Holland to Sweden

[Tourist Tony]

This was a while in the planning, due to problems trying to sort out transport back to the UK. My original plan had been to ride from Hoek to Esbjerg, and get a ferry back from there. The Harwich-Hoek ferry was priced at around £65, including cabin, breakfast and train London-Harwich. A single crossing from Esbjerg without train or extras was £255.
Some research gave me a flight from Billund in central Denamark, for £41. Done.
I set off at midday on June 26th to beat train rush-hour restrictions on cyclists, and to leave room for any "no bikes on this train"--"read what my ticket says" arguments, and all went smoothly. I had the whole evening to kill in Harwich port, and the strengrhening wind, soon to be a familiar fixture, discouraged going out for an exploratory ride. I treated myself, if that is the word, to a full English at the truck stop, and then joined the queue, together qith a mass of bikers on their way to Assen for the Dutch TT. There was also a plump German in a pink shirt, driving a sporty Audi. When I was waved forward as the first to check in, he wheelspan in an attempt to pass me, stopping in a huff at the loader's signal. He shot past me a few minutes later, only to be selected for a security check.
He did eventually pass me, and after a quick look in the kiosk I rode down my assigned lane to find him walking down it. I called out, he turned, looked, and proceeded to act as if I wasn't there. Oaf.
Boarding sent all the bikes up a very odd walled concrete roller-coaster of a bridge over the rails, and in his anxiety to spend seven hours on a ship he ignored the marshals and was left stuck behind all the bikes, watching in mounting and obvious anger as the cars went on, over the level crossing...
My cabin was superbly comfortable, with a double bed, and I ate, drank and slept well. As I went off to bed, he was throwing money away at roulette. Moron.

The arrival at Hoek was in an even stronger wind, and I rolled off with a slight hangover and struggled to find the route out to the coast. I passed through Monster to the edge of Den Haag, where a park led me out to the coast proper. I had a McS*it in a Burger K*ng's faciliyies, a cold drink, and got directions to the dunes of the national park. The day was sunny, and once in the dunes the worst of the wind was kept off me. Chiffchaff were singing everywhere, and I saw a few sand lizards. Oddly, with the sparse shrubby vegetation and the dunes, together with the reptilia, I was reminded of riding on Rottnest Island in Australia.
The weather started to close in a bit, and I was not far from a campsite in Noordwijk, so I decided to call it a day. Getting to the campsite involved a ride off road, as the Netherlands is a bit keen on banning cycles from roads, the downside of having a network of cycle paths. I had to ride out into the woods in a loop, then back to cross the road to the site. I was a little short of euros, so after paying for my pitch it was a simple meal and an early night, the tent rocking and flexing in the wind-driven rain.

Up the next morning and off into a complex of duneland paths, some quite poorly-surfaced. I stopped at a cafe for late breakfast of ham and cheese rolls, and nearly came a cropper. First was the head down roady on the wrong side of the road, and the second was over six foot of very, very fit Dutch lady cyclist, who appeared to be made entirely of smooth, toned legs. I blamed my drooling on my food, and tried not to stare too much. Fortunately, she set off South, as I had visions of a cardiac arrest if she had been riding North, with me trying to keep up.
The paths improved a bit, and a nicely rolling ride ensued through dunes and stands of woodland, with the odd small town. I shared a coffee with a couple of Brisbane tourists, whose attire of windproofs and tights contrasted with my own s/s jersey and shorts, and after passing Zandvoort motor race track I was back into the dunes, this time full of Highland cattle, loose on the paths. The terrain flattened a bit, and I eventually arrived at Ijmuiden for the canal ferry. The logic here, and in Germany, is that river ferries are charged for, while those across canals are free. Some simple and clear directions and I was back in the greenery, which now was almost completely flat, with tide guages showing how wet you would be if there were no dykes.
I popped out onto a main road at Egmond, and as I rode up the road out of the village I spotted a hand-written camping sign. As I looked at a solid wall of anti-tank dragons' teeth, the owner's son came to talk to me. He was in his thirties physically, but mentally about ten, a sweet boy full of smiles. He led me through the traps to a superb mini-site, smooth soft turf cropped by tame mini-goats walked on a lead. I pitched, shot down to the supermarket, and had a Chinese meal across the road.

The next morning the weather was odd. Not quite sunny, but raw winds still blowing. I made my way along the dykes using pig-awful stock-gates, where the heavy gate lies at an angle to ensure it shuts. This also ensures bites from SPDs and other bits of the bike as it does so. I eventually emerged at what looked like the real Hollabd, at Camperduin, where a huge dyke leads off to Den Helder and vast areas of polder stretch as far as the eye can see. A bit of white-road navigation saw me pausing to chat with a 'bent rider at the Amstelmeer, and then on to Den Oever for a cheap hotel overnight before Big Moment One, the crossing of the Afsluitsdijk. I met (well, overtook at speed) a couple of Canadians, Bob and Marcia, now living in Hawaii, riding to Bremerhaven to pick up a campervan, and they turned up at the hotel for a meal. The next morning I set out over the dyke.
This is amazing; 32km long, with a number of rest areas/cafes en route and a dedicated cycle path. Because I took it easy and had some coffees, I kept passing the same people, including a German 'bent triker with the mudguard slogan "burn fat, not petrol". When I caught him the second time, he had stopped to talk to a couple coming the other way on a tandem 'bent trike, Steve and Andrea, who knew MSeries and Wobbly John, and were familiar with my, er, reputation. I also met Martin, who was on an immense ride Boutnemouth-Cherbourg-Sweden-Finland-St Petersburg-Baltics-Calais, and declared he was on his first trip and "not a real cycle tourist".  I rode with him towards Leeuwarden, and left him as I looked for a campsite.
This Michelin site was a bungalow park, but a passing Dutch rider told me of a better place, and then chased after me and insisted on leading me there. At one point, spurts of irrigation water were being blown across the path, and we failed miserably in timing our sprint to avoid them. Miserably? We were laughing like loons! A great little campsite, a good night's sleep and on towards the North coast again, into a wind turning more and more towards my face. A long grind finally brought me to a cafe overlooking a giant sluice near Lauwersoog, where a large commercial site surprised me with its quiet, secluded area for passing tent campers. I do love this country. I spent two nights there as my first rest day, and needed it.

[Elleigh]

Great report

[Tourist Tony]

I rode on into increasingly cooler and greyer weather, making good time across towards the coast at Delfzijl, opposite Emden, my first sight of Germany. I had a few encounters with Dutch road-bans on cycling, but the riding was generally pleasant and easy. On arrival at Delfzijl I found my way into Farmsum, as the rain began. I was now on the Dollard International Cycle Route, and my maps showed a bridge north of the official line at Nieuweschans, at a place called Nieuwstatenzijl
I was riding through a maze of refineries and chemical plants, with a lot of goods railways that crossed at angles, requiring all sorts of odd twists and turns to hit the greasy wet rails squarely. This eventually led to a behind-the-dyke path with a feature I had come to truly hate, the angled stock gate, hung on the slant for auto-closure, which usually meant an SPD bite and a struggle. Termunterzijl arrived, my stop for the night, and I pitched in a rising gale and increasing rain. The weather was producing that dim grey light that makes everything seem much further away and grimmer than it actually is, but in Farmsum the last would be difficult to achieve.
I had been warned about the shower block at Termunterzijl, but not about the reception, where a sour-faced puritanical couple dispensed a free CD of gospel readings, in various language formats, to each camper. I made sure I drank beer that night. It was the least I could do.
The wind was now Northerly and almost at full gale force, and I duly found the marked bridge (foot and cycle traffic only) after a long ride through immense polders. A solitary black cat, miles from nowhere, was curled up asleep by a field, and yellow wagtails were everywhere. I crossed into Germany with no ceremony, and reached the Ems river after a grind up yet another behind-the-dyke path. A ferry goes from Ditzum to Petkum, and it was entirely filled with cycles, panniers, trailers. Really heartwarming to see so many people out and doing the same as me, even if they were mostly riding a rather shorter route. Not that I was being snooty, but I had by now clicked into the long-distance mindset that accepts a day's ride as being a normal thing, and which always leads to adjustment problems at the end of a tour.
I had decided to avoid the worst of the wind by following the Ems -Jade canal to Wilhelmshaven and then crossing the Jadebuse at its neck on a little ferry to avoid a long and boring loop around yet more polders. The problem was getting to the canal. The cycle route led over a humpbacked bridge and promptly disappeared into a rectangular grid pattern of farm roads, sliced through by a couple of high-speed roads. At one point, the signs disappeared, and I ended up on a sand-filled and impassable lane.
Eventually, I found my way to Riepe, and after a Spar break (bread, ham, fat coke,bar of Milka) I came to a jink in the road, a bridge, and the towpath. This was my introduction to a perennial German irritation, the parallel wheel tracks of concrete blocks that make riding an effort in concentration in order to avoid falling into the canal or off onto the grass. It was still pleasant riding, and as woodland closed in I was finally free of the wind. The canal led me to Aurich, and a spot in a Youth Hostel, which under German YH rules does not allow guests cooking facilities. Next door to the pub, HUGE and cheap meal, and two pints of draught (eh???) Newcastle Brown.
Aurich is a canal port, and from that centre I set off the next day for Wilhelmshaven, still along the canal, and met We**er. He had been a POW in Yorkshire, and his English had a delightful Tyke accent. We had a really nice natter, until...."You know, I'm not a Nazi, but the biggest warmonger back then was Churchill. If he had just left us alone we would have had no problems." I smiled, nodded, closed the conversation, and left, shocked.
Arriving in Wilhelmshaven, I found the harbour festival in full swing. The towpath and cycle route were covered in food stalls and drunken peds, and when I finally found my way to the ferry terminal, it had been cancelled because of the event. There were no hotel rooms to be had, no campsites, and I did not fancy fighting the crowds to get out. Finally, there were eight cyclists in total muttering darkly at the jetty, the staff having locked the office and left. Another boat arrived, a purely foot-passenger beast with a narrow gangway. The skipper said he was going to Dangast, partway round the bay, but not very far. At least it would be out of the city. We were given a group rate, and with removal of panniers and willing assistance from the crew, we were all on.
I was wearing a Foska Wales shirt, and the skipper rooted through his flag locker to find the appropriate courtesy flag, even turning the boat slightly to get it to stand out from the mast. He keeps a scrap book of every time he flies a foreign flag, and after getting me to make an entry he issued a round of grog, or at least little souvenir bottles of some odd alcohol. Great bloke!
Off at Dangast, and straight to the camp site. The finals of the German beach handball league championships were just finishing, and an all-night disco was promised. Oh joy....

[Tourist Tony]

All in all not a bad night, although I must admit I wasn't as quiet as usual when I left in the morning. It was a mixed ride that day, partly with a strong tailwind, but as I cut inland for the ferry across the Weser the clouds began to gather, and I ended up huddling in a closed shop's doorway as the rain hammered down in a complete cloudburst. It gradually abated, and I made my way through light Sunday traffic to Blexen and the ferry to Bremerhaven. I met a German cycle tourist on the boat, who pointed out the route signs for Cuxhaven, my next aiming point. The sign at the jetty was the last I would see anywhere in the city.
A long rambling nightmare of dead ends ensued, plans to follow the river being scuppered by the freeport and associated security.
Eventually, two elderly ladies gave me directions, but it was now late, I was tired, and I was 300 yards from the YH, where my new German friend had already found a bed. The next morning, their directions were spot on, and I sped off towards Cuxhaven, having one big problem, the quality of German cycle farcilities. Deep, loose sand is NOT a suitable surface, especially with the distraction of wandering bison next to the path.
I finally reached the coast again, or the Elbe's bank, near Cuxhaven, and for once the path hopped over to the other side of the dyke, giving wide views out over the ships and water. This also cut off the wind, and I was well aware of the rather dark clouds chasing me. As I had now turned across the wind, they were catching me up quickly.
At a marina I came inland again, and at a small hotel saw the sign "YH 8.1km", or so I thought. I went round a sharp bend and stopped to read the map.
There was a searing "flash-BANG!" of thunder, and the first drops started to fall. I looked up, and across at the rain, and at the YH. It had been "0.1km" after all. They had a bed; and the German tourist again. I ate a solid pasta and stew meal, courtesy of the hostel, as the rain hammered down outside. Timing is everything.
The next day was the run down to Wischafen and the Gluckstadt ferry across the Elbe, the last major river I had to cross. I ran down in front of an almost following wind, along cycle paths of reasonable tarmac and the odd bit of road riding, and found the predicted long queue of cars waiting for the ferry. It is always a great feeling, and generates a lot of smugness, to fly happily to the front of the queue past all the motorheads. The ferry loaded up, and we were off on a surprisingly long crossing. The Elbe has a very strong current downstream from Hamburg, and there is a long spit of land to get round, so the boat runs a dog-leg course. As we made our way to the other bank, the dome of one of the two local nuclear reactors was gleaming in the sun, but a solid black wall of cloud and rain was jeading towards us.
It struck as we landed, and I huddled in the lee of a little cafe to get into my cagoule. The routewas along the back of a dyke, and then on top, and then over a large sluice and bridge. The bridge operator waited till I was across before closing the cycle barriers and beginning the raise. He had already closed the road barriers, and as the bridge lifted begind me a car driver was screaming and waving a piece of paper. Didn't they know who he was?
The sign indicated that the cycle route went off in front of the dyke, but inspection showed a truly classic German piece of utter crap. It had been laid in their favourite heavily-cambered herring-bone pattern cobbles, which always seem to have many missing or heaved blocks and are extremely unpleasant to ride. This one was so overgrown that at first sight it looked like a set of tractor ruts. Games of soldiers....I took to the road.
Waves of rain and a strong headwind sapped my strength steadily, and I eventually called it a day in Sankt Margarethen. A hotel bore the German cycling federation's endorsement plaque, and I got a reasonably-priced room, with a view over the dyke to the Elbe and its ceaseless flow of ships. It was clean, comfortable and very welcome. The rain continued to hammer down in savage bursts, and I was dreading the ride onwards, North-West and directly into the gale.
As I left the next morning, two German cycle tourists came out of a guest house, looked at me, grinned and shook their heads. I rode past the atom centre, and when I saw a bull standing in a field bellowing in absolute distress from the wind, I changed my plans. The Kiel canal runs North-East and would take me to Rendsburg. I picked it up at Hochdonn, with the aim of getting to Denmark via Flensburg. The rain was still avalanching down, and the towpath for almost the entire journey was the split concrete type, requiring constant vigilance. With a Westerly gale, the more the canal swang East, the faster I went, using occasional free ferries as the towpath switched sides, until I came out under the transporter bridge of Rendsburg. A lot odf asking for the YH got me directions to the Tourist Info, and the news that it had closed two years previously. The nice girl (I KNOW you are English, Jennifer.....stop pretending to be German!) in the info booked me a cheap hotel not far away, the Schumann's, that I had ridden straight past, and I gad a lovely Italian meal. And some beer.
I went back to the Info/bookshop the next day, and realised they took plastic, an incredibly rare thing in Germany. MAPS!!! The old lady serving also had a friend, who rode a bike, and who gave me a detailed set of instructions for what proved to be a lovely rural ride to Schleswig, and the same onwards to Flensburg, once out of the cities. I was a bit worried that the map had a chevron on one road, then I read the key. It indicated a sharp hill, one up to 7% in steepness. Oh dear....how frighteningly steep. Schleswig proved to be a bit of a nightmare, and I had a difference of opinion (in a nice way) with a Dutch couple.
Yes, cycle route guides are nice. I'll stick to my map. That way I can change, adapt and, as it turned out, make better progress.
The exit from Schleswig was up an interminable hill, and it was hammering down, but the rain was easing off and the sun came through as I rode a lovely, rolling road a bit like Sussex without steep bits. There were odd bits of cobbles in the road, but I was enjoying it immensely, the only sounds being a whir from the motorway to my right and  various bird songs. I found the entry to Flensburg to be an interminable strip development, but eventually ran steep(ish)ly downhill to the town centre. A backpackers' hostel was full, but I simply grabbed a mid-price hotel and  slumped onto the bed. After a short doze, I wandered round the old town, and then spent the evening nattering in Norwegian to some other guests, from Bergen and Stavanger, and taking the mick out of the Danish language. I would be there in the morning...

[Tourist Tony]

I rode out past the harbour to a small park, just past the Flensburg Hell's A*gels clubhouse, and startled a red-breasted merganser and her flotilla of babies. Quite a surprisingly steep climb from the edge of the Baltic beach took me to the main road and Kruså, the Danish border. Money changed from Euros to DKr in the first building, a sort of Tourist Info complex, and then three of the next six buildings were sex shops. I was in Denmark.
I set off West along a white road I had spotted on the map, for a town called Tønder that everyone raved about. I was riding the full width of Denmark, but at its narrowest point, and the headwind was nasty. Luckily, the lane I found twisted and turned a lot, and the trees and hedges kept a lot of the most vicious gusts at bay. I got my best-ever view of a Montagu's harrier male, the dark wing bar showing clearly as it hunted.
Tønder finally arrived, and I took out a camping card at the site right on the town's edge, next door to the leisure centre. I decided that this was to be my second rest day after 9 days without a break, so booked two nights. A lot of showers, a bit of local sightseeing, and a superb swim, but all a bit spoilt by the food, which is dire in Denmark. Fast or cafe food is an awful mixture of burgers, schnitzels, chips, E-number sauces and stekt løg, a type of crispy, dried, fried onion sold in buckets in supermarkets and put on everything.
Moving on, I left one old, cobbled pretty town for another. I made it to the West coast proper and rode through a real mix of quiet lanes, gravel tracks, behind-the dyke roads and footpath-cycleways. The signposting was random, and often the onlt way to spot where the route went was to ride partway down a turning and look for the sign pointing back the way I had come. I found my way to the bridge to Rømø , after passing the German Wadden Sea islands including Sylt, and then it was a straight sprint to Ribe, Denmark's official "oldest town". Unfortunately, my idea of riding straight round to the campsite was spoilt by the track taking me through the town centre, cobbles and all. It was one of the few places in Denmark where barries were evident, and as the little hatchbacks wheezed round the streets their oversized exhausts bounced charmingly off the setts.
The campsite was superb, and the sun came out for me. They had a little swimming pool and I made the most of it. A proper kitchen and dining area, and my neighbours were a lovely Dutch couple, Janet and Ferry (sic). We shared some wine and had a very civilised evening. The next day, however, was back into the wind. I gradually wound my way across to Esbjerg as if I was winching myself uphill on a cable, and when an elderly woman appeared in front of me on her shopper I unashamedly drafted her rather than pass. Onto the road to Hjerting, and it was hurting when I got to the Big White Men, and I was revising my planned distance down drastically. At one point I thought I had bonked, as I could not make the bike move any faster despite dropping right down the gears. Then I realised I was going uphill.
I settled on a little town called Oksbøl and at that point realised I had no camping card. To my pleasant surprise, the manager rang the site at Ribe and got them to fax a colour copy across. Sorted! I was to need that in Sweden as well. The next morning I set off through Hovstrup for Ringkøbing Fjord and Hvide Sande. At Hoxstrup I ordered a coffee and the waitress said to me "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't speak Norwegian. Do you speak English?" Also around that area was a disused railway line, where they hired out pedal "trolleys, a sort of bike with an outrigger wheel that ran on the lines.
I finally came to the end of the Fjord, a huge lagoon separated from the sea by a line of dunes, I soon gave up on the cycle path, which was a thin layer of fine gravel spread over sand. Every rise and fall was a sandtrap. I got onto the road and started time-trialling it across the wind. There was no shelter, and the various holiday homes seemed to huddle down into the dunes to keep out of the blast. I rode through Hvide Sande and headed North for a marked camp site, at Nørre Lyngvig. As I got there the rain started, a fine spray that soaked quickly. The site had no shelter beyond some odd clumps of scrub, and I set the tent up as carefully as possible and dug out the waterproof cover to my sleeping bag. They had a glassed-in swimming pool.....
I decided I was not going to continue around the West coast. I had seen it, it was sandy and windy, and it hurt. I turned inland to the North of Ringkøbing and inland to Holstebro. This was more like it; winding lanes, quiet and pretty villages and old Jutish churches. The ride from Ulfborg was along the main road, and it was now much more undulating and pleasant to ride than the pancake horrors of earlier. The campsite in Holstebro, set on a lake, did me a deal for a hut, and I slept in a proper bed for the first time in days.
I wanted to see Viborg, and once more the way was on a main road and through rolling terrain. I fairly flew there with a following wind, and found a lovely city set on a long lake. The YH was on the far side, and accessed by a dirt track through botanical gardens and woodlands giving a fine view of the cathedral on its little hill. I even got directions from an elderly Dane AND UNDERSTOOD HIS ACCENT! Must do something about that.....Another restday called. The Tourist Info did free internet (and free coffee and water) and I spent part of the day fettling bikes for about six people.

[Tourist Tony]

I set off for the East Coast and Frederikshavn. Part of the rationale behind this trip was a visit to my late partner's family, only one of whom I had seen since 1994, and that was at the funeral. If I could grind out the miles I would have time to spend with Anna-Lisa and her family at their holiday home North of Göteborg, and I was averaging over 40 miles a day, not bad for me. The ride was once more through quiet roads once I was off the main road to Renders, and I bypassed Hobro as the drizzle ended. A field at that junction was full of the sound "wet-my-lips": quail in large numbers.
I dropped down into Mariager, on the Mariager fjord, and had yet another burger lunch next to a moored boat whose stern read "Agape-Mariager", a multi-lingual piece of wordplay that must have been intentional. I crossed the fjord at Hadsund, and found the combined campsite and YH run by a charming Swiss lady passionate about birds and language. She advised me of a cycle route North that only had a "short bit of dmall stones path" near the start.
The next morning, wind in the SW, I set off up the tarmac-covered old railway line, chatting with a Norwegian who was on his fourth or fifth circuit of the North Sea, and had North Sea Route-marked Ortlieb bags. The track was great; smooth, fast, greenery-shrouded.....then it turned into a piece of crap. A succession of completely useless surfaces followed, and as I carefully descended one sandy stretch, I saw the black wall of cloud tearing towards me. I found some trees by a farm, togged up, and waited out the worst of it.
I reached Kongshedlund, and possibly the worst piece of ground I saw all trip. A stretch of deep gravel the size of quails' eggs was followed by a roller-coaster stretch pf tractor ruts with sand drifts. All this was to the sound of drizzle and the whine of huge mosquitos. The tractor ruts finally ended at a wall of bushes, and only a glimpse of a cycle route sign deep within told me that I was supposed to push through on a faint track.
I paused at a nature reserve as the road got a little better, and had lunch (Dansk bøf sandwich, a sort of dull beefburger in thick gravy with pickled beetroot) at the reserve centre. As I left, I had superb views of a red kite. I finally hit the coast at Dikkedal, and headed North for a river ferry at Hals. I stopped to chat with a French touring family, and there was a shout of "Hello again!" It was my German triker friend from tha Afsluitsdijk, on his way back South.
The ferry was simple, and they obviously saw me coming and actually delayed their departure til I was aboard. I passed a Whale's jawbone gateway and settled down for the long flat leg to the port. Many more black storms came over, but they all passed to the North of me, leaving me riding on wet roads in bright sunshine. I was to do 62 miles that day, but the crap terrain at the start had told and I was feeling heavy in the legs.
Riding these roads is like riding fixed. You have to keep the pedals turning, there is no coasting, and you slip into a trance-like state where the miles drift slowly past. I rode past wide vistas of the sea and golden fields, tree-lined tunnels and small hamlets. I had set my eyes on Sæby, just before the port, where there was a YH marked. It was when I stopped in the town centre to check the route that fatigue fell on me like a stone. As soon as I was out of that zen state, I was shattered. I made it the mile and a half to the YH, where they found me a room, and simply collapsed. It had been like that all the way, where I would stop, pitch my tent, and fall asleep half in and half out, but this was a higher plane altogether. I decided to use the hostel terminal to book a ferry ticket the next morning, after checking times and prices in a leaflet from the warden. He actually delayed booking me in as there was a football tournament being catered for, and if I got upstairs sharpish I could get a meal. They gave me all I could eat, and I drank continuously where the wind had simply sucked every ounce of water out of me. Then, as I said, I just switched off on my bed.
It was a nice short run to Frederikshavn for the 1330 ferry, and I had a spin out to the Tourist Info's recommendation, Palm Beach. A few scraggy palms planted in front of a car park. Yeah, that'll draw the punters in.....I rolled onto the ferry, and three hours later we were cautiously threading the maze that is the entrance to Göteborg harbour. I made my way up to Stenungsund, and the bridges to Tjörn island. The night was drawing in, and though it was not yet dark it was getting late. The island is bloody hilly, and I arrived on Orust island to be confronted by a steep hill at Varekil. Sod it. Every Man's Right, an empty field, and at ten o'clock I lay down to sleep.
The next day, that hill turned out to be nothing at all. The alteration of perceptopns with fatigue...I had slept well on hay in a half-erected self-supporting tent, and I pushed on towards Ellös, which Anna-Lisa had advised me to aim for, and asked an elderly Swedish couple for directions. They were kindness itself, and insisted on letting me use their phone to call ahead, and with my map found out that A-L was using a car driver's idea of distance. I turned round and headed for a completely different part of the island, but was still able to appreciate the stunning beauty around me. I found the street, and a local boy's mother knew the people I saught, and took me to the odd little railed scramble to their hidden house, sitting on a tiny patch of perfect lawn on a ledge in a big granite dome. Björn was just seeing some family off and making the annexe available for me, and his first words were "Oh, you'll want a cold beer, then?"
I love these people like my own family, which they very nearly were. Three nights were spent there, the days a mix of swimming in a sea (24 degrees water teperature) full of fish and so clear, and reminiscing about Carolyn, so many memories coming back as we talked. I realised how much I missed her, a feeling I had kept buried for so long, and this was a catharsis for all three of us.

[Tourist Tony]

I set off for Goteborg on Friday after a morning swim, and decided to avoid the high bridges of Tjorn by riding across the island of Orust to the ferry at Svanesund, and the ride was a pleasure. I was caught by a Norwegian tourist, and we nattered away till Varekil, where he turned off for the bridges. I stopped at the garage/cafe, and before I went in was accosted by a young lad driving the typical Swedish country passionwagon, a very large old American car. He insisted on buying me a cold drink after finding out where I had ridden from, and a pleasant half hour was spent, and in no way wasted. I carried on for Svanesund on a mixture of quiet roads and village cycle paths, realising how much I would miss the gorgeous landscape. The rocky terrain fills the roads with sharp little changes in slope, and keeps the lungs and legs working, so different from the "fixie riding" over the water. When I got to the ferry it turned out to be the Good Ship Venus. Fnaar....
A free ride, again jumping the queue, past groups of enormous yellow jellyfish, to Kolhattan, and then a simple ride to Stenungsund, mostly on a decent track. I rode past the town and had to puzzle my way through some odd tunnels to the campsite, ready for a run down to Goteborg the next day. My Norwegian friend had already pitched up, and as I pulled into the campsite again after a pizza in town there was a hoot and a wave, and my friend from Varekil shot past.
It was a scorcher the next day, and the wind was from the South, and it was a painful ride back to town. My motivation seemed to have dried up after the break, and I was hot and tired on arrival in the big city. I then discovered there was absolutely nowhere to stay--Iron Maiden were playing a stadium gig. The place was full of elderly men in poor haircuts, some of them not me, wearing Iron Maiden shirts. The Tourist Info found me a campsite well away from the city, and booked me a room for the Sunday night in a city centre hotel. I ended up camping at Aspedalen, another idyllic site on a lake. More swimming, but this time in fresh water.
I had a meal and ended up talking with Ronny and his wife, a Swedish lady with a broad Welsh accent. They bred horses and showed them in Wales. She went off to see to their kids, and Ronny and I settled in for a session in the local bar. I was approached by a girl who looked no more than 17, but claimed to be a 28 year old English teacher. I don't know what she was after, but when I made my excuses and left she was already starting on Ronny. Odd.
Back into town the next morning, and once everything was in the hotel I asked where would be a good place for a swim. "Saltholmen; take tram number 11 to the end of the line, and maybe a boat to an island"
The tram was packed solid, and it was impossible to reach the ticket machine. On arrival,I got off and asked at the boat ticket desk for somewhere nice to swim. "Take boat 3, just going now, get your ticket on board" Once more impossible...and I ended up on Aspero. As I walked off the ferry a pretty blonde asked me what I was doing in lycra, and when I explained I was invited to walk with her, husband and son to a good swimming spot. It was a raised wooden decking laid around smooth rocks, and absolutely beautiful. I was asked to sit with them, and Ulla-Carin and her Finnish husband Alpo insisted I share their picnic, including beer. Sometimes I am so lucky in the people I meet.
I spent most of the day in utter hedonism, swimming, chatting, watching gorgeous women in very small bikinis, and recovering from the stress of the last couple of days. Once more, the ferry and tram were impossible to get tickets for, so my whole trip was free. A meal in town, and a surprisingly poor night's sleep.
After some shopping I made a bee line for the ferry, arriving with just ten minutes to spare, and as I boarded there was a violent crack of thunder. The Swedish weather was breaking just as I left. An uneventful crossing to Frederikshavn left me with time enough to book my ticket to Vejle for the next day, the closest station to Billund. Oddly, the ticket office in the station is also the local equivalent of WH Smith's. I booked into the YH and found myself in a dorm with a "soft-fat" man and a Norwegian blonde of a certain age. I grabbed a typically poor Danish meal, a couple of beers and had an early night, in a bed next to the open outside door for some coolth.
The fat man came back, turned on all the lights, and read for a while. He then went away for an hour, then came back and turned them all on again to get his night things from his case, left the lights on while he went to get changed, and only turned them off as he got into bed. Then the Norwegian came back, after an evening with some other Nogs she had met in town. She stank of cigarettes and booze, and came over to kneel next to my bed. She congratulated me on choosing a cool spot, and suggested I take my mattress outside onto the lawn. She might join me, she said, and soon made it abundantly clear that she was available, and had already been available that evening to the other Noprwegians. No, thank you very much! She avoided all eye contact the next day.
I had a swim the next morning at "Palm Beach" and then onto the train. Fast, clean, simple, punctual....at Vejle I got more directions from a couple of Danes, and when the route evaporated again, yet another pretty blonde offered help. Dorit was a nurse, mother of three, and on her way home after a long shift. Sge led me on a devious shortcut which took in a narrow track across grass and two foot bridges, and then became another tarmac-covered old rail line. And yet again, someone thought I was Norwegian.
The trail signs showed it to be a route running roughly WSW to Bindeballe, and I wanted West, but it looked like a nice ride, and I had all day. My 1000 miles had just come up, and I was feeling much better than on Saturday. The ride was a lovely meander along "trout streams" and through woods, and all was pleasant until...I really should have known. It changed into yet another soft-sand nightmare, until ending at the village of Frederikshab, with its village grocer museum.
This finally took me by way of gently rolling roads to Hancock's store, where I had a cold drink and then set out on the straight, flat fast road to Billund. The wind here helped, and I settled in to big-ring riding on the drops. I was following the signs to the YH, and as I rode past giant Lego bricks (this WAS Legoland after all) I could see the turn ahead. I went into the campsite to ask the way, and was directed to the building opposite.
There is no YH. It is now Legoland Village. I made a couple of suggestions about the road signs and went to the camp site, who had plenty of room for a tent in a stand of trees. I found myself a spot next to a large tent that held a divorced dad and his three sons, on a Legoland break, and as I looked a little out of sorts, John, a Brabanter from the South of the Netherlands ("NOT Holland!!") offered me a beer, and then another. I manfully declined the second, and went off to see about a meal in the cafe, which did an eat-till-you-puke of decent food for £14. On the way, I saw the shop was open, and having spotted a bottle of rose in John's cool box I bought another, as I had a presentiment which proved to be spot on.
He was obviously glad of adult company, and we proceeded to get absolutely hammered on beer and wine. It was a thoroughly good evening, and a great way of finishing the trip. I can't remember much of our conversation, but it was full of laughter and smiles. Once again, so lucky in the people I met.
The next day my flight was not until 1950, which was a damned good thing as my hangover was nuclear. I rode around Billund, but thoughts of entering Legoland for the day disappeared when the "English" version of their announcements proved to be in an awful American accent. I don't seem to recall the long association between the Danes and the USA. I had lunch, cleared my site and set out for the airport, which was along a cycle path by the road and then a separate road into the airport. As I passed the theme park, a car driver discovered the effects of inertia on an unsecured load. As he sped away from the lights, the very large scaffolding tower on his trailer remained in its existing state of rest, all over the road. It was very, very loud.
The check in was simplicity, the bike in a CTC clear bag, the flight was smooth and half full, even the security staff wore smiles, so different from the staff at Gatwick. There was a lot of amusement over my cleats, put through the X-Ray to avoid any rub-down silliness. Arrival at Gatwick allowed me to watch my bike unloaded, and it was actually carried rather than thrown. Phew. I spent a while fettling and pumping in the baggage hall, and then rode home.
Everything felt unreal. No more moving on. At least not till my next one.