The second day at Bankito Festival was scorching hot.  The decking overlooking the lake was bare aside from Adi, me, and the few floor-cushions outspread in the sun. We plucked up the courage to dance to the faint reggae coming from the soundsystem. When the DJ saw us he turned it up.

A few minutes later we noticed Fruzsi running over. She was driving past and had recognised us immediately. We hugged, happy and surprised to see her even though a couple of days before, we had made a vague arrangement to meet here. She looked at my shoulder and I assured her my wound was healing nicely. Her sister Krisztina arrived shortly afterwards with her boyfriend Zsolt and the dogs.

The couple pitched their tent opposite Fruzsi’s van, and tarpaulin was stretched from one abode to the other, serving as a makeshift roof. We sat underneath it on blankets and drank beer as the dogs ran around, occasionally offering us a dripping tennis ball.

The following day we noticed a stage we hadn’t seen before, right at the end of the field. There were big bean bags on the floor and a group of young guys MCing over dubstep to an audience of three.

Krizstina and her boyfriend had gone to some workshops, so it was just Adi, Fruszi, me and the vodka we had sneaked in earlier. Fruszi and I took it in turns to practice tricks with the hula hoop. We passed it to a young girl who wanted to join in and clapped and cheered every time she kept it spinning around her waist. Then Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee” played and we all sang along. After a while the girl’s parents came and started dancing with us.

Still on a high, we ran to the other tent where a gypsy band had just started playing.

We were the only ones dancing at first but by the end a crowd had gathered, swept up by the uplifting music.  A circle formed around two boys of about eleven and everyone clapped. This was the first time I’ve ever seen a gypsy kid dance. I forgot my own movement and watched as they kicked their feet with expert speed and rhythm, holding themselves perfectly upright while their legs worked like propellers. One of them then got up on stage and started singing. His father stood behind him nodding his head and beaming.

By the end my hair was wet with sweat and my limbs tingled. New songs, different tents and more vodka kept us going, but nothing was quite as fun as that gypsy band.

We spent the next few days moving between live bands and DJ sets, cooking breakfast outside Fruzsi’s van, swimming in the lake, enjoying cheap but nice food, and going to sleep just before sunrise.

On the morning of our last day we said goodbye to Krisztina, Zsolt and the patch of damp, downtrodden nettles where our tent used to be. Fruzsi gave us a lift to Vac where we parted ways. Fruzsi stayed in Hungary while Adi and I finally made our way towards Slovakia…

Today was a good day. We woke up in a nice hotel bed, had a free breakfast, and then headed off in the sunshine through Debrecen to our next location –Bankito Festival.

It was about a four hour journey, supposing we got on the right train this time. All we knew about the festival was that it was around a huge lake in a village called Bank at the bottom of the mountains. The organisers had a soft spot for cyclists, encouraging everyone to arrive on bikes to the festival. Fruzsi warned us it would be much smaller and a lot more commercial than English festivals. But we were happy to be near a lake with any kind of live music and it would take a lot to disappoint us.

Adi carried both backpacks. I couldn’t put any weight on my right shoulder as the cuts still felt fresh and stung with any contact, and we said goodbye to the lovely little town.

We got our train to Vac and then hoped the journey to Bank would be easy to figure out without speaking the language. I was left on the curb, surrounded by all of our stuff while Adi went off to get suncream and other necessities for the weekend.

Just as he’d walked off a girl approached and barked some Hungarian at me. I looked at her blankly, and then down to the sign she was holding. It was colourful and had bikes on it and the words “Bankito feszt”.

I said “yes” and she told me in English that the coach was here, pointing around the corner, and that it would be there for one hour.

When Adi came back, we got on the coach with lots of other young people. I thought they looked at us strangely. Maybe they thought that with our two full backpacks, trolley, shoulder bags and food shopping, we had slightly over prepared for a three day festival, obviously unaware that we were travelling for a month.

We drove through green countryside and stopped at a car park.  Cyclists rode past on the path beside us and I missed my bike a little. You could just see the lake in the distance. We walked for ten minutes or so until we reached the campsite. There were two big marquees and a little path leading up a slope where all the tents were, dotted in between wooden shacks that were painted in wacky colours and patterns. We were pushed to find a flat area to squeeze our tent in even though not that many people had arrived.  Eventually we found a nettle-ridden spot under a tree conveniently located opposite the toilets.

I was surprised that they had proper hot showers and sinks at a festival. We were both overheated and sweaty and took advantage of the unusual luxury.

As nothing was scheduled to play until the following day, we explored our campsite. Music played in one of the marquees and food was being barbecued in the open. We bought beer and walked to the lake. There was a bar opposite an area of wooden decking with low tables, big cushions and a sound system that overlooked the water.

We desperately wanted to dance but then the weather turned. Our flimsy summer clothes clung to our skin under the sudden onslaught of heavy rain and thunder.

Our tent was wide open and we weren’t looking forward to what we’d find there. So we ran. It was dark and freezing and our gritty path was only briefly illuminated by flashes of lightning.

The front of our tent was filled with water, but luckily all of our things were at the back. We mopped it up with Peters’ yachting T-shirt he’d given us before we left his house yesterday, got inside and dried off.

Adi played reggae on his laptop, I cracked open the wine and we both got cosy. I was reluctant to move when the rain finally settled, but Adi is always up for a party so he went to see what was going on and arranged to text me if anything fun was happening over by the lake. After a few minutes I laid down, enjoying the warmth and shelter. Then the text arrived and it took a huge effort of will and a few generous glugs of wine to get me out of the tent.

It was quite a walk from the campsite. When I was nearly at the lake, nicely drunk and well in the mood, I got another text saying the music had been stopped by the police. When I arrived, Adi was standing at the bar chatting to some Hungarians. I was introduced to a guy called Bali who was really nice and urged us to drink straight Bacardi with him and later some nicer rum. The police were long gone and the main sound system shut off, but they still turned the music up behind the bar.

I’d just about reached my rum tolerance for the night, so we went to the campsite to see if anything was going on there. In the open marquee where they served food, a DJ was playing: first electro, then reggae, then electro swing and funk. It was fun to dance to.

At 3.30am, exhausted but happy, we made it back to our tent and fell asleep just before the light crept in.

Balaton Lake was meant to be beautiful but we were hungover and had slept in. I guess it was another one of those touristy things that just wasn’t going to get done. Adi and I wanted to catch a train to Budapest that day anyway. I had a shower and then we drank tea on the balcony in the sunshine. Peter said he had a present for us and came out with an armful of T-shirts from his yachting club. While I was considering palming mine off to my little sister who will wear any T-shirt she is given, Adi had already put his on, grateful to be wearing something clean. It suited him.

We said goodbye to Peter, and Fruzsi drove us to the train station. Fruzsi and her sister were going to see their Mum for a few days, so we arranged to meet them again at Bankito festival.

We waited on the platform. My bare back burned under the sun and my wound was still open and sore. The train was an hour late. When it finally pulled into the station, we got on thinking it was going to Budapest. After five hours it became clear it was not.

We looked at the map and found that we’d travelled an impressive distance past Budapest towards the border of Romania. A guy who spoke a little English advised us to get off at the end of the line in a big town called Debrecen. We got off and made our way to the centre. There were many big hotels around but we were met with confused frowns when we mentioned the word “hostel”.

Finally we met a man who spoke very good English. He used a hotel search engine on his iPhone – the name of which would have been really handy to remember – and found the cheapest one.

“I travel a lot too, so I know what it’s like,” he said, and escorted us all the way there.

He spoke with the receptionist and made sure we got the best deal. It cost 9600 Forints for a double room, which is about £25 for the both of us. We walked three floors to our attic room. It was lovely and more importantly, had a bath.

After unloading our backpacks and changing my dressing, we walked down town to get some food. A couple of young Hungarian guys came up to us, eager to help. Despite not speaking much English they insisted on walking us to a restaurant. They wore tight trousers and were going to a disco called cool. When we got to a Belgium beer café, where the food looked great and the prices even better, we shook their hands and said goodbye before they could suggest eating with us. We were tired and really didn’t feel like battling against any kind of language barrier. We said we might meet them at cool later, knowing that we wouldn’t.

We sat outside and ordered five meals between us. A guy was playing Spanish guitar in the street. He played an unusual version of it’s a nice day for a white wedding and wicked game. It made me want to learn the guitar. We ate until it hurt and boxed up the rest for the next days lunch. Back at the hotel we had baths and watched the only English speaking channel on TV – CNN. It wasn’t Budapest, but so far we were happy we had landed in Debrecen.

Today we dragged ourselves with heavy backpacks to the station where we took the two hour train to Komarno. Fruzsi was there waiting for us. It was raining, so we ducked into the back of her van quickly and made ourselves comfortable on the cushions with her dog Ina. We ate freshly picked cherries as the van trudged along the bumpy road. We picked up Fruzsi’s sister Krisztina and her dog Kinga. She spoke a little English, but mostly German with Adi. Our directions were taken from the internet and scrawled on a piece of paper. They got us so far until we were led down a dirt track where we scanned the trees for signs: little coloured ribbons that would lead us to the Rainbow. We searched at every small turning, getting out of the van every now and then to listen for the sound of distant music, but there was nothing.

Finally, we spotted a flash of red in the wind. The van moved down the muddy track begrudgingly. The terrain was hard and rocky in places and sludgy in others, plunging the wheels in big puddles of rainwater. It veered from left to right, sometimes throwing us out of our seats and hitting our heads on the roof. We tried to go uphill, only to slip backwards again, so we got out of the van to alleviate it of some weight. After more uphill struggle, it worked.

It was sunny as we walked over hills alongside the van. The dogs ran about excitedly towards the forest.  On the way, we were met with two men in full native Indian dress. Having never been to a Rainbow before, I assumed these were perhaps the more extreme of the hippies, going truly nomadic and abandoning all modern accessories. But as they talked Hungarian with Fruszi, I noticed they weren’t as authentic as I first thought. One of them wore a loincloth, while the other, a middle-aged, overweight man with red cheeks and black frizzy hair, wore a pinstriped shirt which barely covered his bottom and no trousers. He had braces over the top and had made two dismal looking plaits with the little hair he had on either side of his head. Fruszi told us that they were not part of the Rainbow, but were a group that met every year in this forest, to set up teepee’s, dress as native Indians and stage a war. It began at midnight tonight, and as with all wars, we were not sure how long it would last.

I imagined the man with the frizzy hair doing an office job back at home, taking one of his old work shirts and telling the wife and kids he’d be back in a week or so -he and his friends were going off to some forest again to dress up as Indians.

We walked with them for a while, until we saw a sign at the edge of the forest. Beyond the entrance were people sawing wood for a fire. As we walked in, one by one, they stood and repeated “Welcome home”, before giving us a hug and introducing themselves. Deeper into the forest, we saw the makeshift kitchen and were pointed in the direction of the freshwater spring and the “Shitpit”. People camped everywhere inside, but we decided to pitch up in the open field, just outside the entrance and near Fruzsi’s van.

By the time we finished, it was getting dark. The van had solar-powered lights and some candles, so we sat outside and had a few beers that we had bought earlier. We heard shouts of “Food circle” coming from inside the camp, but we were too tired and not really in the mood to go, so we stayed and had bread and olive oil. We went to bed not long after.

In the night I heard no battle cries, no twang of arrows piercing through the skin of our tent. Nothing seemed to stir on the field. It must have been a very quiet war.

 ***

On entering our first very Dutch looking village, we got directions to the nearest forest. After a short while of cycling in the rain, I heard a clunk followed by the word “shit”. Adi’s pedal had locked and then something important-sounding had snapped.  We laid the bike on the floor like a sick baby, the wheel still spinning feebly, and found that the derailleur had broken off and taken a couple of links from the chain with it. We allowed ourselves five minutes of unbridled despair before things got practical. Adi was the first to collect himself. He unravelled the greasy chain from the metal and put it in a front pannier pocket while I looked into the distance broodingly… half imagining myself to be a supporting character in some kind of 70’s bike-themed American medical drama, but mostly just being tired.

We escorted it to the forest, disappointed that after all our good fortune and very recent boast about not even getting a flat tyre; our fate should turn in the last country. The fact that this country happened to be Holland: the cyclist’s dreamland, did help to ease the wound a little.

The wooden gate leading to our small patch of land had what looked like written warnings on it. We both agreed that since we didn’t understand Dutch, and there were no obvious tent symbols spelling out our offense in obvious red crosses, as far as we were concerned we hadn’t committed one. Being foreign and the social impotence that goes with not understanding a language can sometimes be frustrating, but can often be an advantage.

We left the sick bike to fend for itself until tomorrow and put up the tent before the inside got too wet. Even though there were houses nearby, the lights of which shone through the trees, we were too tired to be picky. It was 3am and our social awareness slipped with each passing hour, giving way to immediate necessity. No longer were we concerned about such things as being too visible, or too close to civilisation. We took opportunities when they came and once inside our tent, quickly forgot about the outside world and all its norms.

We fell asleep to the wind and rain whipping against the tent

***

When there was little noise outside apart from the wind through the leaves, we got up and dressed. As we packed away our things, a family stood at the edge of the forest staring at us –which is the usual reaction and we are quite used to it. Eventually, gratified by the spectacle, they left and so did we.

The way to the nearest town was downhill, so unable to pedal, Adi was rolled down the road by his bike. We asked someone for the nearest bike shop and he happily directed us. It was refreshing to be in a country where the majority of its inhabitants had such a good command of the English language and proudly exercised it.  Whilst I’d love to be able to speak another language and admire it in other Europeans, I was grateful now to be able to communicate easily with anyone in my own language. I’ll leave learning Dutch for another adventure…

When we got to the shop, a friendly young man assessed the damage. We hoped that the Euros we had left would cover it as well as our expenditure over the next few days, as we didn’t know how much money was left in the account. The man seemed to understand our financial predicament and agreed to use the cheapest parts he had and try to salvage our poorly chain.

The bikes were muddy and messy and looked as if they’d been dragged across six different countries in all manner of weather conditions (which of course, they had), so we took them around the back entrance and left them there while we walked around ‘s-Heerenberg in search of breakfast.

A couple of croissants, a hot chocolate and a pint of beer later, we collected our babies.

The operation was successful, the bike had made a full recovery, but Adi’s wallet took an unfortunate blow. Still, we were thankful that we weren’t in the middle of the Alps when it happened, and that nothing too extreme went wrong.

With our bearings and route quickly established via a map they had in the shop, we got on our way.

For once we opted not to cycle by the river, but on the main roads through Arnhem, Utrecht, Rotterdam and finally to the Hook of Holland. This was because Holland is pretty bicycle friendly whichever route you take, with cycle lanes paralleling most roads. We would be near civilisation so we could easily get food when we needed it and find a public phone to call the bank, and it would probably be quicker.

At first it’s quite intimidating being in the middle of a huge expanse of criss- crossing concrete. Merciless cyclists speed across intersecting paths a millimetre away from your face, and you have to get out there and join them. Some lanes are so big, you don’t know if they are for pedestrians, cyclists, or lorries and you generally learn the hard way. Eventually we got the hang of it though, but it was very different from our nice meandering cycle path by the river.

At night, with the help of road signs and verbal directions, we got to Arnhem. We asked a very friendly, but clearly drunk man which road to take for the direction of Utrecht. He gave surprisingly lucid instructions which would also take us through lots of forests where we could camp. Adi then asked for the nearest coffee shop. It was a place called Omigo. Even though we didn’t know how much money we had, Adi was grinning from ear to ear when he walked out of there with two little plastic pouches of Holland’s finest produce, and I couldn’t possibly hold it against him.

We did indeed reach some forest and after sufficient cycling away from the main roads, we camped in a spot between a few towering trees that cleanly marked off our area. After dinner, we read for a bit whilst indulging in a taste of Adi’s purchases. The tent filled with swirls of grey and we slept soundly through the storm that our muted senses reluctantly registered from outside.

***

The next day, we never made it out of the tent.

The storm was fierce and bashed against the walls, keeping us firmly inside. We had just enough food and water to last the day and agreed loosely that we would go if it cleared up. When we inched our way outside to go to the toilet, we saw drenched leaves and fallen trees. As our tent was situated snuggly between four of them, we hoped that tonight we wouldn’t get another storm, or else we might be rudely awoken by a collapsing tree smashing our skulls in.

***

In the morning it was still raining, but we knew we had to leave. We put on all our waterproofs and begrudgingly left our forest.

I cycled in front and we went downhill towards the next town. Adi was unusually slow and every now and then I heard a thud behind me where his bike gently veered off the path and into the grass.

He was quite obviously stoned, and with each inevitable thud, I couldn’t stop laughing. Perhaps cycling through Holland wasn’t the cleverest plan.

We rolled leisurely on. We wanted to make it as near to Utrecht as possible tonight, so that in the morning we could get there in daylight (an ambitious goal in winter). We stopped about 10km earlier when we saw a big forest on our right. It had been raining on and off all day and after manoeuvring our bikes through a narrow path formed by a chunky wooden fence, we pushed them through thick mud until we found a place far enough and flat enough to camp. We had shared a bottle of wine earlier and were still feeling tipsy in that nice, bouncy way before exhaustion overtakes. I set up the tent while Adi unloaded the bikes.

We got inside, played some Manu Chao through the speakers and finished off the last of our wacky baccy, some snacks and the remainder of our wine.

***

Against every instinct, we got up the next morning and cycled to the city. We arrived in the afternoon as twilight slowly dawned.

I have never been to Utrecht before, but have always wanted to go. It is a student city, vibrant and busy and a lot like Amsterdam (which I’ve visited many times and loved). I knew that if I wasn’t on the bike, and it was a nice summer’s day, I would want to explore it more, but right now it was stressful trying to cut through swarms of people with these bulky apparatus.

We spotted a phone box underneath the train station and I almost got killed about three times crossing the road from oncoming cyclists. Masses of bikes were chaotically piled together on large pavements and crowds skirted around them like second-class citizens.

Adi got on the phone while I was harassed by students trying to get me to answer questionnaires.  He found out his bank balance but didn’t have the expected look of horror on his face. We had overestimated our prolific spending abilities and shockingly, there was enough money!

The next task was finding an internet café where we could book our ferry.  First though, Adi wanted to check out the train prices to the Hook of Holland. If it was cheap enough, we could even get the ferry this evening.

He came back with the schedule and prices. It was fairly cheap and we decided it was worth it. My Birthday was tomorrow and rather than waking up in some random part of Holland and cycling through rain and cold, we could be in warm dwellings with family and friends.

We dipped into a restaurant and used their WiFi, booked the last ferry and informed family that quite unexpectedly, we were returning tomorrow!

It was compulsory to book a cabin for the overnight ferry and we paid a bit extra for the “comfort” option. We didn’t know what this word would entail, but since we hadn’t experienced anything in the vicinity of comfort for some time, even paying for the word; the sheer idea of comfort was attractive enough to part us with a few extra coins.

After a couple of short train journeys, we got to the port early enough to check in in good time.

We queued with the cars and then excitedly handed over our passports to the lady at the desk. Everything in the minibar was ours, she told us, because we paid for it. We looked at each other with beaming faces, pleased with what “comfort” was promising so far. We dared not hope for a shower, but it secretly swam in the back of our minds with other possible delights.

Inside, we tied the bikes to some railings at the bottom deck before climbing up the many stairs to our cabin.

When we unlocked the little door and walked in, blasted my warmth, we exhaled the day’s events and immediately threw down all of our stuff.  It didn’t take long before the carefully prepared room resembled the chaotic innards of our tent.

Adi slumped on the big white bed whilst I opened the narrow door on my right to the shower –yes shower- room. There was also TV and internet.

There was tea on the side, biscuits, fruit and crisps. Inside the fridge were four baby cans of beer, two mini bottles of wine, some orange juice and mineral water. After we both had a luxurious shower and changed our clothes, we went down to the canteen to get something to eat. Choices were slim as they were packing up, so we had a chicken “curry” (the school canteen version). Then we went to the duty free shop and bought some more drink and chocolate. By the time we got back to the cabin, the walls were floating from side to side, the floor was rising and falling, and each step I took had a two-second delay while my brain readjusted to the constant tickling of my sense of balance.  My stomach wasn’t happy with any of this and I had to lie down.

My sole focus was to avoid being sick and consequently, I could not face drinking wine or partaking in any other “comfort” activity.

Eventually, I fell asleep breathing slowly through the unpleasant waves in my stomach and head. Adi meanwhile, helped himself to the minibar…

***

Only a few hours later we were awoken with the unnecessarily loud and cheery melody of Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t worry, be happy” blaring through the speakers in our room. That was the wakeup call and we had to be off the ferry in one hour.

It was six in the morning when we cycled out of the port. England was dark and chilly. It was really strange cycling on the left side of the road and I was sad I could no longer use my European wing mirror that I was now accustomed to.

Tired and eager to get home, we got ourselves to Harwich station and bought train tickets all the way to Brighton.

We got there at 10am and it was a bright sunny day. Walking down to the seafront, we came across a new Swiss restaurant appropriately named, Swisstorant and were happy to see familiar items on the menu such as raclette, fondue, Swiss Christmas cookies and Ovaltine!

On West Street we found a cheap and trusty establishment and got ourselves a bargain English breakfast. It was my Birthday and I was very happy to be eating high-cholesterol foods in my home town this sunny morning. I didn’t realise until now how much I had missed Brighton! After breakfast and a disgustingly decadent Ben’s cookie, we cycled to our friends’ place in Rottingdean. It felt amazing to be on the tiny little bike lane on Brighton’s seafront, having cycled it millions of times before, but now, everything seeming different. Our bikes were considerably grimier than when they had left, and we were considerably fitter (so we assumed). We were shocked when we saw a gigantic wheel (like the London eye but smaller) in the middle of the seafront; a huge addition to the city I was born and raised in. When we were away the time had gone so fast, but now suddenly it felt like we’d been gone for years.

After a birthday drink and dumping all of our belongings in our friends’ porch, we cycled to Portslade where I was greeted with Birthday cards and gifts, my lovely little sister and my Mums delicious roast lamb! It was great to see my family again.

When it was dark, we cycled back to Rottingdean along the undercliff pass, where stones were scattered from the recent storms and waves still crashed over the sides. We sat with friends on cushioned sofas in front of a fire, the wind whistling and rattling against the windows. We drank beer and reminisced at length about the trip: the time we slept in a golf course, all the times I fell off my bike, climbing up the mountains, the sun in France, the rain in Germany, and the ease with which we could now cycle up hills.

We laughed and told stories and it felt like I’d just arrived on holiday

…even though it was quite the opposite.

***

My cold had well and truly put its feet up and seemed pretty resolute in its assumption that neither it, nor I, was going anywhere. But it had just turned December and we were still in Switzerland. Adi and I were mindful of the approach of Christmas (which we needed to be back in England for) and time’s amazing ability to creep up on you when you think you’ve got plenty of it. So, we drugged me up with Pretuval C and left.

Adi’s mum filled our panniers with supplies of Züpfe, spätzli, homemade Christmas cookies, sausages, dried tomatoes (that she and her husband had dried themselves), two extra sleeping bags, an extra pair of gloves and lots of hand-knitted socks. We were so much bulkier and better equipped for the way back that we had to leave a few things behind, including our second pair of shoes. Since we only ever used our waterproof hiking shoes anyway, this wasn’t a great loss.

Adi’s Mum and her husband drove us to Basel with our bikes strapped to the trailer. When we arrived they smothered us in hugs and teary-eyed goodbyes before we cycled off in the rain. It had taken us quite a while to get everything together in the morning and give Adi’s mum her spare room back in a reasonable state, so by now it was already getting late.

We had bought some new (more expensive) head-torches in Bern, as our previous ones had given up and died. However much we told ourselves we would stop early so far in the trip, we would always end up cycling in the dark. So finally, we accepted the truth and became equipped for it. With the broad, white, confident beams of light emanating from our foreheads, we could see all of night-time’s usual surprises and dodge them speedily and expertly, so it was well worth the money. Night-cycling became very much a core activity in our trip.

We cycled over the border into Germany and looked for our cycle route which followed the river Rhein all the way to Rotterdam in Holland. Some of the route was just a dirt track, so when we found it, it was very muddy from the rain. We came to a sign for a diversion, but as usual, we decided to ignore it. Thanks to this, we fought through thick mud, over pebbles and sand. It felt like cycling on a beach and of course, no beach is complete without water. The path eventually led us to a river. The only way to the other side was through it, so Adi took the most logical approach and cycled over. I however, convinced that I would slip over a slimy rock or fall from the current of the water, decided to walk my bike through. I found the shallowest part where the rocks were still visible and slowly stepped over, happy that my waterproof shoes were doing their tricks. Just as I was coming to the end, my feet plunged into a deep pool up to my knees and my shoes, however water resistant the fabric may have been, could not protect themselves from the cold river gushing in from the top. I sat on some pebbles at the other side, poured out the water and wrung out my socks to Adi’s amusement. Having left my other shoes behind, I was stuck with these ones for the rest of the trip. The only thing to do was to put on some dry socks, tie carrier bags around my feet and press them into my squelching shoes, hoping that eventually, somehow, they would dry out.The cycle route was flat and right next to the river, with grass or forest usually on the other side. Tired and hungry, we took such a spot, made some tortellini with tomato sauce and some mountain cheese Adi’s mum had given us, and cosied up with our double sleeping bag set-up. We made Ovaltine, ate Christmas cookies and read before falling asleep.

The air wasn’t as cold as it had been, so in the night we were actually too warm at times. It was very windy and pouring with rain, so we both woke up due to the rain hitting the taught skin of our tent with such force that it sounded like drums.

Being outside would take some getting used to again, but at least we were warm.

10 miles

***

We didn’t get going until about midday today. It was raining when we left. When the sun came out, we played music on our speakers and enjoyed rolling along the path to the plodding rhythm of reggae. But very quickly, rain would timidly patter, warning us of the imminent downpour and we would have to throw on all our layers and put the speakers away. It would rain like crazy for five to ten minutes and then the sun would come out again, making us look suddenly well overdressed to anyone just coming outside. This happened throughout the day, peppering our cycling routine with comical interludes of sudden activity and broken reggae melodies.

At 8pm we camped in a field behind the path.

40 miles

***

We woke up late and almost immediately got into an argument. It was a stupid one concerning Adi not being able to find his hat, so we were both in a bad mood for the rest of the morning, and both too stubborn to either address it or snap out of it without it being addressed. And yes, for some reason, the hat was inside my sleeping bag… but I swear I had nothing to do with it!

I was ill, Germany was dreary and everything became grueling and stressful. We had also run out of toilet roll the day before, so I had to get creative and blow my nose on a vest top my sister had given me. When our path led us past a big wooden hut with a roof and benches, we were more than happy to call it a day. We made up, gave each other a big hug and resolved to have a chilled afternoon/evening and then start early in the morning.

We used all our weight to push the enormous, solid benches to the sides of the hut so we could put our mats between them; put the blanket over the top, followed by the four sleeping bags. We lit some candles and made a dinner of pasta, sun-dried tomatoes, courgette and cheese. I tried my first eggnog and German beer after a nice, calming dose of Pretuval C. The eggnog tasted confusing, but yummy.

We sipped Ovaltine and finished off the Christmas cookies whilst reading in the candlelight. It rained outside and we were glad to be protected by our very own wooden roof.

20 miles

***

Getting up was easier in the hut. Our things were spread out on the benches that formed walls around our “bed” and there was space to move around and stand up.  Adi heated up the leftovers from last night’s pasta and some tea, then we packed up and left. We needed water and toilet roll -getting out an ever moistening mass of material every time I wanted to blow my nose wasn’t quite as convenient or discreet whilst cycling as a tissue, so we looked for a nearby shop.

Instead of continuing on the path, we followed a sign on the left for a town in France. It turned out to be quite a cycle before we found an Aldi, and it took us most of the day to get out again.

There were mad roads with lots of traffic and we were eager to get back to the German side of the Rhein and to our easy, signposted route. Instead we went further and further into France, across ever-expanding roads. The rain poured down our faces, through our clothes and into our gloves. My shoes were still wet inside from my graceful river crossing the other day and despite the carrier bags over my feet, my socks remained damp from moisture that crept into tiny holes in the plastic. When we finally found shelter under a bridge to have lunch, I was pretty cold, wet, uncomfortable and hungry.I quickly put on some different layers and swapped things around a bit and we ate lunch standing up until the rain stopped.

Afterwards, I turned my soggy gloves inside out and strapped them to my bike to dry while there was no rain. It did the job, despite looking a bit sinister from a distance. It was getting dark but we made it into Strasbourg. It was a huge city with many roads sprouting in all directions, a cycle path for each one, and no clear signs as to where we should go. We went in the direction of a German town called Kehl. We kept following cycle routes that led us in circles, wrong directions or dead-ends. Trying to navigate ourselves in such a big city in the dark with no map was very tiring. At Kehl we cycled half- heartedly, until we found the sign for our cycle path.Relieved, we went to the nearby German supermarket Rewe (which I pronounce “roo” but Adi assures me that in German it’s pronounced “reveh”) and got ourselves some well-deserved treats.

We bought Chocolate, Christmas mulled wine, a bottle of Mead – or “honey wine” to have warm, and some energy drink with vodka in it, as well as some items for our dinner.

Our cycle path cut between two fields and no-one else was in sight. The air was warm and we were reassured to be on the right track again and away from the city. The Rhein soon appeared on our left and we were pushed along by a strong tail-wind.

After a couple of hours of cycling alongside each other and chatting between sips of vodka and energy drink, our path took us on a confusing detour. Tiredness began to catch up with us, so we looked for places to camp. My cold symptoms always come out more at night and my nose blocked and body ached. We camped at the back of a large field just off the road.

Adi, seeing how pathetic I had rapidly become, offered to make dinner. I collapsed into my sleeping bag with my head propped up and my nose stuffed with tissue. Adi made me a Pretuval C. As he prepared dinner, I drifted in and out of light sleep and my thoughts rested on our journey from Austria to Switzerland: the icy cold nights, knowing that we wouldn’t be able to sleep but feeling exhausted nevertheless. Lying in my sleeping bags now, sipping my warm drink, and waiting for our meal, I felt very lucky to be so warm and comfortable and to be looked after by Adi.

Not only a hero, but a magician: he pulled out a surprise bar of my favourite lindt chocolate –white with a delicious truffly mousse centre. Adi read for a little while, but I -satisfied on every possible level, fell straight to sleep.

50 miles

***

I had a great night of deep sleep and funky dreams, and woke up feeling refreshed to find the sun shining. Adi wasn’t awake yet, so I gave him lots of kisses before making him a cup of tea and heating up the breakfast. We cycled off in the sun and found our route easily again. The whole day was a fairly straightforward ride following the river. Seeing the water there always makes us feel secure because technically, all we have to do is follow it all the way to Holland, so we can’t go too far wrong if it’s shimmering in the background. When the path deviates for whatever reason, that’s when it gets tricky, going through towns or dealing with multiple roads. Signs are missed or we get confused and it can take a really long time to find our way again.

We had lunch at about 4.30 just as the sun was setting and the sky was sliced with fiery reds and pinks. On the other side was a full moon glowing through dark, moody clouds. After lunch we went to a village nearby to get water and dinner. We continued in the dark and after a while, warmed up some Mead to give us a bit of a kick and keep us from giving in to the ever-nagging temptation to set up camp already. We almost found ourselves another hut, quite isolated and overlooking the river where dots of colour were reflected from the town ahead. It seemed perfect, but on closer inspection, the floor was made of big rocks which would have been uncomfortable even under the mats, so we carried on. The terrain from then on was rocky, extremely gravelly, with large puddles and mud, and was quite a struggle to get through. It was a long time before we reached a large patch of grass with a tiny track ahead that had trees overlapping either side. It was clearly unsuitable for cycling. Somewhere, somehow, we had gone the wrong way. We had to backtrack over the unpredictable terrain all over again. Eventually we were too tired to continue, so we found some grass down a hill from the path and camped there.

In the early hours it started to rain and it didn’t stop.

40 miles

***

When we woke up, we decided to wait for the rain to stop before we left the tent. We made tea and breakfast and read for a few hours. The rain still poured. We had lunch and Ovaltine and read some more, the rain still kept falling. I finished my book, had a nap; it started to get dark and the rain carried on. We played with the idea of going anyway, but we were too cosy and it was getting too late… our bodies were in rest mode, and they were committed to it now. We decided to stay another night and try again tomorrow. Unfortunately, we had run out of water, so Adi quickly cycled to the next village to get provisions while I stayed in the tent. He returned with water, beer, chocolate, sausages, bread, yogurts and milk. We watched a trashy vampire movie with the remaining battery on Adi’s laptop.0 miles

***

We had lots of rain and cold over the next few days and were beginning to lose the will to cycle our minimum of 50 miles a day. It was a hard slog cycling into the night and going to bed completely exhausted. After a few more late nights and not so early mornings, with cold and rain, lacklustre, dragging days, draining us of energy and spirit, we entertained the idea of getting the train for the next leg of the trip. We resolved to cycle to the nearest city tomorrow and find out train prices. We had been in Germany for one week, cycling roughly 50 miles a day in order to get home in time for Christmas. However, looking at the map it seemed like we had barely cycled a third of its length. What was meant to be a leisurely trip back suddenly became a race against time.

The next morning we got to Oppenheim.  For 48 Euros we could get a cross-country ticket that took us via regional trains all the way to Duisburg (near the border).

We got some snacks and jumped on (as much as it is possible to jump with 60kg bikes).

Due to the heat, I was made suddenly aware of windburn on my face. My skin was flushed and incredibly dry – one of the symptoms that made going inside less comfortable than my fantasies previously anticipated.

Finally at about midnight, we got on our last train to Duisburg. As we heaved our bikes into the narrow space on the train where they were permitted, we were cheered on by a panel of drunken men facing us who asked many slurred questions about our trip and gave many eccentric insights into a range of worldly subjects.

They mostly talked German with Adi, but every now and then they’d talk in English to me. One of them: Andre, perhaps the most sober, told us which train to get if we wanted to get closer to the border. He came with us for part of the journey and we talked about how resilient our bikes had been throughout the trip –not even getting one flat tyre!

When we got outside, it was already about 1am, but we were excited at the prospect of getting to Holland that night. We crossed the border and cycled into our sixth and last country.

Our mileage was impressively boosted with the aid of 48 Euros and a speeding vehicle. Now, thankfully, home was not so far away…***

After a few days of rest, at about 6pm, with gloves, hats, scarves and double layers of clothes, we dragged ourselves out of the house and back into the cold. We were going to a Christmas market. I was promised mulled wine and hot soup –that sounded like a good enough reason to go anywhere. When we got to the village of Huttwil, we were met with twinkling lights, some mechanical organ music that played Abba hits -which seemed odd and comical and I wasn’t sure if it fit in with the heavily Christmassy theme of the whole market, and a gaudy looking carousel with slightly racist motifs of black people pushing sleighs. Adi’s nephew Yannick insisted on riding it of course, in a teacup with some older, burly looking children who spun it around on its own axis frantically. Yannick staggered off afterwards looking like someone who’d discovered the meaning of life, or was about to throw up. Abba tinkled on in the background…Adi and I parted ways with his parents and Yannick, arranging to meet in two hours before heading into the crowd. We bought pea soup with some kind of meat in it. It was thick, creamy and earthy like any good winter soup. Then, Adi got some mulled wine while I got hot apple punch. It was exactly how you’d imagine it to be, smooth, sweet, warm, washing delightfully over my still raw throat.There were many stalls decorated like individual grottos and selling all kinds of things: handmade jewellery, huge glass Christmas decorations, knitted things, candles, but mostly tempting Christmas foodstuffs.We watched a band playing traditional Swiss music, and later a group of young girls yodelling in harmony…We bought käseschnitte (some bread with lovely thick melty cheesy stuff)…We watched some metalworkers firing and bending their metal into horseshoes in an open fire……and then we had some hot chocolate with whiskey and cream on top.Everything was super expensive, but then, it’s Switzerland and it’s Christmas: two reasons working together to lure money from tourists’ pockets.

We passed a stall with handmade woodcarvings, dolls houses and elaborate wooden contraptions that spun while characters moved from only the power of a little wind or a burning candle underneath.Nearby, a huge nativity scene had been crafted with wood by the same man using a chainsaw.We finished off the evening by returning to the beginning, where we listened more attentively to the two mechanical organ players. Their faces were deep in concentration as they each diligently wound a little metal handle around a huge Victorian looking box, perfectly in time with each other. The machine jingled the songs in such melancholy minor chords, that it was hard not to feel a little sentimental listening to their rendition of “Dancing queen” in new, empathic tones. The crisp ting of each note reminded me of childhood wind-up ballerina jewellery boxes.  I felt a mixture of things. The music twinkled, the air smelt of dough and sugar and orange, I was wrapped up warm with the night air still fresh on my face. And I realised I was wrong. Somehow, perhaps aided by my festively tipsy state, the music of Abba actually managed to fit perfectly into the market’s Christmas theme.You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen…Dancing queen, feel the beat on the tambarine, oh yeeeaaah. You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life… see that girl, watch that scene… diggin’ the dancing queen…

I woke with a headache and a sore throat, which got progressively worse during the day. I was getting ill again. We’d been away for a week. Amongst other things, we’d slept through freezing conditions, cycled up three mountains and been attacked by a horde of goats. It was a spectacular, eventful, cold, hard, beautiful week and I was looking forward to a few days rest at Adi’s parents’ house.Last night we cycled down a never-ending drop, and it wasn’t finished yet. Between my thumb and forefinger was a lingering, dull ache from relentlessly gripping my breaks. Today, as we continued cycling downhill towards the village of Meiringen I pulled on them sparingly, allowing myself to speed down the hills, afforded by the luxury of daylight.

There was one small climb and the rest was more or less flat. We bought some shopping in Brienz so that we wouldn’t be caught out again by lack of food. Then we cycled to the large town of Interlaken. I liked it there, even though it was touristy, or perhaps because it was touristy. I missed the convenience of having everything available in one place, even though it had none of the charm of the countryside and was full of designer boutiques and shops catered mainly for the super-rich.

We found ourselves a McDonalds and made use of their free WiFi and plugs to charge up our things. We bought cups of tea and endured the sickly warmth and artificial light as a kind of payment. By the time we came out of there, we were both feeling really quite ill. Maybe because it was such a contrast from being outside, or maybe because we were just getting ill, either way, McDonalds seemed to be a weird catalyst for all our dormant ailments.

When we came out, it was dark. There was a pharmacy next door, so we looked for some magic formula that would get us through the next couple of days. Adi had also chipped one of his teeth a few days ago and was beginning to get recurring toothache.

We bought some dissolvable tablets that Adi used to take whenever he was feeling really bad and still needed to go to work. They are called Pretuval C. He remembered how effective they were for most problems, so we knew they would be up to the job.

We hoped to find a place to camp soon, as we were both tired, hungry and feeling ill. However, it took us a lifetime to get out of the city. We cycled on and on in the direction of Bern, but there was never anywhere appropriate to camp. Everything we saw was either too exposed, too close to a village, or fenced- off farmland. We’d gone past several stages of hunger and fatigue as the time rolled on and were still cycling at 1am. Finally, we pushed our bikes to the top of a hill and camped on some flat grass near a farm.

We made some pasta with tomato sauce and our lovely acquired cheese, and even though the pasta was overcooked and a bit sloppy, I was so hungry that it hit the spot anyway. Afterwards, we drank hot Pretuval C which was sweet, lemony, and incredibly soothing on my throat. Within minutes, we fell straight to sleep.

***

When we woke again, the sun was shining through the tent and a few drops of condensation were falling on my sleeping bag from above. I hadn’t woken during the night, and though I was a little cold (mainly my feet), I had slept well. I didn’t have my usual aches upon waking and I felt surprisingly good. I nudged Adi, whose face was poking out of a tiny hole where the sleeping bag was snuggly cinched around his head. He said he felt the same. The medicine had done its magic! We got up, reheated the last bits of pasta that were in the pan, with lots more cheese, and then made some more hot Pretuval C to get us through the day. Thanks to our impromptu night expedition last night, we were now only a day’s cycle away from Adi’s mum’s house. We wanted to get there before dark, as all of our lights had run out of battery, so we’d need to get going fast.

We packed up and headed off into the sunshine with a new determination. We were both in a great mood. Our route was nice, with a few climbs, but otherwise lots of flat and downhill sections.

The prospect of a hot bath, being indoors in the warm and sleeping in a bed also spurred us on. We fantasised about wearing clean clothes, eating a hot dinner, sitting with a cup of Ovaltine and watching episodes of The Walking Dead (a brilliant American zombie series that we had been downloading and watching throughout our trip). This image kept me cycling through the kilometres, and also, I believe, kept my cold temporarily at bay.

On the way, we saw a truck from the same company where Adi’s Dad works. Adi was just about to tell me this when he realised it was actually his Dad inside the truck. We stopped and had a little chat with him. He was happy to see us and very impressed that we had cycled the three mountains. He often drives up those mountains himself, so knows the magnitude of our challenge. He also, we found out later, remarked to Adi’s Mum that if we saw the roads we had cycled down (the Grimselpass) in daylight, we would’ve been a lot more nervous about it, as some of it is really quite dodgy.

With the ice and steep areas without railings, even at night we were pretty aware of the danger. The darkness only made us feel more vulnerable.

After a couple of uphill climbs (which we tackled with a new ease after our mountains), we passed a stall with a guy selling hot, grilled chicken. It was too good to resist, so with our last Swiss francs we got a whole one to eat with the bread we had bought earlier. We sat on some benches outside a train station and ate the best lunch we’d had in a long time.

By 2pm we got on the bikes again with half a chicken in our bellies and the knowledge that we were only a few hours away from warmth and comfort. We cycled mostly downhill all the way to Burgdorf, the place where Adi was born.

Slowly, it began to get darker and colder, and we rode the rest of the way through a blanket of fog. By 6pm we were riding through high traffic on big main roads. We’d bought some batteries so our lights could shine sufficiently brighter, but it didn’t stop some maniacal buses driving well into the bicycle lane, within a hair’s breadth of us and our trembling bikes. Unfortunately, these vehicles are usually long gone before we’ve recovered enough to shout abuse.

We finally reached Arwangen at 7pm. In the local shop we eagerly bought some Ovaltine, milk and a bottle of mulled wine before being greeted by Adi’s parents and their under-floor heating.

Inside their house, we ate a hot meal and had a bath. Once in a warm, safe environment, my illness decided to enthusiastically declare itself, and I suddenly felt overwhelmed by heat, rest and eucalyptus infused bath oil. Adi and I made some more Pretuval C and soon after, I collapsed onto the bed and fell fast asleep. After the week we just had, I think I deserved it.