half was open with plenty of attacks, but one moment of brilliance that settled the game. Reus collected the ball to the left of the penalty area, turned back inside, almost Crueff-like, dipped his shoulder and drifted past another desperate defender, before unleashing a powerful shot into the bottom left corner of the goal. 


Our ageing English team will have nightmares about Rues in future European Championships and World Cups...the question is, where do the Germans keep producing these outstanding young players from?


I believe there is a 'Fussball Spieler' factory somewhere near Essen. German super footballers made to the highest specifications - an unbelievable ability to dribble, run fast, shoot with both feet and to take penalties. 


Whereas we English closed our Footballer factory a few years ago as a result of the economic crisis.....I'm afraid our current crop of footballers, the Rio Ferdinands, John Terrys, Steven Gerrards and Frank Lampards are beyond their 'use by date' and their batteries are running very low.


I digress. The 50,000 faithful left the ground, still singing, happy their team had delivered a win which took them to 4th in the Bundesliga. 


You can say what you like about sport. I enjoy watching from the comfort of my armchair, a cup of tea in hand and a biscuit to nibble on. But there is nothing like watching it live, in the stadium, soaking up the atmosphere. It's even better if you are sat in a comfortable chair, with your own VIP box, a cup of tea or something long and cold and a Cornetto to nibble on.




Köln / Cologne


I love visiting places I have never been to before. There is a feeling of anticipation and excitement like opening your Christmas presents. You have an idea what you might be getting, but you don't really know. It's like that with new places. You've read about them or seen them on the telly, or someone you know once went their for a long weekend and told you all about it....but until you go there, you just don't know.


I had been through Cologne many years before. Why Simon and I elected to pass through one of Germany's cultural highlights and spend the day at a poor Germany version of Alton Towers called Fantasialand is something I still haven't quite understood. The fantasy was that someone thought it would be really good....but sadly it wasn't. 


So, 25 or so years later, Simon and I rectified this oversight and were taken by Oliver to spend the day in Cologne, famous for its cathedral, its bridge over the Rhine, its old town and a drink called Kölsch. 


As we sped down the Autobahn, Oliver explained that as it was Sunday, the trucks that would ordinarily fur up the arteries of the German motorway system, were not allowed to drive on the Autobahns on Sundays. By law, unless they have a special permit. I counted 2 trucks in the 100km to Cologne. What a great rule that is. Perhaps we can do it over here, but make Monday the only day the trucks can go on motorways.


The most amazing fact about Cologne on the day we went (Sunday), was that it was OPEN. 
Normally, the shops of Germany stay resolutely closed on a Sunday and all the good citizens do other things on a proper day of leisure (but don't get that lawnmower out to cut the grass....naughty and definitely taboo on a Sunday).


For some reason, our German cousins like to have Bank Holidays on different days of the week. In this case, All Saints Day fell on a Tuesday. Therefore the Monday before was called a 'Bridging Day' - also a holiday. And that meant the shops could open on the Sunday. Confused? Don't worry, we didn't even go in any shops other than souvenir shops. 




The impressive cathedral beckoned us. We spent a pleasant few minutes wandering around inside and I was surprised to learn that a tomb at the front of the cathedral was alleged to contain the bones of the Three Wise Men, the Three Kings; those gentlemen who bore gifts for the new born baby Jesus 2,011 years ago. Now, I know they were ' three kings from Orient are...bearing gifts we travel afar'. Cologne seems an awfully long way from Bethlehem. Did they drop the pressies off, have a quick plate of falafel and some houmous  before carrying on to Northern Germany? 


Maybe their 'SatNav' ( a brightly shining star I believe) misdirected them. Or maybe they were hungry for a decent currywurst.



The three wise men of Marl now decided to climb the 509 steps to the viewing platform inside one of the two spires. 97.5 metres up. The staircase was a narrow spiral that went on and on. With every step higher the smell of sweaty bodies got stronger and the volume of unfit heavy breathing increased. Not for the faint hearted (literally), it was quite a climb and by the look on the puffed out red cheeks of many of those climbing up, not something they had expected.


The view was wonderful, out over the Rhein, the colourful houses of the old quarter glinting in the warm autumnal sunshine.


For our final stop in Cologne, we made our way down to the backs of the Rhein and the old quarter. For an autumn day, the unseasonally warm weather had brought lots of people out for a relaxing Sunday stroll and a glass or two of Kölsch. This uniquely brewed beer is served in special tall glasses, and served by waiters called Köbes who keep a record of how many beers have been drunk by marking the beer mat of the customers. These beer mats are legal 'documents' and you can be punished for tampering with them. 


Don't mess with the Germans and their beers. You have been warned.


I didn't try a Koelsch, as it wasn't served in a non alcoholic form; but again sampled a non alcoholic wheat beer. Delicious, as always....


***PLEASE MR TESCO....Import non alcoholic wheat beers and I'll continue shopping in your retail prison. My soul will be yours and I'll never look at a Sainsburys again.****

Kanst du Deutsch sprechen? ....Well, I thought I could.

Have you ever been in a situation where your mouth is working, but your brain just can't keep up?

Picture the scene. 

We were invited to dinner with Oliver's parents; a lovely couple who made us feel very welcome and served up a hearty meal. (Honestly, I did nothing but eat from the minute I arrived in Germany).

Oliver's father spoke a smattering of English which he employed to good effect. His mother didn't speak English. This, I thought, wouldn't be a problem as Simon speaks excellent Deutsch, Oliver is German (ie can translate if required) and I speak German too.

Well, I used to.

Years have flown since the necessity to speak German. I can read German relatively well. I can get the gist of what someone is talking about. And I thought I could speak it too. How wrong I was. 

The evening started well enough. My attempts at small talk were well received. I understood the conversation and the questions being asked. But then, disaster.

Something strange happened. Each time I tried to say something in German, the words that came out were distinctly of eastern origin. Indonesian.

I am pretty much fluent in Indonesian. I am comfortable speaking the language in any situation. It is natural and easy for me to converse with anyone and everyone on any subject. 

Unfortunately, the dominance of Indonesian outweighed my attempts to speak German, to such an extent that I gave up, frustrated and defeated. My frustration can be best illustrated when I attempted to explain some interesting point as follows;

Me: Ja, es ist in der...er, erm..Utara..Simon what's German for 'north'?

Simon: 'Nord'

Me: (blushing)...ja, in der Nord...

Me (thinking)...Utara?!...how the hell can you forget that Nord is German for north and use 'utara' instead. Drink your Bitburger Drive and keep quiet...smile and nod in the appropriate places...numpty.

How polyglots can trip between 11 different languages in an instant is beyond me. Again, Ronald Tidmarsh's voice is echoing in my head...

"Frobisher, this is first form work...Nord boy, Nord...it's not difficult is it?...Extra work for you. Copy out pages 10 - 12 of Sprich Mal Deutsch, Dummkopf."

So that is the tale of the weekend in Germany. A huge thanks to Oliver for organising everything and for his hospitality in putting Simon and I up and for treating us to an unforgettable experience at the Borussia Park and showing us Cologne. 

Next time, Oliver is coming over to the UK again. I will repay his kindness with a day out at Kidderminster Harriers and a greasy beef and onion pie at half time, washed down by a mug of Bovril. I'll then take him on a sightseeing tour of the West Midlands, including Wednesbury, Walsall, Dudley and lunch at KFC in Merry Hill (where the shops are always open). I am sure he'll go home full of wonder at our cultural heritage and explaining to his friends and family what a 'bostin' time he had.

As they say down our way, 'Tara for a bit'.

Dublin = Worcester. The hills continue....

This is the account of days 4 - 6 on my charity cycle ride for Scope, cycling 470 miles from Worcester to Dublin and back. Days 1 - 3 have already been written up and posted. If you wish to read those they follow this post.

Day 4. Dublin - Holyhead - Waunfawr, nr Caernarfon

Rest Day (ish). Total Miles cycled: 40...yes, on a rest day!

A good night's sleep does a power of good. The Dublin City Inn on Talbot road provided not only fantastic showers and a comfortable bed, a much needed lie in, but also a mighty fine breakfast. The breakfast room was light and airy and a fine spread was laid out. Polish waitresses glided around the room enquiring whether you wanted tea or coffee and smiling at the 20 or Spanish guests who had descended en masse for their morning coffee and jamon and eggs.

There was quite a bit of cross-lingual confusion as the non English speaking Spanish attempted to convey the fact that wanted their eggs 'La Sol side up' and the Polish waitresses politely and patiently replied, 'I'm sorry, what..er, I don't understand...you want er, (elderly Spanish lady uses fingers to draw in the air) square...crunch...aha! Toast. White or brown?'


'Que?'

We had a few hours to spend in Dublin before heading to the port back over to Wales. The three of us put on my specially designed red Scope T-Shirts, for added visual impact and in case we forgot each other's names (printed top right corner of the shirt).

It was another clear day and the walk down O'Connell Street and across the bridge to the south side of the Liffey was filled with us looking up at the many statues lining one of the widest streets in Europe.


(Simon and I had previously been to a former winner of 'Widest Street in Europe 1990, when we went behind the newly torn down iron curtain and travelled around Eastern Europe, just 6 months after the revolutions that brought an end to Communism. We found ourselves traipsing around Bucharest, Romania, looking at Caecescu's palace, the 2nd largest building in the world after the Pentagon and standing on huge boulevards, deliberately constructed to be wider than the Champs Elysees in Paris.)

A brief look at Trinity College and a spot of lunch in the Temple Bar area and we had to get back to the hotel, pack up the car and get to the port for the afternoon sailing to Holyhead. We had a very strong headwind for the 4 miles to the port, but at least this time it was dry.

The ferry trip back was a swift 2 hours and was only noteworthy for the presence on board of an extended family of people dressed in the most lurid dresses, ornate flowery shirts, wide brimmed hats, Cuban heels, and pin stripe suits. I was expecting to see a camera crew in tow from 'My Big Fat Gypsy Weddings', but sadly no.

This, remember, was our day off. Our rest day. A bit of Dublin R&R and a chance to recharge the batteries. So, like the true professional cyclists we were turning into, we did what the professionals do on a rest day in a 3 week grand tour like the Tour de France. We went cycling.

We didn't really have much choice. Have you ever been to Holyhead? I remember visits to Holyhead when I was in charge of the On Board Catering for West Coast trains back in the heady days of the 90's. 5 hour journeys to and from London Euston, a cursory visit to the catering depot and a night in the Treaddur Bay hotel. That was the highlight. Overlooking the sea in a comfortable hotel with a lovely menu, you forgot the bleak and depressing town that lay a mile away. Holyhead is very much a place you pass through, but rarely stop in.

Rest day or not, we got changed into our cycling clothes, cycled off the boat and set off to cover the length of Anglesey, before crossing over into mainland Wales and travelling along the coast to Caernarfon and into Snowdonia; our final and most daunting mountain range.

Again we benefited from a strong tail wind and the relative flatness of the A5 down through Anglesey. A few miles outside of Holyhead we passed through Valley, home to an RAF base and the current residence of the newly married Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Oliver and I thought about popping in for a cuppa, but we had still some way to go to the campsite and it was getting late.

However, we did make a stop at a place of linguistic pilgrimage. A windswept and desolate railway station that is world renowned. A place with the longest, most unpronounceable name in the whole of Britain;

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

You may ask me how to pronounce it. Well, it really is quite easy. Put a whole Mars Bar in your mouth and say anything you want....there, you're speaking fluent Welsh.

We didn't hang around too long, just enough time for a few obligatory photos before we headed off in the direction of the Menai straits and Snowdonia.

The Menai Bridge; Where Men Become Chickens

In total, at the end of 6 days of cycling, we had cycled 750km. Well, that's not quite the truth. We had cycled 749km and 583 metres. The other 417 metres were covered on foot. On two shaking, fear gripped legs. Not Oliver's, but mine.

We had reached the crossing over the Menai Straits, the Menai Bridge, built by Thomas Telford and completed in 1826. It is 417 metres long and stands a lofty 30m high over the fast flowing currents of the Menai Straits. It is an engineering marvel; not just an amazing feat of engineering, but an architectural beauty that blends harmoniously into the surrounding countryside, not an eyesore at all, but a sympathetic and stunning object to be admired and applauded. The best of British.

I hated it.

I can roar down steep hillsides at 50mp/h with nothing between the tarmac and myself other than a light aluminium / carbon frame and two thin rubber tyres and feel exhilarated. I can stand high on a mountain ridge with the slopes falling away hundreds of metres below and enjoy the view without a tinge of nervousness.

However, put me on a man made structure such as the balcony of a building or in this case a bridge that has stood for 185 years, ferrying lorries and cars day and night without falling into the water below, and my legs turn to jelly. An uncontrollable fear takes over and I can barely approach the railings, let alone look over the side. All I wanted to do was get off as quickly as possible.

That pathetic, quivering wreck on a solid, stable bridge will be crossing ravines on swinging bridges made of rope / cable and wood in Nepal in January. Wish me luck.

I made it safely to the other side and remounted the bike with a sigh of relief. Our rest day continued with a brief skirting alongside the Menai Straits, a rolling dual carriageway of long drags up rounded hillsides and fast swooping descents. We made Canaerfon and turned left to join the road into our final mountain range - Snowdonia.

Immediately the road did something strange. It pitched up in a steep, unforgiving incline. It was approaching 7:30pm and we had 3 miles to go to the campsite at Waunfawr. The hills were short, steep, leg breaking and deflating. We were tired and hungry and this last few miles were some of the most painful and difficult of the entire ride. Even Oliver admitted that he found the road from Canaerfon uncomfortably hilly. (We had to tie him down and pour soldier ants down his Lycra shorts to get him to admit it though).

We were met by Simon at the campsite. He had dutifully erected the tents, scouted the shower and toilet blocks and discovered that the on site pub would only be serving until 8:30pm. This mean a hasty change out of cycling clothes and a mad dash for the pub - missing out on a meal would have been criminal. The other reason for the mad dash was that the camping area was plagued by midges and gnats. I soon realised that these flies are not only annoying, but have a voracious appetite and their bites are incredibly itchy.

And so I entered the pub wearing my buff on my head, scratching ferociously at all bare flesh and armed with a phone charger and an empty stomach.

We had a decent meal, met a nice guy called Chris who worked for Barnados and lived near Birmingham, was a keen cyclist and kindly donated to the fundraising cause. Then it was back for a welcome shower and a sleep in the wet room (aka tent).

And wet it certainly was. Because it started raining again. In the whole trip we only experienced rain in two places. Wales (south) and Wales (north). Ireland's slight drizzle from Rosslare to Wexford is forgiven, because the road was flat and only 10 miles log. It didn't count.

Tomorrow was our last major test. 75 miles through Snowdonia, over the highest passes and mountains we had faced and on through the to hilly Welsh / English borders.

Now please forgive me, my legs need a lie down.

Day 5: Waunfawr - Snowdonia - Melverley (Oswestry)

Total Distance: 75 miles. Total amount of climbing; about 65miles.

What is the worst way to spend a night before getting on your bike and heading up and over some of the highest mountains in the UK? How about the following as a perfect recipe for a rubbish night's sleep;

• Leaky tent


• Rain during the night


• Tent invaded by biting midges


• Snoring tent mate (aha! I have ear plugs, what a clever boy)


• A menagerie of the noisiest animals 10 metres away from your tent (ear plugs aren't that good)

As was to be expected, the Welsh weather was predictably wet during the night and the first part of the morning. The tent proved as ineffective as it had on the first night. That much we could have anticipated and perhaps, tolerated.

What was absolutely not welcomed was the cacophony of farmyard animals that struck up their 'Discordant Concerto for Animal Orchestra - 'The Dawn Arrives'. First at around 4am, the cockerel crowed and proud and stupid bird that it was, didn't let up until after we left at 8:30am. Then the geese, dogs, ducks and donkeys chimed in with their bloody awful honking, barking, quacking and hee-hawing.

Midges, animals, camping area a 10 minute walk from the shower block, over a bridge over a railway line (I am not joking; you needed another shower by the time you got back to your tent)....Snowdonia Park campsite took the 'Worst Campsite on Tour' title, stealing it away from Wexford and it's pathetic excuse for a shower block.

It was a relief to get underway and head down towards Beddgelert, passing the lower slopes of Snowdon on our left.

The road is fairly straight, with slight undulations and hidden dips and not too busy with traffic. However, it was on this wet and quiet road that we came closest to a serious accident; not caused by us, but by the impatience and idiocy of Mr 'Look at me, I drive a Land Rover'.

Oliver was riding around 50 metres ahead of me. In a flash a Land Rover doing around 60mp/h over took me and remained on the righthand side of the road in order to pass Oliver. This was just as the road fell into a hidden dip and a car appeared on the other side at speed on the crest of the dip. How a head on collision was avoided is a miracle, but the LandRover driver (did I say driver, I meant Arse) swerved and braked hard, careering back over to the lefthand side of the road....his brakes screeched and he skidded on the wet surface, all the time heading directly for Oliver's back wheel. At the last moment, having wrestled control of his car, he turned the steering wheel sharply to the right and managed to pull out and overtake Oliver with what must have been inches to spare.

My heart was racing. I had witnessed the scene, not as some may say 'in slow motiuon', but in real time as a powerless witness, transifixed by the events that were unfolding in front of my eyes.

Shortly afterwards, Oliver pulled over for a pit stop and I asked him if he realised what had happened. "No, I didn't see anything", Well, I suppose it all happened behind him and I am glad he didn't see it; it was a close call. Apparently most serious accidents happen on minor country roads as people drive way too fast, taking risks they wouldn't on busier roads. With inevitable consequences.

We flew down a steep descent into Beddgelert and after asking for directions made the 'mother of all mistakes' as we continued to travel deeper into the heart of Snowdonia.

How to stop a flying German

We left Beddgelert in what I thought was a southerly direction. The lady who had told me the directions explained that the road was flat for around 4 miles and then it climbed a long way. She was right. Her directions were also correct. It was just that I had mistakenly asked her the way to Betws Y Coed.Which was not where we should have been going. Numpty.

We began a long climb (around 8 miles) past a lake and on to a long winding road that cut along the slopes of Snowdonia's finest scenery. A small waterfall cascaded down next to the road and the views were superb; especially as the weather had cleared and the rain stopped. It was steady climbing and with all the miles and 2 previous mountain ranges in the legs, the climbing was not uncomfortable. I had found a steady rhythm and a kindly gear (usually my lowest or second to lowest gear) and just plodded ever upwards.

Half way up the climb we stopped at a parking area and viewing point. We chatted to a Japanese family on holiday and proudly announced to them that 'that is where we are going - up there!'. In front of us and high above was a discernible line of vehicles crawling up a noticeably steep road to a high point that housed a small collection of buildings and the odd coach and minibus.

'Yep Oliver, that is where we are going, up there!'.

We left our Japanese friends and Oliver set off, Alberto Contador-like, to tackle the longest and steepest section of the day. I trailed behind in my Mark Cavendish 'can't climb, won't climb' style, constantly looking up at the huge mountain slope ahead and the road that kept heading for the clouds.

And then I reached a junction. An unexpected junction with a signpost.

'Hang on' I said and then I felt a sinking, sick feeling in my stomach. I think the next word was 'bollocks'. Excuse my French, but you'll understand why. The junction showed that we needed to commence our descent at this point and head towards Betws Y Coed.The left arrow on the sign pointed the way up, up, up to the high point and Llanberis / Caernarfon. Which is exactly where we didn't want to go. Caernarfon is where we had come from.

I could see Oliver's white rain jacket bobbing up and down as he climbed up the road, approximately 1km away. I tried to call him, but there was no signal. I half attempted to call him by shouting his name...but he would never have heard me. Now I had the prospect of cycling up this bloody road to try and catch up with him and tell him we'd made a big mistake.

Thankfully Oliver had taken to waiting at the top of most big climbs. I know he liked to watch me in pain struggling up the final few metres with a big smile waiting to greet me with 'This is great, we have no mountains where I live, I love the climbs...are you OK?...quick, have a drink, do you need a lie down'.

He was there waiting. There were quite a lot of other people waiting, most in walking boots and carrying backpacks. I asked a couple if they had a map I could borrow. They told me the news I had dreaded. Not only were we on the wrong route to the one I had planned, we had just cycled to the top of Llanberis Pass, the highest pass in Snowdonia. They and the other walkers were about to set off up the Miners Track to climb Snowdon.

Oliver was philosophical. "Well, at least we have cycled up to the highest point, this is GREAT!". I thought differently. My thoughts were, to use the words of Top Gear's James May, when faced by a problem or stupid mistake, 'Oh cock'.

We left Snowdon's hikers and began an extremely fast descent all the way to Betws Y Coed. I realised that this was my initial route before changing to our now redundant more southerly route. The new route was fine, but meant that we would have to spend most of the rest of the day on the A5, a road we had enjoyed / endured from Holyhead. But the A5 out of Snowdonia and down through Llangollen and on into Shropshire is notoriously fast and dangerous. But we had no choice now. A5 it had to be. Oh cock.

After a rapid descent to Capel Curig, we stopped to get directions at an outdoor clothing store. The two assistants in their twenties looked suitably impressed that we had cycled from near Caernarfon that morning. The young man (how old do I sound?) nearly fell off his stool when we told him we'd started in Worcester a little under 5 days ago and had since cycled all the way to Dublin. I was hoping for a brand new Goretex jacket as a token of the respect and esteem we were being held in. Instead they filled my water bottle up for free. Oliver's was still mysteriously almost full. How does he do that?

We then joined the A5 and kept its company all the way to Oswestry. The Vale of Llangollen is very picturesque and it wasn't too bad a road, except for the fairly regularly 'whoooosh' of a massive truck thundering past at 56mp/h. You first sense the huge presence of a juggernaut as it bears down on your rear wheel. You hear the heavy rumble of its engine in a low gear, itching to get past you. As it accelerates or you are passed at speed, you get a wallop of air in the back that can cause you to wobble, followed by a 'hole' in the air which is great if you are cycling into a headwind.

It was somewhere near Llangollen that my left knee started the first complaints and twinges that said 'alright boyo, that's about enough...I am a 42 year old joint and I shouldn't have to be subjected to this. Now can you just stop please?!' My knee was hurting, but the fact we were close to ridding ourselves of road signs that said 'Slow / Araf' and Police / Heddlu' and getting back to England made the pain tolerable.

Simon knows how to find the best places for R&R. He had parked the Ford Focus at an attractive and posh looking hotel, the Wild Pheasant, just on the edge of Llangollen. By now we had been cycling around 5 or 6 hours and the sun was out. In short, or more accurately, in Lycra shorts, we were hot, sweaty and decidedly not dressed to soil the plush sofas of a top end spa hotel. However, with the wit, charm and tact that he is renowned for, Simon sweet talked the receptionist into letting us in for a cup of tea and some biscuits. I think the use of the words 'cycling for charity' proved useful too.

A short time outside of Llangollen we approached a large roundabout and headed due south. The road signs indicated the way home...Oswestry, Shrewsbury. This was the A5 at its ugliest, noisiest and most frightening. By far the worst road we had been on with thousands of motorists in all manner of vehicles thundering up and down the dual carriageways. We were so concerned in getting off the A5 as soon as possible we missed the sign that said 'ENGLAND'.

Well, actually I stopped, briefly, wanting to celebrate the passing back into mother England pictorially. Not so my German friend. Oliver whizzed passed the Welcome to England sign without glancing up...Was this failure to stop and take my picture at the sign a case of 'schadenfreude' on Oliver's part? No, he was absolutely bombing it along the A5 in an effort to get off this hellish road as soon as he could. And I could understand why. There was barely a break in the fast flowing traffic and it felt as if we had joined the M5, not the A5. Thankfully a tiny B road blinked in yellow off my map and showed us the country route into Oswestry. All my educated life I have striven (yet failed) for 'A's...now I delighted in getting a 'B'.

Oswestry felt like the end of the day's ride. It wasn't. It was however, the location for a comedy scene. The German title for the film is something like;

Zwei Fahradder mit grossen Vesperboxen suche für Gemächte

Two cyclists with large lunch boxes search for a lunch break

or possibly even 'Two cyclists with large lunch boxes look for penis'

Forgive my rusty German. It has been some time since I lived in Germany and spoke Das Lingo.

We had chanced upon Morrisson's supermarket. How I wish it had been Morrissey's, Shelves stacked with tea, digestive biscuits, DVD's of Coronation Street box sets, row upon row of vegetables, fruit and a security sensor that detected meat eaters and refused entry to them by whacking them on the head with a large organic cauliflower. The muzak playing mournful tunes 'I was happy in the days of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now'. What a shopping experience that would be. Would dear old Morrissey let two middle aged men in bottom hugging Lycra and pert nipples wonder around his supermarket in their helmets, stinking of sweet sweat and looking a little worse for wear? Probably not, but WM Morrisson is not so picky. Either that or the security were on a break.

We purchased beers (non alcoholic for me) and doughnuts and set off on the final ten miles to the campsite. We rendezvoused with Simon at a crossroads just over the border into Wales once more, before commencing the fastest 4 miles of the whole journey (on the flat, not downhill). Something was urging us to get to the campsite as fast as we could. What it was, was a fantastic campsite next to a brilliant pub that served wonderful food, Bier von Fass and convivial company. All 2 minutes walk from the tent. The Tontine Inn in Melverley and the campsite were the venue for our last night and they sent us to sleep content, intent to finish and in tents (admittedly Simon's had collapsed and he borrowed one from the campsite owner who happened to work in fisheries management and knew Simon's colleague...as Morrissey would sing 'Trout ticklers of the world, unite and take over').

Tomorrow would be our last day, the final 60 miles and the finish of an unforgettable trip.


Day 6: Melverley (nr Oswestry) to Worcester, approx 60 miles / 100km

The final day. a few more hours of pedalling, a few more hours of pitting one's endurance against the forces of nature; gravity, wind, flatulence and hearty lunches.

We woke to a fine day and a favourable wind. The wind had been kind throughout the trip and on this final day it blew extra hard against our backs and pushed us along at record speeds. There were still 60 miles or 100km to cover, but they felt insignificant in comparison to the 650km we had already completed. I knew that the terrain was hilly - again. This was Shropshire and the hills were sharp, steep, nasty little leg biters that hurt - but that didn't matter today. today was a celebration. Our equivalent to the last stage of the Tour de France, a triumphant procession into Paris (in our case Worcester), with thousands of cheering fans lining the road (in our case a confused collection of Worcester folk ambling past the cathedral).

We made excellent progress towards and skirting around Shrewsbury and began the cross country route over towards Bridgnorth. I had a dilemma to overcome. one that involved a particularly nasty climb up and over Much Wenlock, one of the steepest in the area. I rerouted the ride to avoid Much Wenlock. You may call it wimping out (fair enough), but you try cycling for 5 days, 650km and through 3 mountain ranges and ask yourself (your legs) if you fancy struggling up a particularly hard climb so near the finish. No, thought not. The look of disappointment on Oliver's face when I told him the news was enough to make me reconsider. He seemed genuinely crestfallen that we weren't going up a steep brute of a hill. But, I insisted, I will promise you something better....and it still includes a nasty climb. He seemed placated.

What was this promise? Well, considering I had never visited the world heritage site not 40 miles from my door, I thought it about time to rectify this and pay a long overdue visit to Ironbridge Gorge, birthplace of the Industrial Revolution and a place without which, we wouldn't have been able to sit on machine crafted contraptions such as bicycles. We owed it a debt to say thank you for inspiring people to use metals and science to come up with inventions that allowed us the chance to get rubbed raw in the crotch sitting on tiny saddles, travelling the length and breadth of the British Isles for charity and pleasure.

Enough waffle. Basically it was a picturesque detour that took us through the gorge and past the famous bridge. It was a nice break in the journey and a chance to catch our breath before starting the long climb out of the gorge and heading for lunch at Bridgnorth. It was a marginally better option than Much Wenlock.

Had Much Wenlock not been so steep and unappetizing, I'd still not have been to Ironbridge.

We made good time and stopped for an early lunch in Bridgnorth. Now I really sensed we were close to home as I had cycled to and from Bridgnorth a number of times before. It was familiar territory. Lunch was demolished ravenously as our bodies had been so devoid of calories over the last 6 days they had begun to eat themselves. There are only so many gels and energy bars you can have before you start dreading the sickly goo in your mouth or the chewy nutty bars sticking to the roof of your mouth as you pant and heave up the 131st climb of the day.

We met Simon for lunch and prepared ride the last 30 miles to Worcester. As usual with any journey or tale, there is a sting in the tail....this time being the series of climbs out of Bridgnorth. They seemed to have lengthened since I last rode them. Oliver, for once, was quite surprised at their length and steepness. However, I knew that once we had passed into Worcestershire and shot down the hill at Shatterford into Kidderminster, we were but a couple of climbs away from smooth flattish cycling all the way to the faithful city.

Kidderminster to Worcester was exhilarating, not least because we could sense the finish line. The tail wind propelled us along at speeds of 25mp/h / 40kp/h; unheard of on the flat. The places and names grew more familiar as Ombersley came into view. As we exited the Claines roundabout, the city sign for WORCESTER beckoned us to dismount and take a well earned photo. 3 miles to the finish, back in the city of Worcester. Only the suburbs of Claines, Barbourne, then the Tything and the city centre to cover. The pain in my knee had been with me since starting that morning, but it was completely forgotten as we turned right onto London Road and finished the slight climb (what else?) for the final 200m to the cathedral.

Simon had gone ahead and picked up Rini and my Mum. Louisa and Milla arrived from school with our care workers Ruth and Kelly and we pulled over to cheers and welcome hugs.

We had done it. 750 kilometres in 6 days, 3 mountain ranges, torrential rain and heartwarming sun.

A personal goal had been achieved by both of us. It had been easy to talk about cycling to Dublin and back. The logisitics of the trip had been relatively easy to coordinate, if time consuming. However, the physical reality of pushing yourself to cycle day after day for 6 days, averaging over 100km per day through some of the most difficult mountainous regions in Britain and Ireland is something I had not experienced before. Oliver had done other long cycling trips, but I could see the sense of achievement in his eyes too (750km cycling ON THE LEFT OF THE ROAD!!!!).

However, the real achievement is the money raised for SCOPE. Over 4,000 pounds.

750km is a long way to travel by any means, let alone cycling. But it is nothing compared to the never ending road people living with disability have to travel their whole lives.


A few thank yous.

Oliver & Simon.

Oliver - thank you for agreeing to come along with me on the ride. I am glad you enjoyed the hills, as there were so many. You made cycling so far a pleasure and it was always a relief to see you waiting for me at the top of yet another hill, when I hadn't seen you for 20 minutes! I hope we have the chance to cycle together again in the future.

Simon - Passpartout Extraordinaire. Again you kept me in good spirits, well fed and watered and with a stoicism of epic proportions. Who else would have driven from Worcester to Brecon to Newport to Gloucester to Carmarthen in a day, without complaint?...Thanks mate, as always. One day I'll drive and you can cycle...but I won't drive a motorhome!


To all my supporters, sponsors and donors. You have been so generous, kind and supportive - not just this time, but since I began doing these fund raising challenges in 2007. Without you, the funds wouldn't be there for SCOPE to continue their excellent and important work. thank you so much.

Rini, Mum & Louisa

Always supporting me, always helping me in these crazy challenges and always there for me. Thank you, I love you!

Milla

You are my inspiration. You battle through so many difficulties and always emerge smiling. Despite all your physical problems you bring warmth to my heart and pleasure every day. I love you.