Day 55. Donneville-Les-Bains. Sept 30 2001.

Today was a very hard day, and only after giving up completely did we manage to reach our destination. The day stared off gray and miserable and…didn’t change much the whole day, except, as I write this, a storm is brewing off shore and the tent is rattling at quite the intensity.

We slept well the previous night, not even noticing when the rains rolled in, but we woke to a damp tent and I’m afraid that the foot of my sleeping bag was even wetter than normal.

Off we set, heading more inland than normal. The village of Agon-Countainville seemed in fact to be a sprawling collection of little villages with huge areas of pastureland between them. Each seemed to have its own church, so perhaps the area is subdivided into parishes.

On our way out of town we passed an enormous stone cross with the crucified Christ on it. We have passed many of these and they are all identical. What they mark we haven’t yet discovered, they don’t have inscriptions on them. There are also many tiny crosses that look like they are poured concrete. Each stands about six feet high on a pyramidal base with hexagonal crosspieces. These too have no inscriptions. From their military air I am assuming they make the site of a WWII death, but that’s only conjecture.

We passed out of town and down into a valley, where I couldn’t help but laugh at the sign advertising the local protestant “culte.” At the top of the next hill we rejoined the road we had followed the night before, not entirely without incident, however, as we climbed the wrong exit ramp and had to cross against traffic to get on the correct side. When we did we saw a beautiful view. To the north and south of us were lush green pasturelands, dotted about with the spires of churches. West of us and directly below was a long sandy estuary leading out to the sea. All this filtered through a beautiful veil of white mist. Unfortunately we had to bike out into that mist. We, in fact, pedaled off into the rain quite comfortably. What eventually drove us to exhaustion was the never ceasing wind.

We biked down into the valley of the estuary to discover it belonged to a small river called the Seine. Crossing the Seine, at least it used to cross the Seine, was a bridge that had suffered at the hands of the allies in WWIII.



After the invasion of Normandy the allies had tried to isolate the German troops on the Cotentin Peninsula. The Pont De La Roque had remained the “hole in the net” that prevented the achievement of the allied goal and over twenty bombing raids had been flown to knock down the three central arches of the bridge, and it wasn’t that large of a bridge. A Canadian pilot had lost his life trying to bomb the structure. All the effort had been in vain anyway as the Germans simply bypassed the area completely. It was a unique experience for us to come over a hill and see a bombed out bridge and a Canadian flag flying. There is a far greater memory of Canadian deeds here than at home.

Apparently, at least according to the sign, we have been following “La Rue de la Liberation” for some time without being aware of it. The memory of the world wars is much more urgent here, in the fields were they were fought, than at home, whatever our contributions might have been.

Biking got harder as the day progressed. Every time we seemed to get into a groove we hit a strong wind that threw us off until it was impossible to maintain a rhythm. Our goal for the day was the city of Granville, or more accurately, its suburb of Donneville-Les-Bains, be we shortened it to the town of Brehal when we became exhausted. Funny thing about Brehal was that it was the only town around that didn’t seem to have a campground. So, we plunked ourselves under the overhanging veranda of the post office and ate lunch sheltered from the rain. But we couldn’t sleep under the shelter of the post office and so we set out on the last little bit to Granville.

The road was a major one and the volume of traffic was very unsettling but before long we reach the city. Now to find a campground. We passed the sign for one on the way in and followed it’s arrow, but found nothing. As it was Sunday the tourist office was closed and there were no maps around. We followed the main road until it turned into Granville and went down a long hill, definitely not the way we wanted to go. We turned back, feeling a little despairing, and suddenly found a map. It was on the back of a bus sheltered, mostly covered by a hedge. Why the local’s thought the hedges would get lost I don’t know but we soon got our bearings. With only one further mishap, finding a graveyard instead of our campground, we found the campsite.

We pitched our tent under the miniscule shelter of a windswept pine and Heather huddled in the wind and rain to cook our dinner. It was an interesting sight, her kneeling over a tiny flame, rain pouring off her, wind whipping at her jacket, all for a few heated sausages and some sauerkraut. What a dedicated woman.

But the wind passed from being funny to being serious very quickly. The walls of the tent were pulsating and every so often a strong gust would almost bend the tent in half. The tent had been built to withstand abnormal weather but why risk it. I found a place more sheltered but we had already unpacked everything and every time I made up my mind to move the wind let off. Still if it keeps up I predict a difficult night and very little sleep.



Next Entry: Day 56. Granville
Previous Entry: Day 54. Agon-Coutainville

Day 54. Agon-Coutainville. Sept 29 2001

Sitting here, writing in the bright evening sunshine, not a cloud in the sky, it is difficult, nay almost impossible to picture how this day began.

We woke to grayness and dampness. Almost everything was wet. Even the foot of my sleeping bag, wrapped in plastic against just such an eventuality, was soaked. We woke early and left the earliest yet, before ten o’clock. The sky was so gray that the sun hardly shone through, the trees still dripping with the memory of the night’s rain, and a mist hung cloyingly to the ground. Packing up was a wet and unpleasant business, most especially the tent, which no amount of shaking could get rid of the water. We pedaled desultorily down the road, feeling the latent moisture in the air seeping though our clothes until we stopped at a nearby town to stock up on food for the coming Sunday.

Despite my complaints, I always enjoy the rain and last night was no exception. At times it came down so strongly that it startled us from unsettled sleep and the constant patter brought continuity to the night. Even this morning, gray as it was, had a certain ethereal beauty, everything so laden with moisture that it seemed possible to drink from the branches. But we live in a stark reality and the moisture was a worry to the fabric of our clothes and sleeping bags. Mold would not be so beautiful to live with.

I, being taller than Heather, have the continuing problem of my feet touching the back wall of the tent, with the result of having all the condensation run down onto my sleeping bag, leaving it soaking every morning. We tried to cover my feet in a plastic bag last night but either because of the hole in the plastic bag or condensation inside the plastic bag; my sleeping bag was wetter than ever this morning.

The first half of the day was very chilly, almost clammy. The town we stopped at was an old stone village called Creance and I froze outside, protecting the bikes, as Heather got our groceries. But soon after Creance the sky cleared up, revealing clear blue skies with scarcely a cloud.

Instead of returning directly to the main road we followed instead a parallel country lane and found ourselves, all of a sudden, directly across from Le Chateau De Pirou, Pirou Castle.

The castle was a “lost” castle, one that had disappeared from all records and everything but local legend sometime after the fourteenth century. It was easy to see why. Recessed from the road, sheltered by high hedges and trees, it was impossible to see. Heather and I decided to stop. We both had a feeling, unvoiced, that we had been passing through the French countryside without seeing the historical sights of France. It is more difficult here as our map only lists Michelin approved sights and all of these are far from our chosen path. Pirou castle was not on the approved list.

The castle itself is well protected. Three gates defend the main courtyard. Then to get to the castle proper one has to walk a semi-circle around a water-filled moat and cross a well defended bridge. It was a very beautiful site, with trees hanging down until their branches dipped in the moat and the rocky towers gave the castle an ancient craggy look.
The castle itself was in a strange location, among the sandy flatlands that lead up to the coast. Local history records that it was the last castle to stand against the waves of invading Norsemen, protecting the natives of the region almost until the King of France ceded Normandy to them.

Of the fall of the first castle to guard this site, the natives paint a romantic legend. Unable to take the castle by storm the invaders decided to lay siege and starve the inhabitants out. Days went by, and then weeks, until one day no movement could be seen within the castle. The invaders, fearful of a trick, decided to wait a single day more before storming the castle. At dawn they were woken by a flock of geese flying overhead. The advanced cautiously towards the castle and, again seeing no movement, they eventually charged in. They found the castle completely deserted, not even bodies were to be found, save for one old man. The invaders promised to spare his life if only he would tell them were the lord and his family had escaped. “They left this morning” was the reply “transformed by magic into a flock of geese.” Enraged at the old man’s reply the invaders burnt the castle to the ground.

Now everyone knows that to reverse a spell of transforming one simply reads the spell that changes you, only backwards  The next year the lord and his family returned to Pirou, searching for the magic book that would change them back. They found only ashes. Now every year at the beginning of winter, the lord and his family return, condemned to search through the ages until the book is found.

The Normans who burnt down the first castle must have soon regretted it, because the king granted them Normandy, to fight off other frontier invaders, and so they were forced to rebuild what they had destroyed.

Its location on flat land was at first in a prime location to fight off flat-bottomed ships like Viking long ships. The purpose of the castle changed to accommodation, when the area came under Norman control. The castle went on to sponsor a knight who invaded England in 1066, the founder of an estate known as Stoke Pero in Somerset. Eventually the castle was abandoned and became a farmhouse, hardly existing even in local memory until it came to be restored by students, working from the 1960’s to now.

We explored its large rooms and very tiny ramparts eagerly, often getting stuck in miniscule doorways.

Outside the central keep there was a chapel for Saint Lawrence and a darkly lit room with a tapestry running around the building near the roof.


At first I took mistook it for a replica of the Bayeux tapestry but it turned out to be a tapestry depicting the Norman invasion of Sicily and southern Italy. There is, apparently, no monument to the “Norman Empire” and the people of the region most of the descended from Norman stock, are trying to organize one at Pirou.

We left Pirou much cheered, both by the stop to visit the castle and by the transformation in the weather. It was now almost too sunny to bike and we had to stop and apply sunscreen. A little joke from whoever commands the weather I do not doubt.

We kept at it for quite some time until exhaustion forced us to give in. We turned off towards Agon-Coutainville, and tried to stop at the first campground we found. It was not, however, up to Heather’s standards, or to anyone else’s I suppose. There were piles of garbage bags at small intervals and the bathrooms were locked. At first I thought we had encountered our first example of a campground closed for the season, then I realized that the front gate was wide open when it could easily be locked, that the caravan where the groundskeeper would stay was occupied and that the front desk was open, just abandoned. We thought it best to move on anyway.

We found a small campground in the middle of town instead. I reserved a site, but not without meeting the owner who kept cutting off the girl at the desk as she tried to tell me where to pitch the tent. “Don’t you see that he doesn’t understand French?” He kept telling her. ”The only thing he can say is merci.” Which would have been fine if he had tried to give directions in English, which he didn’t. I said "Merci" as I left. I hope the sarcasm translated.

We pitched our tent in the shade of the trees and went to see if the bathrooms were pleasant. They weren’t.

The campground was very full. One gentleman across from us kept flinging liquid from a gas can onto his car. I sat watching, anticipating a flung match and a whoosh at any moment, but it turned out that he was only washing his car, not collecting insurance money. Still, it seems like a strange container to store your water in to me.

The ground of the place was completely littered with tiny snails, crunching as you walked. I have come to some conclusions abut the origins of escargot. Some brainy Frenchman was crunching along when he thought “zoot da Lourdes” (I don’t know if they really do that) “Here I have so many snails. I will pretend that the French love to eat them, then export them around the world. And voila” (I’m pretty sure they do that), “Less snails and more money, what a wonderful life.”



Next Entry: Day 55. Donneville Les Bain
Previous Entry: Day 53. Denneville

Day 53. Denneville Sept 28 2001

Living at the mercy of the elements has the effect of transforming even the most mundane people into superstitious animals. Not that Heather and I pray to the gods of earth for flat roads or to the god of the sun for dry days. Instead we worship through avoidance. To mention something is to invoke it, so only rarely do we speak of hills and the weather is discussed at best in hushed whispers with many invocations to ward off the malevolent spirits.

When things are at their best the temptation to walk to the edge of a field and shout in our most disapproving voices: “Bad Rice, Bad Rice,” is too strong to be ignored. The French hardly seem to notice.

Today was such a beautiful day that we decided to stay and explore the beach, although Heather claims it was to dry out the laundry.

We were almost convinced that we would get away with paying the same rate here as at the small town outside of Les Pieux, unfortunately the owner came out just as we left the grounds. This was the first place in France that we used Visa but we thought it best to conserve our francs for as long as possible. For some reason I don’t think my dream of the night before, a bank truck full of francs crashing just in front of us, will come true.

The village was as deserted today as yesterday. How eerie to see sand blown into doorways, even creeping out of cracks under the door. Almost every yard had a boat parked within, bleaching beneath the sunlight, paint coming off in long cracking strips.

The beach was amazing, sand as far as the eye could see, a brilliant dome of blue capping the world, the faintest outlines of the island of Jersey peeking from behind the sea haze.

The sand was broken into some very different stages before reaching the water. The first, dry sand, like that found in a desert, tiny grains that roll over one another with a liquid motion that seems to mimic the water that once flowed over it. The second a damp watery sand where the water table seeps out, a shinny, shimmering sand whose dampness is hidden beneath. Another dry patch then, but hard and compact, as though laid in anticipation of paving. Then the strangest stretch of all. A layer of beach churned up into thousands, millions, of tiny worms of sand, dug out by some beach dwelling creature. From a distance the stretch of beach is is so rough it seems to be made of rocks and you hesitate to cross, until every pile of sand you step on sinks beneath the weight of your sandal. From horizon to horizon rise worms of sand. Beyond is more wet sand, then a stretch of beach more seaweed than sand, where the ocean rolls in and deposits the waters dead.

Heather and I stopped at a small pond formed by the protection of a semicircle of ancient pilings. The water was clear and filled with living seaweed, a space of tranquil water protected from the waves. A few steps back from this pond we began the work that we knew was inevitable from the moment we set foot on sand. We began to build sandcastles. Heather, as is her want, began to build a nice dignified structure, one foot by one-foot square with gently rising tiers that had the look of an ancient Mayan or Aztec temple. Simple, beautiful and soon overshadowed by the monstrosity looming on its borders.

The secret to conquest and world domination is to not worry about beauty and dignity until victory is assured. I built, as I tend to do, a massive fortress of sand, with even its smallest turret easily engulfing Heather’s temple.

My five towers and adjoining walls are not beautiful, they are gargantuan, and they used all the sand around them like giant vacuums sucking in
everything nearby.

But alas, even with Heather’s help, after her temple was incorporated into the castle, we could not fight off the rising tide.

The ocean sat there watching us, bidding its time until we were almost complete, then with a speed that defied our every effort, rose to cover the beach until our castle was under more than ten feet of water. The keep, protected by the appeased gods of Heather’s temple, held out the longest before succumbing to the waves.

We soon had other things to worry about. The isles of Jersey had disappeared from sight, swallowed by billowing storm clouds. We were still in sunshine but how long that would last is anyone’s guess. We headed back to our camp, defeated builders both, and tried to ensure everything was ready for any rain. What we had not anticipated was the coming weekend. Already two or three more campers had joined out isolated commune and the number seemed poised to grow. One of the great difficulties we have discovered as campers is a disconnection from the working world. We have no idea when weekends are arriving and are taken by surprise when we have to fight for spaces. The worst case happened in Portsmouth but it was not the first time we were taken unaware. We were completely put out by Britain’s last bank holiday and while we now know that they don’t have another one until Christmas, does the same hold true for France and Italy? I was able to find a calendar of French school holidays at the back of my Michelin guide and I discovered that French schools have significantly more days off than Canadian ones, lucky buggers. Well, they will have to fight us seasoned travelers for any spaces during their vacations and besides; I don’t think many of them camp during the winter. Which raises the questions, why are we?

Anyway, the threat of inclement weather seems to have held off the throng of tourists this time, as only a few more brave campers showed up. Just in time for the skies to open up. And how did it rain. At first there were a few halfhearted sprinkles that looked like they would disappear when the wind picked up. But soon rain was coming down in an unstoppable torrent.

The bags, sheltered in the vestibules, began to get wet as enough water bounced off the grass to allow it to rain upwards into the tent. Then water began to drip down on us from the Velcro fasteners on the roof, stopped, only just, by the judicious application of socks as plugs.

The low point of the night came as I lay in agony inside, desperately needing to use the lavatory facilities. After endlessly waiting, hoping for a break in the downpour I gave up and made a dash for the washroom and a dash back, soaking myself to the skin and diving gratefully back into my war sleeping bag only to have the rain let up. Any wonder that we have become superstitious? Somewhere an Imp sits laughing hysterically

Next Entry: Day 54. Agon-Coutainville
Previous Entry: Day 52. Denneville

Day 52. Denneville. Sept 27 2001.

There are moments on this trip; when you hit a perfectly flat stretch of road, the sun comes out, the only wind is a gentle breeze, just enough to cool you, to either side is beautiful pasture or rolling hillside dotted with steeples or open ocean, and you think to yourself: "This is what heaven is like".

Then you hit a hill or the wind starts again and you have to fight for every inch of ground, but the feeling stays in the back of your mind and you realize that the whole trip is because of that feeling and if the feeling could remain, you could bike forever. The day didn’t start like that, or stay that way for very long, but it was very nice while it lasted.



The day actually dawned gray and stormy, with clouds from the sea rushing by us so fast that the sky seemed a never-ending swirl of angry motion. I had left shorts outside to dry and they were now wetter than before and we were forced to deal with a few days accumulation of laundry before we could set off.

The wind was so strong it threatened to take the tent with it as we packed everything away and only the two of us working together could get it stuffed into its sack and safely strapped to Heather’s bike. The local insects must have mourned its loss keenly.

By the time we left we discovered that this campsite had the best price of any we had yet visited, even bedhampton, no charge. We waited for the attendant to visit us, we even had our money ready, but no one paid the slightest attention to us at all. Not being ones to hunt down monetary loss we didn’t really complain, but if all municipal campgrounds charge the same rate we will be saving an enormous amount of our budget. Because of how clean the campgrounds washrooms were it was one of the few in the world that we actually felt a little guilty walking out of without paying.

We set out and found that a night’s sleep had not diminished the difficulty of the trip. The wind was, if anything, worse today and the hills seemed to grow in magnitude. By the time we hit a supermarket at noon we were ready to wait the two hours until it opened. We rested and read and were ready when it opened at 2:30.

Today we managed to make it to our destination, though we were strongly tempted by campgrounds along the way. We are learning to identify the changes in country not so much by changes in landscape, after all the area we are in looks strongly like southern Britain, but by changes in the species of road kill. At home it is gophers and coyotes, England it was foxes and badgers, here it is hedgehogs and bull frogs. Not the most pleasant way to experience a country but our eyes are always fixed on the road before us and car tires kill far more animals than you would expect when you are sitting secure in your sheltered metal box.

Halfway through the day the weather transformed itself completely. From gray and rainy to blue and sunny, so quickly it was almost impossible to believe it was the same day. Almost simultaneously we passed from La Hague into another area whose name I will admit to having forgotten. The change in terrain was as dramatic as the one in the weather. From endlessly hilly to amazingly flat. The trees on our right parted and there in dazzling glory was the ocean once more. I think this was the most spectacular and easy portion of biking for me the entire trip so far.

But as is the case in biking and in life we rounded a corner and the wind picked up again. We were now in terrain that was mostly marsh and very close to the shore so it was very flat, perfect for a bike. But it seems to me that that the closer to the ocean you are the more consistently windy it becomes, so we will have to decide if we want to head more inland and risk more hills or stay with the water and deal with the wind.

Our destination town of Denneville loomed up before us, at least the signs for it did. The actual town is a small coastal village with pitted roads and sandy soil. For the last kilometer before the turnoff that main road had passed through hundreds of fields growing carrots and leaks, so enticing that we wanted to sneak under the fences and pluck them fresh from the soil. The tiny little plots were enchanting and had been plowed in neat rows that reveal the soil underneath to be almost pure sand.

Denneville was deserted as we biked in, most of the houses boarded up for the winter. Not a soul greeted us as we biked through the central road and back around to the campground. Even the campground, which had a sign declaring it to be open, was deserted. The static mobile homes were boarded up, the hedges had ceased to be trimmed, even the lawn had that slightly overgrown length that said it hadn’t been mown for a while. The whole place had an air of desertion that declared the season to be closed and the town abandoned until further notice.



Here was again the fertile overgrowth of which H.P. Lovecraft wrote and it made the whole place hard on the nerves, as if the locals knew something we did not, that there were sinister forces behind the abandonment, a feeling only reinforced by the bats that flew out as the sun went down. Suddenly we were in a thousand clichéd vampire movies that seemed only too real to us. The worst was the toilet block, a great building, perhaps that largest in town, that stood at the centre of the campground. There should have been screaming kids, fussing young matrons, grumbling old men. Instead there was row upon row of empty toilet stalls creaking slightly with the wind, the only illumination twin shafts of sunlight coming through the roof and cutting pallid beams though slowly settling dust. Neither of us said anything. To speak would give substance to nameless fears, but we stayed close together all night.

Heather bravely, defiantly, washed the laundry only to curse herself when she realized that not enough light remained in the day for it to dry. We went for a walk down to the beach, a vast expanse of fine sand that disappeared north and south of us, our feelings of aloneness in the face of the alien growing even stronger at the sight of a tractor seemingly abandoned in the waves.

Our spirits lifted immeasurably when a boat appeared on the horizon and raced towards the tractor to be hauled out of the water, framed against a blazing red sunset the first proof that people still lived nearby. Not even the swarm of jumping sand flies that erupted beneath our feet as the sun disappeared could bring us down. We ran back to paved surfaces, our feet alternately squishing and crunching through the living carpet of the beach. By the time we got back it was already dark, our laundry was as damp as ever and when we crowded into our sleeping bags something kept clawing at our panniers outside. But it had been a good day.

Next Entry: Day 53. Denneville
Previous Entry: Day 51. Les Pieux

Day 51. Les Pieux Sept 26 2001.

Actually a very small town between Les Pieux and the town of Surtainville. We didn’t quite make our destination. But more on that later.

We woke to the sound of rain and as I hurried to my morning shower I discovered the clouds we had watched the night before had settled on Cherbourg. At home, in a place that sometimes borders on desert we speak glibly of “a gentle mist.” Here was a mist so thick that you breathed more water than air. Sunlight at 8 in the morning had virtually disappeared behind a wall of gray and to move was to become soaked. Earth, sky and ocean had blurred their boundaries over our campsite that morning. In truth it was beautiful, a primal experience, like the mist of chaos out of which everything was formed. I could have stayed in it for hours. This is what we so felt the lack of in our landlocked home. But it made lousy biking weather.

We bundled ourselves well in our rainproof gear, shook off our tent as well as we were able, loaded the bikes and set off. We biked back into the heart of Cherbourg and returned to the change office to change more money. This time the man at the counter was less than impressed by her lack of French. We also stopped at the hypermarket to refuel our empty bellies. Heather shopped while I waited.

I tried to write but every time I opened the journal the skies opened in sympathy, so I gave up and watched as the local fishermen loaded their nets in their boats. Each net ran down almost the length of the inner city quayside. When they haul those through the water they must depopulate everything around them. Watching them I know, intellectually, that it must be backbreaking work for little pay and no respect, a hard life on the waves. But it seemed so perfect, so romantically in tune with earth and ocean that I wanted to go over and ask for a berth aboard ship.

Did our ancestors feel the loss when they left the ocean? Or did they see it as an escape from a world of danger and horrors that even now we can only pass through or over? Was it we, or was it the dolphins and the whales who were truly the intelligent ones? The ocean is a three dimensional universe, every direction a possibility. Our minds, developed for the flat plains and for the surfaces of mountains whose sides we can rarely separate from, are not capable of existing in a fully three dimensional world for long spaces of time. We can fly in three dimensions, but we must land, we can dive but eventually we must surface. We are trapped in a world with entire directions barred to us by the limitations of mind and body. Is it any wonder that people long for the ocean?

After eating we turned our backs on the ocean, at least for a while and began the climb up into the Cotentin Peninsula. Cherbourg was built into a hillside we were not yet ready to scale on bikes so we dismounted and pushed. We passed into the ugly high rises we had seen from the water and their bases were no less so. H.P Lovecraft always wrote of the horror evoked by lushly overgrown spaces filled with green growing things that fill one with a sense of foreboding. I could never understand what he meant. Why should plants, trees and shrubs be harbingers of evil? Instead they should be things of good, signs of life. But there were patches of green as we left Cherbourg that drove his meaning home to me. Here in the centre of a city, parkland should be beautiful and organized, well cared for and tended. But as we climbed out of the city we passed these spaces filled with lush, over fertile greenery, growing together in such a tangle that would have been impassable should anyone have tried. Untended seems to indicate a laissez fair attitude that hinted as a moral lassitude. If someone does not even care about tending something like a park, why would they care about more important matters? At least the tangled brush of Cherbourg granted me some insight into Lovecraft’s way of thinking.

I should mention, in all fairness to the people of Cherbourg, that there were crews clearing out the brush as we passed.

We passed into the subdepartment or province of La Havre, a territory described as being “wild and rugged” I can’t speak for the wilderness, it seemed to us to be virtually the same as any other pastoral farming area. And for us rugged generally conveys a sense of sharp jagged cliffs and inaccessible mountains. But the continual rise and fall of its gently rolling hills was more than rugged enough for us. Going up and down over and over again was as exhausting as the long climb at the beginning of this journey. And we had the wind to contend with, harsh blowing gusts that killed any momentum we gained on the downhill sides and pushed us back almost as much as we gained on the uphill sides. Fighting the wind seemed to double the distance we traveled.

I discovered to my chagrin that my Michelin Guide to Camping, so expensively gained, was not as necessary as I had thought it to be at least in this part of the country. Here every town seemed to have a municipal campsite or signs for many privately owned ones. Good because it allowed us to stop whenever we wanted, bad because it allowed us to stop whenever we wanted.

We finally gave up the ghost at a small municipal campground perhaps ten kilometers short of our intended destination at Surtainville. Heather’s pannier racks had been wobbling dangerously close to her spokes and we were forced to stop and wrapped duct tape around them to provide some support. Without duct tape where would we be?

Stopping has set us back a lot and we needed to settle down quickly, before we lost our daylight. I should say that we made an excellent choice for an emergency stopping place. This campground had the most immaculately kept washrooms of any place we had seen on this trip or ones before. We waited all night for the attendant to come and ask for payment but she left early and didn’t return all night. The only fly, so to speak, in the ointment were, well, the flies. Actually they are not flies but enormous long legged insects that float about everywhere. Their massive wings sound more like propellers and, perhaps because of the wind outside, they sought refuge in our tent in numbers that boggled the mind. I was especially annoyed that my panniers, piled just beside my head, should have been such a tempting mating spot for them. The really galling thing about them is, because of their size and slow speed, they are really easy to catch, so easy in fact that you feel guilty catching them and let them go again. Survival of the fittest? These things live on guilty consciences.

I suppose another small problem was the quantity of dog feces, not just at the campsite, but everywhere. I suppose French laws about cleaning up after your pet must be more lax than in Britain, because everywhere you go the ground is liberally coated in dog leftovers. It makes it very uncomfortable to walk in sandals. Heather ended today a little more cheerful than last night, but she is feeling weaker, we will have to choose town closer together.

Next Entry: Day 52. Denneville.
Previous Entry: Day 50. Cherbourg

Day 50. Cherbourg. Sept 25 2001.

We slept well last night, tired by the sea air and the excitement of our crossing. Before going to bed last night we had wandered down by the ocean.

It was soothing to listen to the waves lap against the shore and we had resolved to have a picnic on the beach at some point during the day. But first into town for groceries, money changes and general sightseeing.

We followed the shore road into town, enjoying the smell of the sea air and of the shore. The smell was far more pungent here than in Portsmouth, as though Cherbourg was truly on the ocean, and Portsmouth no more than a sheltered river. Both Heather and I had hesitated to say anything in England, after all what can you say? “Shouldn’t your ocean be stinkier?” We had a feeling that we’d exaggerated the memory of the ocean from our trips to California and to Prince Rupert. But all the while along the English coast something had been missing. It was like a hole being filled when we landed here and discovered that our memories had not been exaggerated.

When we found the hypermarket, after a small unintended detour, we found it to full of very fresh seafood…It’s back door was the harbour…and we had a great time watching the clams snapping and the crabs trying to escape.. One great big crab had all it’s rear legs over the lip of the aquarium and one good pull would have sent him clattering to the market floor. Heather and I watched intently, cheering him on in quiet hushed whispers. We were forced to move on when one of the employees glared at us angrily. Perhaps he thought we were organizing the crab version of the great escape. The question is...where would they have gone if they made it out?

Buying groceries was a chore, even with the amusing live seafood section. Not only could we not read the language but we had to figure out if 10 francs was expensive or not and to make matters worse most prices were also marked in Euros. Suddenly I am a big fan of a unified world currency.

Once we had bought our food for the day we set out to change some money. Since one of us had to stay with the bikes and our travelers cheques were in Heather’s name, she had been practicing the French phrases for money changes all day, every one of which left her mind the moment she stepped into the change office. She nervously stammered out a few words, only to almost faint with relief at the response “It’s alright, I speak English.”

From changing money our thoughts went to eating and we strolled along the harbour looking for a place. Suddenly, after all the commotion between tandems and catamarans we passed, sitting quietly and smugly in the harbour, a Trimaran. We turned our backs on it and pretended it didn’t exist.

We ate our lunch in a small park on the marina, adorned with all the flags of the NATO nations. Seeing the Canadian flag flying in the breeze, no matter how ignored it is at home, seemed like seeing a comforting haven, seemed like being at home, so it too we cheerfully ignored.

Cherbourg, once you are on its streets, is a beautiful port town with the sea incorporated into its design with huge harbours and canals coming right into the downtown, From the sea, with its water tower and blocky apartment buildings it had seemed like an ugly and foreboding place, an image easily dispelled by walking about the town, but one so disturbingly like propaganda photos showing Russian cities in the seventies, gray, dingy, and under strict military law, that it leaves you a little shaken when you approach it for your holiday. In fact, along the harbour front at least, the French seem very concerned with making things beautiful. Even the roads were being lined with a red shale path on each side.

After dinner we prepared for supper. Yes food is on our minds a lot. Sympathizing with plight of the escaping crabs and empathizing with them too much, we bought artificial crab for dinner. We went back to the beach outside our campground to enjoy our guilt free meal. As we ate a beautiful black and white three masted schooner sailed out of Cherbourg harbour and, all sails raised, sailed off in the direction of Portsmouth. It was a majestic thing to watch, cutting through the waves with proud confidence, relying only on the power the sea would provide. We watched as it grew dim on the horizon, until all we could see were the raised sails, like tiny clouds in the distant sea haze. It looked so right, so natural on the water, that the great ferries, as they pushed into Cherbourg, looked bizarre, floating oil refineries with belching clouds of smoke.

It was great to rest by the shore, watching the patterns of the waves as they rolled in, getting sand and seaweed stuck between our toes. Some crazed Frenchman, or perhaps it was an Englishman on vacation (he didn’t scream in any specific language) plunged himself into the water for a swim. The ocean, my toes can testify, was colder than the pool at Wimbourne and did not tempt us to plunge in at all.

As we sat watching the waves Heather became very melancholy, sitting silently and staring at the water. While I have been feeling very tookish because of the successes of the days before she had become despondent about her command of French. Because she speaks only a very little she felt isolated and trapped here. Worried what she would do in an emergency, if I could not speak or if we were separated. She also felt that as I had always relied on her to handle the social aspects of our trip she had become useless in the face of my greater proficiency in French. A large part of her depression, I believe stemmed for the fact that she had never before been in a country that spoke anything but English. Her depression disturbed me, not in the least because of her overestimation of my abilities in French. Hers are not really all that inferior to mine but she lacks confidence to use them. And I can’t, apparently, use my English all that well. I told her that I wasn’t excusing her from social aspects and she laughed…I wasn’t kidding. While I can ask for things and receive them Heather has an ability that I lack, the ability to immediately strike up a rapport with whomever she is speaking too. Because of that people are generally far friendlier to her than me and far more willing to go out of their way to help her, if only the same ability didn’t attract so many old men with a longing to share their life stories. I don’t think Heathers funk will last, just a tad bit of culture shock.

We opened the gift Heather’s friend Christina had packed, a “karmic” package that contained a pithy letter describing exactly how a trip such as ours feels. Each day is unique, isolated, a story unto itself and it is not until long, sometimes very long, after the events does the story of the journey begin to coalesce. The chronicles, such as this, do little more than record the story of each moment. It is not until the end, as with all stories, after you close the book and shut your eyes and reflect on what has passed that glimmers of understanding can be felt. Christina also gave small tokens with writing on them and we have decided to reserve each one for a difficult day. Today’s was a candle but we had no flame to light it. Perhaps that is the story of this trip.

Finally to bed and then leave tomorrow. Already the wind has picked up and the tent is moving in time to the gusts. Rain is spattering on our roof and clouds are rolling in.

Next Entry: Day 51. Les Pieux
Previous Entry: Day 49. Cherbourg

Day 49. Cherbourg. Sept 24 2001.

France!

We have crossed the channel alive and mostly well.

Last night I slept no better than the night before, my mind still alive with all the worries and stress that had plagued my previous sleep. But my wakefulness presented me with the unique opportunity to listen as a young woman walked home sobbing, after ending her relationship with a young man, or to listen to the Chinese family across from us fight for the better part of the night. But when I finally managed to fall asleep I didn’t have to worry about over-sleeping and missing the ferry, because construction started across the street bright and early. Even with the noise of trucks and cranes and men hammering bricks into place it was a much better way of waking than the morning before so we both greeted the day, if not with smiles then at least tiny grins. Never before had packing up seemed so effortless and it probably never will again.

We left the campground for the ferry terminal, this time armed with a map showing us the way. Fat lot of good it did us as we biked far past the turnoff to the terminal. And Heathers bike wasn’t through with us yet. Before too long heather realized the load on her back pannier rack was unbalanced and well it should have been, one of her bungee cords had disappeared without a trace and it was impossible to stabilize her things without it. So we were force to backtrack. searching for a hardware store. Along the way Heather stopped into a newsagents to see if they had the companion book that complimented my map. Even though they didn’t they spent the next twenty minutes trying to convince Heather that she was going the wrong way. Repeated repetition of the phrase “I know” had little effect. Finally we got out of there and found a hardware store and made it to the ferry terminal with only two hours to spare.

Our ship, the Pride of Hampshire, was not really all that large but Heather was very impressed.

The trip out of the harbour was filled with exciting vistas. North of us, gray and squat, was Portchester castle, looking ready to defend even in an age its designers could not fathom. The harbour was filled with military vessels; mostly troop ships and tenders but the occasional fighting ship tucked away in a hidden place.

As we left we encountered Portsmouth’s high speed ferry, an enormous catamaran with a swept hull that looks over the water with the aquiline beak of a bird of prey.

Heather, back in Calgary, had continually confused a catamaran boat and a tandem bicycle, calling a tandem a “Tadamaran.” At first I could not help but make fun of her for the slip and I began to call out pair of bikes a tadamaran. But the joke was soon on me because the logic of the word dawned on me. Traveling the way we were was in fact a tadamaran, two bikes like a tandem, not quite enough to be called a caravan, but our bikes were separate, like twin hulls that support a similar load going the same direction, but forging their own paths through the water. Tadameran described our journey perfectly and became our banner. The harbour was filled with catamarans so I spent a large portion of the journey out sticking my elbow into Heather. I don’t think she was amused.

We passed the historic dockyards and saw, it’s rigging standing out like a spiders web, the HMS Victory in it’s dry dock.

Even from the water it was a most impressive sight, yellow and black hull curving graciously to a smooth deck, bow rising proudly, jutting forward like a spike, It’s stern castle ornate and elaborate, like a hotel rising from the water. It made the ferry we were on seem an ungainly collection of parts and the modern warships that littered the harbour monstrosities of the sea.

Finally we passed Portsmouth itself. The portion of the city on the waterfront was small from our vantage point and it looked like the perfect model makers image of what a harbourfront should be. A curving warren of streets and towering buildings looking out on the water, each carve by wind and spray and facing it’s stone proudly out to sea as if in defiance of the elements. The perfect touch was what I can only assume was the harbour masters house. A small house on the harbours only stretch of green lawn with a child’s playhouse and car in miniature beside it.

The trip to sea was long, the ferry moving slowly past Henry VIII’s coastal forts and anchored tankers. Heather at last got to see another shore of the Isle of Wight as we slowly circled around it. But once we left the sight of land we abandoned the decks and went inside. I came to the realization that I love the ocean but not the open ocean. Instead I love where land meets sea, the coastal waters were you can see thousands of years of eternal conflict. Where ships can meet castles and waves can meet the land. Open ocean, at least the calm blue ocean that we crossed, is too much like the flatlands of Alberta, beautiful in their way, with open sky and racing clouds, but too flat for me.

The crossing past mostly uneventfully but as we neared Cherbourg and went excitedly to the deck to watch it approach, Heather’s unique charm played its magic once more and an old gentleman approached us and proceeded to share his life story. He also produced a camping guide that seemed to have little in common with my own. I was very nervous about finding a place for the night after previous experiences and I had been worrying about where to stay in France with almost painful intensity.

The ferry docked, we hurried to our bikes and suddenly we were on French soil. We meandered aimlessly trying to find a map for campers but we came up empty handed. Finally I decided we would go to where I had originally intended. A short ride later we found our campsite. No trumpets blared, no fanfare announced our arrival but my relief was the same as if they had.

Heather was unwilling to try out her novice French, even after buying a phrase book, so I went in to ask for a place. Heather stared at me like I was an alien as I got a pitch. I think that even after all those years of me claiming I spoke French, Heather didn’t really believe me! After all where has we the opportunity to speak French at home? And she has seen my miserable failure at Japanese and at Latin. Unfortunately she now thinks I speak french like a native speaker and hardly hears my protests that what I speak is little better than the communication of a five-year-old child. Somehow I have been handed the communication tasks as well.

Our final adventure was the toilets. We opened them fearfully and there it was, the dreaded French pit toilet. You cannot imagine our relief on opening the other doors to find them relatively normal. Still, With finding our spot and speaking the language I ended the day Tookish indeed.

Next Entry: Day 50. Cherbourg
Previous Entry: Day 48. Portsmouth

Day 48. Portsmouth. Sept 23 2001

What a way to wake up. Leaping up at the first sign of light, exhausted from a night of nightmares, frantic to pack up a tent before you are noticed, so far from where you planned to be that you’re not even sure how to get back.

Neither of us slept much last night. I was plagued the whole night with terror dreams and thoughts that brought so much stress I was amazed the tent did not pulsate in rhythm with my heart. If we couldn’t find a campground last night what made me think today would be any different? Or tomorrow, or the day after? Would the rest of the trip be spent furtively setting our tent up after dark only to hurry away when people might be around?

Yesterdays events had shattered my morale and not only was I not eager to be biking, for the first time in the trip I was well and truly ready to go home. But having a ticket in hand is a powerful motivator and we had a ferry to catch the next day. So reluctantly we set out retracing our route back to Portsmouth.

The day loomed gray and cold ahead of us with chilly winds cutting at us. We stopped to break our fast at McDonalds .

While we ate, outside lest the unkempt appearance of unshowered bikers cause problems with the management, a great gray cloud blew over us, certain to bring rain and misery. But within seconds it had passed us by entirely and blown itself out to sea. One great thing that affects this region is weather that shifts so quickly you can watch the transformation with your own eyes. You can see a storm cloud build itself out of nothingness far out in the water. You can watch it blown in and buffet the shore and you can see the sunlight beyond. In Calgary we joke that “if you don’t like the weather wait five minutes” but compared to the rapid changes they experience here, our weather is tame.

After a breakfast made of bacon, buns, hash browns the size of my hand and, on Heather’s part, eggs, we set out once more. We had decided to head towards the second of our target campgrounds of the previous day. It was marked on Portsmouth’s eastern shore and by looking at the map I realized we had come nowhere close. So off we went, more cautiously this time and took a left turn I had dismissed the previous night because it seemed to lead into an industrial area. Fifteen minutes later, voila, we were on the eastern harbour. But the eastern road, on which the campsite was marked, was right against the water, no place on its eastern side for camping. So we set off south, very excited, as you can imagine, to find a sign announcing the south sea caravan park. Unfortunately the name proved to be accurate, it was at the far southern tip of Portsmouth, nowhere near where the campground we were heading to was marked.

After an extra hour or more following the elusive grail of a campsite, we found the south sea park, set up our ten and went to sleep.

We slept until noon, until the building heat in our tent forced us to go outside. The day was very windy, whipping the tent about dramatically but the wind died as the day advanced. Though tired we decided to go for a walk to see Portsmouth before we departed on the morrow. Portsmouth is a strange town, not sure if it is a tourist destination or a working harbour and not really able to reconcile the two. The innards of the town are the worst gray that England is famous for worldwide. Rows and rows of industrial housing stretch for miles, straight streets with high walled buildings and no breaks for greenery make parts of Portsmouth seem more like a prison than a city. Electrical wire and telephone wires tangle overhead like a net to keep even the birds from fleeing the monotony.

The first question the streets of Portsmouth raise is "how?" How can people choose to live stacked in cartons with no parks, no trees, nothing joyful at all? But then, very suddenly, you break out of the straightjacket streets and find yourself on the waterfront. Here are all the missing parks. Ponds with paddleboat, parks with trees, buildings with elaborately carved masonry, a sunken garden protected by a wall of hedge, a rose garden surrounded by ramparts and even now, in the chill of autumn’s beginnings still in bloom.

The people of Portsmouth must surge out of their homes and workplaces down to the waterfront, running to escape the cage that is the city.

We walked most of the waterfront, pushing our bikes beside us. We halted for a rest at the harbour castle where Henry VII is said to have watched his prize ship, the Mary Rose, founder before him. From here we has an easy view of the strange circular forts that Henry had sunk into the waves to protect the port. Each was a tiny self contained little isle, roofed over to keep from being washed away shore side to break waves and invaders that never came, at least not in Henry’s time or for many hundreds of years after. How foresighted of Henry that he provided England with perfect antiaircraft defenses for the Second World War, the only time his forts fired their guns in anger.

I would like to have gone to the maritime museum but we were both too tired and I had seen it on previous trips. With rigging looming before us we turned back and returned to our camp.

I could not help thinking of Edna and her dream to be a helmswoman, stuck in landlocked Calgary. She would not have been able to resist the lure of the rigging I’m sure and can see how it would have been a magnet to those wanting to escape the dreariness of city life. How shocked they must have been to discover that ship life was no better, only different and in most cases worse. I wonder, do recruits to the world militaries now discover the same thing?

We pedaled home slowly, painfully but delight to actually have a home to go to. Strange how hedge walls and a paid fee can make an empty pier of land seem so secure and strange too how the rules of society have been so ingrained in both Heather and I that to stop outside sanctioned boundaries should make us so uncomfortable. Why should that be the case? How we are sleeping tonight is really no different than the night before, we are ensconced in a tent and sleeping bags, people can still wander about us all night and despite our fears no one is likely to disturb us outside campsite boundaries, pounding on our tent and demanding that we leave. They are probably more scared of us than we are of them! Everyone we have spoken to here says the police too are unlikely to bother us, at least not for a single night and we were so hidden that they would scarcely have been able to find us. But a campground stands for a public sanction of our activities, a guarantee that society will enforce our security. Even if the guarantee is only thought and has no real force it builds mental walls that shelter us…or do they trap us as well.

Next Entry: Day 49. Cherbourg. France!!!
Previous Entry: Day 47. Bedhampton

Day 47. Bedhampton. Sept. 22 2001

Today has been the worst day of the trip so far. How to convey exactly what plagued us will be a challenge, not to simply list the events but to convey the rising stress.

The day began easily enough, with only a few protests about waking up from me. Tessa, Megan and Thomas stopped by to help us with the cleanup. Actually I think they were expecting us to have left already but it was nice to see them one last time before going. Then, with much ado, we loaded up our bikes and left.

The first half of the day was beautifully simple, our fears about losing our biking edge seeming to be groundless. At one point I wobbled on my bicycle and looked up to the sound of a car frantically sounding its horn. I was a little confused, thinking indignantly “I didn’t wobble that much” only to see Kerry and Simon’s little white car barreling towards us with all aboard waving frantically, so we got to see them before leaving too.

It was once we got to Southampton that things began to go astray, though so slightly that at first we scarcely noticed. I bought the Michelin guide for France, delighted that I had finally found a map with the campgrounds marked. Only after I had spent an enormous amount on the map that I realized you needed another expensive guide to go with it. Also, because I needed a new journal I bought this one, so expensive that you would think the gold trim on the edges was actually gold. These two things alone blew our budget for the day, making me less than excited about going on. But as they were necessary for the trip I was willing to put up with the cost.

We left Southampton gaily until the road I had chosen to follow out of the city was closed due to construction, forcing a long and uphill detour. Still we had faced worse obstacles and even when Heather’s leg began to cramp so much we were forced to stop our spirits did not flag too much. The first time morale began to seriously flag was atop the next hill from where we had stopped. Suddenly, and without warning, Heather’s rear tire went flat. We pulled over and flipped Heather’s bike to remove the tire when Heather noticed her recently fixed pannier rack was broken. I hastily fixed it using duct tape and we patched the inner tube of her tire, never having done it before.

By the time we had finished the sun was getting dangerously close to the horizon and we were still miles from our campsite. We pushed off feeling the strain of biking and getting very eager to settle into a campsite. Heather’s strength began to fail her and she kept on only with the constant refrain that the campsite was just a few miles away. We passed the city of Fareham excitedly because, according to our map, the campsite was between Fareham and Portchester. We picked up speed, sure in the knowledge that we were near to the nights stop. Then suddenly a sigh loomed up before us “PORTCHESTER”! We had missed the campground.

With a sigh and groan we turned around and pedaled back only to reach the boundaries of Fareham with no sigh of the campground. We stopped at an inn to ask directions. The innkeeper was very confused because he knew of no campground nearby but after Heather asked several people we were able to get directions to an enormous golf club nearby that had a campground behind it. Or so we were told.

After another twenty minutes on the golf grounds we found no site but got directions to a park behind a crematorium, a bit morbid I know but we were getting pretty desperate. Heather was tired and cramped and I was getting very worried about a place to stay. Heather’s rear brake had seized up and we were forced to disconnect it, making it hard to bike even in the daylight and there was precious little daylight left. We had not eaten since the stop just outside Southampton and were feeling ravenous, with the headaches and grumpiness that comes from too little food. By the time we arrived at the “park” it was dark and it turned out to be a mobile home park, no place for campers.

We turned back angrily and stopped at a gas station that doubled as a supermarket. Heather got groceries and directions while I checked the map. The nearest campground was on the other side of Portsmouth and the only person willing to give us directions was incomprehensible. Reluctantly, after eating very greasy chicken to tide us over, we set out for Portsmouth.

Barely had we gone a mile when a hard bump blew Heather’s rear tire out once more. That was it, the final straw. We agreed that, although we had already gone over budget for the day, we would spend the night in a hotel. We walked the two lonely and dark miles along Portsmouth Harbour to the nearest hotel complex. Heather walked in to book rooms, anger and depression giving way to nice thoughts of hot showers and comfy beds. Five minutes later she was back, in a worse state than before. All the hotels in Portsmouth were completely full! A boat show had filled Portsmouth to capacity.

We had been turned away from the inn and the only refuge was an isolated campground on the other side of the city. We flipped Heathers bike upside down to fix her flat only to discover the other pannier rack was broken as well. We set out with heavy hearts. The night was beginning to feel chill and our muscles were cramping. It is almost impossible to describe the next few hours. Endless streets, close packed with buildings and wan yellow lights shinning down. A cold breeze seeping its way through the weave of our clothes as we become more and more tangled in a labyrinth of streets. No signs for camping, no signs for inns, no streets that matched our map. Until, suddenly, with gut wrenching horror, we found ourselves right back where we had started with no idea how to get to our goal. We were frozen, anguished; angry and so stressed our stomachs heaved every time we thought of what could happed if we found no site. Hesitantly I brought up the idea that had been preying on me since we began in Portsmouth we would have to sleep outdoors. Heather was adamantly against it. She stopped at a McDonalds and asked directions to the campground. They had never heard of a campground in Portsmouth. She asked directions to a hotel that might have vacancies. The nearest away was miles away in Bedhampton. They gave us directions and we set off, confident that we would find it.

Heather pushed on like a woman driven; we pedaled what seemed an eternity. After an hour I suggested that we stop and settle in behind bushes. Heather pretended not even to hear. The suggestion was unthinkable for her. Finally we reached Bedhampton only to find a roundabout that gave no sign of the direction we needed to take. Heather, who only moments before had been so excited to see bright lights shinning, was devastated. We were both on the verge of exhaustion, too cold to feel the ache in our muscles. We had been biking for over 12 hours our first day back on bikes. The only option left was to find a secluded spot and pitch our tent. We found a place between the road and some apartments, sheltered by trees.

It is hard to convey what sleeping outside a campground was like for us. I had been so confident in my ability to find a site and now that was shattered. We both felt insecure and unprotected with every noise a potential threat. We were so tired our minds were blurry but could not sleep; afraid every person was the police, or hoodlums from the local bar being let out. It was like sleeping naked in a roomful of enemies and hoping they couldn’t see you. Never before had we felt so vulnerable.

Next Entry: Day 48. Portsmouth
Previous Entry: Day 46. Holbury

Day 46. Holbury. Sept 21 2001.

Cold is much better, getting ready to go. Today is to be, though I don’t know it at the time, the last day at Brian and Sylvia’s. We plan on leaving tomorrow but don’t know if my cold will allow it and Heather seems to be catching my illness.

We went to Kerry and Simons for dinner the night before and being around Sam (the dog) exacerbated my cold until death seemed like a nice alternative. Too bad really because I really like Sam. I have no idea what kind of dog he is; he looks like a golden retriever whose legs have been shaved off until he stands no more than a foot from the ground at the crown of his head! Great dog but really easy to trip over.

I woke up this morning feeling very sick and wanting to delay our departure still another more. But Heather had booked our crossing to France for the next Monday and as today was Friday I thought it prudent to begin preparation, all right, Heather started and I felt stupid not keeping up so soon exceeded her and had everything packed.

Packing was an interesting prospect. Once you stop moving you find it very difficult to get going again and once you unpack you find it impossible to remember how you got everything into such a small space. I kept stuffing shirt after shirt after shirt into my pannier. Why I brought so many shirts I’ll never know, I didn’t know I had so many to start with, Most of them are simply extra weight that will never be worn. Once we set out I generally wear my biking shirt and the Nark shirt Chris gave us until they are both too rank to allow my entry into polite society. Then we try to wash it and start again.

As we packed we tried to clean. Man in a sedentary mode is an expansive animal. As soon as we stop we spread out until we fill every available space. From the second day we spent here parts of Brain and Sylvia’s house were impassable to all but the smallest of animals. Cleaning was very challenging task.

A side note to the cleaning is the fact both Heather and I have noticed, that food spoils much quicker here than at home. We would be able to keep bread no more than a couple of days before it began to grow moldy and meat was nearly as bad. It must be all the moisture in the atmosphere. Katherine, who was from Victoria, had said she was forced to move to Calgary because of mold allergies, but unless you spend some time in a consistently damp area it is hard to really understand what she meant. The place I have noticed the dampness most is in the books we carry with us. Some of the pages have mold spots on them even though I carry them wrapped in a couple layers of plastic. How the British manage to preserve libraries and rare collectible books with such a climate working against them is a puzzle to me. I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to my books and assume that they will be ready for me whenever I want them, what a rude awakening. I will be in for it if we ever move to the coast. The logic of keeping valuable in a salt mine is made much clearer when you see the effects of moisture speeded up.

Kerry and Simon are reviving the dead fashions of the seventies by going to a seventies theme party. Actually it is very strange to see how the fashions of the seventies are becoming the fashions of the early aughts. Except for a few differences, most especially the sequined pattern on the front of her shirt, Kerry’s outfit wouldn’t look out of place at any mall now.

Farah Fawcett hair, shiny stretch pants, disco music and flashy lights, old fashions never die they're reborn when the new generations run out of ideas, or perhaps it is because the teens of now have never seen their parents in disco outfits and so are not revolted while they see eighties as the lowest form of life. Heather was delighted by the costumes and her eyes light up when she see shiny sequins and fabric. I think in a previous life Heather was perhaps a crow and lined her nest with worthless but shiny baubles.

The question that strikes me is: did they have forties theme parties in the seventies?

After we had said our goodbyes and finished cleaning packing, etc. Heather retired to her bed while I, fool that I am, stayed up late and watched TV. Perhaps just to ensure that I would be exhausted for biking the next day.

Next Entry: Day 47. Bedhampton
Previous Entry: Day 46. Holbury

Day 45. Holbury. Sept 20 2001

I am now officially sick.

Looking out at the vast expanse of these two pages I wonder how I can possibly fill them and so develop a new policy that I will write only as far as I can and begin the next days entry where the last one ended. Unfortunately when I bought the journal I labeled each day so I wouldn’t forget, up to 47, so I still have to fill in a couple of pages.

Today was very much a lay at home day. What had started as a scratchy throat and a couple of sneezes soon developed into a full blown cold and I was forced, yeah it was so hard, to sit in front of the television for the entire day. Heather had made plans with Paul and Tessa and so biked off to Blackfield, leaving me alone with my sniffles. Paul had previously fixed Heather’s pannier rack with fiberglass tape but she had forgotten to bring the bolts with her at our last visit, necessitating one more trip. Paul was possibly the most excited Orman about our trip, possibly because he is an avid biker in his own right. He also seems to feel a debt of gratitude to my parents because they hosted Paul and Tessa on their honeymoon. He offered us whatever we needed to make our holiday a success! Pretty generous offer, especially because I think my parents had even more fun hosting the Ormans than they had coming over. I still remember vividly Paul and Dad disappearing one morning in Yoho National Park (I think) only to reappear as tiny dots on the side of a mountain, climbing to abandoned caves.

It is really amazing how open and generous all the Orman’s are. They have hosted us with a generosity that is boundless and they have made us feel like honourary members of their families, even allowing their children to drool, vomit and play all over us.

Heather was at Paul and Tessa’s for a very long time and learnt that my cold was probably distributed family wide at Sam’s birthday party the previous weekend. Thomas was sick as was Nick, Sam, Emily, Imogine, Paul and sort of Heather. At least the family shares everything with their guests.

Oh, I forgot to mention that yesterday was Maxine’s birthday. She was so low key about it that I keep forgetting…. Oh and I think it was Paul’s as well. They were born on the same day years apart. Heather, being the responsible and social member of our twosome gave both cards that we had brought from Canada, beautiful photo cards produced by Dad.

My television watching experience was interesting. The news of course was saturated with events in America and Afghanistan. It is most unfortunate that Bush is president in these trying times. A man with genuine vision could parley the horror that grips the world into a more powerful United Nations, a truly international criminal court system and greater global unity, but instead America concentrates on revenge that will solve nothing, perhaps kill hundreds of innocents and fragment the nations of the world even further along religious and ethnic lines.

Strange how the BBC is held as an ideal that all other news programs should strive towards, a newscaster all others look towards for that quality. Most other British news sources are absolute trash. Reading the headlines it is hard to believe they don’t spark panic everyday. “Terrorists living in our midst” announces one paper when the article describes terrorists catching a connector flight from London. And every page is filled with the minute movements of celebrities. How anyone could care that much is beyond me.

Next Entry: Day 46. Holbury
Previous Entry: Day 44. Marchwood

Day 44. Marchwood. Sept 19 2001

We went to Nick and Maxine’s today in the second to last day in the Orman game “pass around the visitors.” Every family we told we wouldn’t be able to see seemed offended by our desire to leave, until we were forced to relent and visit anyone who asked. We had initially planned on leaving Brian and Sylvia’s after a week…two and a half weeks later here we are still. It wouldn’t be so bad but we did a quick calculation and found that even with free accommodation and lots of food from the generous host families we are still spending almost as much money as we would camping.

Dinner at the Middlesditches was mostly uneventful, a pleasant evening out. Nick and I walked to the local fish and chips shop by a path that left me completely lost and confused. We passed an Islamic shop, at least the owners were Muslim, and the front was adorned with an enormous pair of British and American flags. Even here people are very nervous about world events.

Nick chatted excitedly the whole way. He seems like child at heart who is having absolutely no difficulty adjusting to life as an adult. He chatted as eagerly and as excitedly about stocks and retirement options and the aches and pains of age as Colin did about model planes and Emily does about her Barbie’s. Nick was very excited by the idea of our trip and congratulated me heartily for having conceived of it. He seemed very disappointed that he was not doing something similar until I mentioned the adventure of having a family, he perked up immediately and started chatting about that. He is the most excited father I have ever met and is very into his children’s lives.

The fish and chip shop was very much like every other fish and chip shop in Britain, small, overheated and with a sheen of grease that makes the shop sparkle when hit just right by the too powerful lights. The Chinese couple running it seemed very nervous, hardly daring to meet their customer’s eyes, looking up only to toss a grease-soaked package of paper across the counter.

I am a little surprised at the quality of seafood in Holbury and the area surrounding the Southampton water, or perhaps I should say quantity because we have seen virtually none at all. I suppose with the power station and refinery, along with millions of tons of shipping every year that the fish from this area might be a little polluted, but it seems odd to be within spitting distance (a metaphor that, not tested) of the ocean and to be unable to get much seafood. I have a bit of a craving for crab but it won’t be satisfied here.

After getting our fish we walked back to Heather, Maxine, Sam and Emily, going by another path completely that left me even more lost than before. Dinner was quick and quiet. Emily was very bouncy, eager to show off her Barbie pants and Barbie everything. Not being around very many little girls back hone I’m not sure if there is equal obsession of all things Barbie. Imogine is having her room repainted Barbie pink, a color that strongly reminds me of bubble gum after it has lain on a sidewalk for a few days.

On the topic of toys there was a little boy with a machine gun on the way to the shop. I had never really given my parents “no war toys” policy much thought before but in light of recent events it was more than a little disturbing to see a child running up the street pretending to murder someone. How will people learn not to devalue life unless brought up to it from the beginning? I could be answered that children are only playing and having fun, that child’s games are meaningless and normally I would agree but children can have fun in so many way, their minds are creative and unstructured, so what makes us put guns in their hands instead of cardboard boxes or pens or…anything else? Thoughts that wouldn’t ordinarily trouble my mind have grown dramatically more important in this new state of affairs that plagues the world.

Sam’s toy are for a younger mind and seem better suited, a steering wheel and games with flashing patterns. Both Heather and I were soon entranced. I believe that toys for toddlers, perhaps all toys, are made with the adult buyers in mind. Maxine was very excited by a light sensitive puzzle of Sam’s, every time you put in a piece the animal it represented made a noise because the light sensor was covered. It also made a noise if the house lights were turned off so Maxine kept running between kitchen and living room, to shutting off the lights to hear the puzzle roar. It was bizarre to be sitting in the room with four, sorry three; other adults and listening intently to a child’s puzzle sound off.

Maxine, as a podiatrist, has been writing a series of children’s stories with shoes as their characters. One story was a blatant propaganda piece in protest against high heels.
After dinner it was time for Emily to go to bed, something she could not do without Heather to tuck her in. I’m so amazed at the patience Heather has for children. While I respect children’s role as replacements for dying adults sometimes their minds are more alien to me than the furthest foreigners and I am more comfortable leaving them to others. I am a spectator child raiser. I don’t mind watching them, but I have no talent with them.

After the children’s bedtime it was our own and Nick drove us home. Immediately upon leaving the house, even before getting into the car, they began to bemoan our imminent departure from England, telling us to stay longer and visit them again. It’s nice to be wanted but Brian and Sylvia are coming home soon and might want their own home.

I am a little worried, tonight my throat was sore and I sneezed a lot more than usual.

Next Entry: Day 45. Holbury
Previous Entry: Sitting here, thinking quietly, looking at this pretty flower.

Sitting here, thinking quietly, looking at this pretty flower.

To Everyone:

Well, just a brief (Yeah right) note to let everyone know what is going on here and just what part of the world your Brave Traveller and Fearful Voyager happen to be in.

In fact your overseas correspondents are in exactly the same place they have been for the last 14 or so days. The lesson here is; do not let us into your house lest we get comfortable. We are still enjoying the comforts of Brian (everytime I type that it comes out as Brain) and Sylvia Orman's house. We have plunked ourselves in front of a televison and I think we will never leave one again. Actually the truth is that for recently sedentary travellers we are moving about the New Forest area quite alot.

The day after we wrote last was a terrible day for everyone, the day of the New York and Washington attacks. We spent the entire day sitting at home eyes glued to the television set and worrying about everyone. Britain was as stunned as the rest of the world and is now watching the States' every move with baited breath.

That day also marked the beginning of the Fearful Voyager's new criminal career as Nick Middleditch forgot the keys to his theft proof Club (you know, the thing that goes over the steering wheel) and we got to hack it off with a saw. The ads are right by the way, they do take forever to cut through.

The day after was the day our plans began to change. We phoned the ferry lines to discuss prices. We discovered that not only do they not recognize the Hostelling International discount that we have, they had also never heard of Hostelling International. So, after much discussion with the ticket agents, some of it bordering on rude (we did little for Canada's reputation as quiet and meek that day) we found out that the ferry to Cherbourg (France) was 1 quarter the price. So now we are going to see some of France and none of Spain. We also spent a large portion of the day in Southampton and perused the shopping district. Since we had no money it was a mostly futile excercise but we did get to venture into the adult shops to see if they were similar to ours at home (not like we visit those...ever...really...oh forget it).

Since that day was the first month anniversary celebration of the BT and FV we had a nice dinner with Paul and Tessa Orman, along with their children Megan and Thomas (if you see Amy as she runs around in our backyard remind her that her parents want her to behave). We played Trivial Pursuit, only to discover that, after our bragging, we could answer none of the questions and played another game instead, Taboo. The Brave Traveller and Megan won but Tessa and I think they cheated! Paul also had a topographical map of Europe that showed us just how insane we are, French Alps here we come! The plan calls for a trip to Bordeaux now, but things change too quickly to keep track.

Next day we went to Old Sarum, a great earthen donut on the outside of Salisbury. Kerry Topp was convinced that we would get lost on the way but we found it alright, its the first left after the Electric Circus. Hard to believe that Sarum used to be the seat of royal power, especially since all the walls look like they have melted with age. The groundskeeper was very friendly and kept asking what Canadian winters were like. Since we both were a little tired don't be surprised (Canadians anyway) if you visit Sarum and are asked about Polar Bears in the streets. Sarum has a great view of Salisbury which I would have loved to seen but when they call it Misty England its not some sort of metaphor.

Day after was a trip to Rockbourne Roman villa with Tessa. The villa was great, with many artifacs and surving mosaic floors in the bath houses. They really like to bath those Romans. The museum was intresting too but I couldn't help noticing that the artists who paintined the baths used only naked women, I rather liked them but I kept getting pushed on by my companions. We also spent a tranquil and relaxing time in the village of Fordingbridge before being wisked through the New Forest and going for dinner at Paul and Tessa's again and...wait it was this night that we played Trivial Pursuits. Remember that, there will be a test.


Next day (Its getting dark and we have to bike home from Paul and Tessa's so you'll notice things moving along rather briskly) we went with the Topp family to Hurst Castle. Unless you like large concrete things that look like prisons and require a two mile walk along a gravel bank to get to I wouldn't recomend Hurst. It was built by Henry VII because he was a paranoid git...I mean because all of Europe wanted to kill him. Henry, along with disbanding the monasteries, must have killed off all the good architects and is responsible for the ugliest series of castles anywhere.

Day after, we went to Samuel Middleditches first birthday party where our plans really got messed up. Since we now have plans with every Orman and sundries that we bump into we are going to be in Holbur1y at least until Friday and since ferry prices might change over the weekends we could be here until Monday. If it wasn't for winter it wouldn't be a problem, but hey, we can freeze for friends. We had a really good time seeing most of the Orman (Sorry Topps and Middleditches its just easier to write one family name) and we got the opportunity to see children at almost every stage of development, the best form of birth control in the world. Its not that we don't love the kids but we also love being able to hand them back when they get icky!

Day after, which is yesterday, we did nothing. Hey give us a break!

Then today we returned to Paul and Tessa's where we were fed and fixed, at least the Brave Travellers bike was. We got to learn all the juicy gossip about Megan, Amy and Thomas and...well all the rest of the family.

From here we are going...we don't really know, we might be here when Brian and Sylvia return and we can argue about squatters rights. The plan is for France and soon, but we can't say anything for certain.
Until next time
Lots of Love from
BT and FV

P.S. No, no P.S. this time, sorry.

P.P.S. I really must apologize for my spelling and grammer by the way. I write to quickly to pay attention so it ends up atrocious. I balme Heather entirely.

P.P.P.S The title of this email comes from the muppet version of the Frog prince, watch it, its good.

Next Entry: Day 44. Marchwood
Previous Entry: Day 43. Blackfield

Day 43. Blackfield. Sept 18 2001

Slept late today. Very late.

Heather, who stayed up until early morning reading Harry Potter was up, before noon. But I finally pried myself from my sheets and got dressed. I’m afraid that I might be getting a bit of a cold, wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to be biking. Sneezing my way to France!

We finally got back on our bikes today and pedaled down to Paul and Tessa’s. Paul had promised to fix the broken strut on Heather’s bike and he had, using fiberglass tape and resin. Unfortunately Heather had forgotten her bolts, so we couldn’t see if it had worked.

Paul seemed very excited to be helping us out. We broke a tent peg yesterday and he ran around everywhere trying to find a replacement, we now have four. Paul was working a night shift, four days on four days off, for twelve hours at a time so he disappeared quickly with a promise that we would visit again another day!

Tessa was pretty eager to chat and learned a great deal of Orman family gossip. I sent out a mass letter to all our ardent fans at home. The more I write about what we have been doing the more I realize how sedentary we have been. I’m getting the urge to move on strongly now and I am itching to get going despite the fact that only cold weather and hard biking await us. But we won’t be leaving for a week or so. And then there is only a couple of days before Brian and Syvia get home so we might as well wait for them. At this rate we will never leave. At least Heather gave back Harry today so one less tie that binds.

We showed Tessa our pictures of the journey so far and was amazed to see how few we had and how little territory was had covered, especially considering what we are planning on doing. I had a little scare just now as I realized that this is the last page page in this journal. Where did forty three days go?

Anyway we stayed very late at Paul and Tessa’s sharing stories with Tessa and Megan and occasionally with Thomas. By the time we left it was very dark and windy and there was a fine mist blowing in. The weather is getting worse and still we don’t get going. My mind keeps going back to the same topic. I know that once we have left this place I will be longing for the surety a roof can give.

Next Entry: Sitting here, thinking quietly, looking at this pretty flower
Previous Entry: Day 42. Holbury