The English Channel to La Jonchere, France: PICNIC TABLES ARE BACK!!!

The English Channel to La Jonchere, France: PICNIC TABLES ARE BACK!!! Administrative things: Internet is rare here. Really, really rare. Blog posts will be infrequent and the map might not get updated for a long time (I still haven't posted stories from England, Wales, or Ireland). Without getting a hotel room for two nights, there's nothing I can do. Sorry!

This post will be a combination of musings, themes, and semi-chronological happenings. Given what's occured, it makes more sense to me to draw out themes in what's happened than to recount it in exact chronological order.

Let's begin.


Arrival

I arrived in France rather weary after not getting much sleep on the ferry. You can pay about $120 for a cabin with a bed, or $11 for an airplane-style seat in a room shared with about 30 other seats which may or may not be occupied. My room had less than 10 other people in it. Many came prepared with blankets and pillows to sleep on the floor; I, unknowingly, left my sleeping gear attached to my bike seven floors down, where passengers are not allowed between embarking and disembarking. So needless to say, I didn't get much sleep.

Although, I did get to see Guardians of the Galaxy 2, I did pretty good on the food front if I may say so myself, and the sunset was fantastic.

The morning of arrival I spent some time in the lobby of the ferry checking my e-mail and trying not to freak out at the fact that everyone was speaking french and all I could understand was the occasional "Ah, oui." A group traveling together slowly settled around me until I was surrounded by them. They seemed very lighthearted and welcoming and I'm sure I could have practiced my french with them no problem, but in my tired, self-conscious and anxious state (oh my god I'm almost in France and what if nobody ever understands me again) I managed only to mumble a rather simple sentence about needing to eat breakfast and rushed off a little embarassed. Behind me the polite gentleman exclaimed, "Bon appetit!"

Yes, that's something they say here. It's not just the stuff of cartoon characters kissing their fingers.

So anyways, after breakfast, toiletries, etc, I biked off the ferry and replied "Bonjour" to the border guard. He took my passport, said "one moment" in a ferry (erm, very) french accent, stamped it, then handed it back to me with a "Merci," and... I was in France. No interrogation about what was I doing there or who I was staying with, or needing to say anything, really (I think if you come off a ferry from Ireland they assume the Irish did the appropriate interrogation, but then, the Irish assumed that when I came in from Wales...).

I managed to make it the first hour without embarassing myself, I mean talking to anyone, just going along the coast, hunting for a park for some lunch and uke practice. A bit more relaxed, then, I took off south, towards my Warmshowers host for the night.

Just out of town, another cyclist came up behind me very enthusiastically asking me about my tour. And thus will open the theme of...


I might actually be able to speak French to people and have them understand me

This cyclist was named Marcel, and he had been out riding with a group, but decided to take a detour for some reason I couldn't glean. He spoke very fast and he said a lot of words I didn't understand, but he was also very enthusiastic and kind. I managed to tell him where I was from, how long I'd been on tour, and where I was going. Without me saying anything about money (usually people ask how long I have to do it, and my reply is along the lines of, "I quit my job, so until I run out of money"), he asked if I needed a job, and I said of course I'd be interested. He, apparently, is retired, but just for fun works on vineyards on occasion, so I gave him my e-mail and he promised to set me up with one of the vineyards he's worked for in the past.

Um... what?

Yea, looks like if I'm in the right place at the right time this fall, I might get to work on a vineyard for a few weeks.

Anyways...

I've been in France a week now and I can understand about 80% of what people are saying. I had a phone call yesterday entirely in French with one of the vineyard owners, and with some patience on her part I was able to completely understand the terms of employment, that I need to send her a photocopy of my visa, etc. Every now and then she'd ask if I understood something, and my response was usually "pour le pluspart" (for the most part). I can ask people for directions, where there's internet in town (nowhere), what a croque-madame is (a croque-monsieur, as everybody knows, is a ham and cheese sandwich), and where they are from.

I'm usually asked the regular questions about my tour (where did I start, how long have I been gone, where am I going, how long do I have), which I can answer. People also ask where I'm from, which I had trouble with at first – it's a simple question, but it's a phrase where the words mush together quite a bit. Having heard it about a hundred times now, I can usually recognize it. The two most common questions, I think, are whether I'm married and where I'm from.

I'll flatter myself that people might be asking where I'm from because of my accent. I've been told by a native French speaker who I trust that I have a minimal accent (I dabbled in acting in high school, including voice acting, and that was when I was learning French). Most people ask if I'm English, I think because more English than Americans come to France, or maybe by English they mean I have an accent of the English language, not of the people of England.

One time I was in a touristy place, waiting in line to ask a question. In front of me was an American couple who didn't speak any French, and they were struggling to communicate with the clerk (who spoke a bit of English). I came up and asked, in what I'll flatter myself was a good accent with advanced words like "faucet," where I could fill my water bottle. After answering my question the clerk also wanted to know where I was from – so maybe she was curious where this French-speaking but not-French tourist was from? I don't know.

It's funny trying to understand people – it's almost like I have a second "French" brain that does the language processing. I hear a sentence and think about it for a few seconds, and then the meaning comes back to me. Sometimes after a minute or so I'll be able to parse out what was said into the individual words. Sometimes I can just guess from the context and a word or two: once in a bakery I had ordered a croque-monsieur and was asked a question about it. I picked out only one word that sounded like "chauffer" which I'm guessing has the same root as the word "chaud" – hot – and replied "yes, please;" they heated the croque-monsieur in the microwave before giving it to me. Sometimes I know the word and it's merely pronounciation: in a bit I'll tell a story about the number 13; once, I was offered mayonnaise, pronounced the same but with an accent. When showed the bottle I was like... oh. Duh. Mayonnaise (no thanks!).

Of course, sometimes people use words I just haven't heard before. Sadly, this often means the conversation falls flat. One time someone asked me, "Avez-vous deux mots?" "Mots" is the word for "word," but there's no way he was asking me if I had two words, so it must mean something else, as well. I just couldn't think of what it was, so I told him I'm sorry, I'm learning French and don't know that word, and he said okay, good day, and that was that. Sad face.

I didn't take this to be rudeness – I'm in France, I should be able to speak French! Most of the time when I apologize for my French, the response is that actually, my French is very good. Once I was sending postcards and the price was 13 euros – for the life of me though, I couldn't remember what "trieze" was (the postlady was saying it with an unfamiliar accent). I asked and she said it was ten and three, and then I felt stupid, because of course I can count to 13 in French. She then realized she'd made a mistake, and gave me back about 6 euros, and I tried to say, "Thanks. Do you need anything else from me?" but it didn't come across. I said it a few ways ("Is that all?" -- though this might have come across as, "Only 6 euros? Don't I get more?"), before finally trying in English, and the reply was, "Nope, I don't speak English." So I just said, "Nevermind. Thank you!" and went on my way.

One time I had asked someone where to pitch a tent nearby, and the next hour was a debacle of trying to communicate words like "fence" and "high grass" and "permission" using other words and miming (often when I say, "I don't know the word _____," the reply will be an explanation of course involving ten more words I don't know).

Then there was the time I was in line at the grocery and was pretty sure the cashier was checking me out. I'm not opposed to harmless flirting with cashiers, provided it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable (nothing like trying to help a customer when they are hitting on you), but I realized I couldn't even manage a complex thought like "Long day?" -- I know the word "long," and "day," of course, but I didn't know that it would mean the same thing in French as in English. So I just stood there in awkward silence wanting to flirt but not knowing how (the things they don't teach you in French class...). And once I think I accidentally flirted with someone: I went into a bakery intending to spend all my change. Counting it out was taking longer than expected, so I said to the cashier, "Comment-ca va?" This is the casual way of asking "How are you?" which we said every day in high school French class, so that's what came out of my subconscious. Unfortunately, it's not how you ask a stranger how their day is ("comment-t'allez vous?"). By using the casual phrasing I implied we were friends. She laughed nervously.

Apparently in France, you are supposed to weigh and sticker fruit yourself in the fruit section, then the cashier just scans the sticker (in the US the cashier weighs it). I didn't know this, which resulted in a panic from the cashier and the disdainful chin of the man behind me growing miles long while we waited for someone to come get the apples, take them back to the fruit section, and return with a sticker (I had no idea what was happening, the only thing I caught was, "You don't have...?" and the general impression that I'd done something wrong). I waited patiently and apologized profusely, and that's how I learned the phrase, "C'est pas grave" – a brush-off, like, "It doesn't matter," or a not-passive-aggressive "whatever," or a shrug of the shoulders. Literally translated: "It's not serious."

I think a lot about when people speak in broken English to me, what makes me wince and what I don't care about, and the mistakes I am making, and what is likely to make the French wince and what they don't care about. But at the end of the day, people are very, very kind, and patient, and I feel very welcome here, despite not always being able to have complete conversations.

This leads me to...


On France: The people

The people here are some of the most engaging of the tour. I get asked more often than anywhere else about my tour, and I think if I could understand 100% of what was being said I'd never get anywhere because I'd spend all day talking to people – which of course would be awesome.

First off – the cross-country bicycle tourists. There are many. I've lost count. In previous countries I could count on one hand how many I met (US: 1, England: 4-ish, Wales: 0, Ireland: 4). I've been in France a week and seen at least 20. I used to make a point of stopping to talk to them because it was moralizing; now, it's just normal. It's an awesome normal, of course.

My Warmshowers host was fantastic. They often asked if I wanted to speak in English, and sometimes I did, but for the most part we were able to communicate in French. Their daughter was there and she was almost fluent in English, so at one point I was telling a story in the best French I could muster and they would occasionally look at her and she would explain what I was trying to say. At one point I was saying I'd never been to France before, I had the opportunity in high school but got cold feet, and they said, "Why would cold feet keep you from going to France?"

They also had two grandchildren there, which was great for me, because I could ask them simple questions and get, for the most part, simple answers, and vice versa (after talking about what the next morning would look like, I was asked what we have for breakfast in the US). The morning of my stay, Elisa (one of the grandchildren) and Marcelle (one of my hosts) were playing a matching game quite like Go Fish, except with families of instrumentalists. It kept me past noon, but I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity!

The best part, though, wasn't getting to play a French game entirely in French with a lovely French lady in rural France after having just had baguette with marmelade, nutella, and jam for breakfast (though that was quite swell) – okay actually it's a tie – the other part of the tie was hearing all the witty quips between Elisa and Marcelle ("You're too good at this!" "I've already lost!" "I'm dead already..."). They don't teach you those in French class; nor are you often able to see, understand, and feel such a genuine, playful interaction between two close friends – in French or in English.

There are moments when I wonder if I would become friends with someone if I could speak better French, or was just less nervous in general. There was the group of people on the ferry; there was someone who was leaving their apartment just as I was biking by, dead set on the bakery down the street. "You're on tour?" they said.

"Oui!"

"A big tour?"

"Oui!" I shouted over my shoulder, as they faded into the distance. I realized only a few minutes later they probably wanted to ask me more questions, and it was my (completely irrational) fear of that conversation that kept me pedaling instead of what I would have done if they had asked in English: stopped and engaged them.

I did have a great day at a Farmer's market once. As I was walking around, a guy at a stall in the distance waved me over and, in English, offered me a place to stay without me saying anything. It was only 11 AM and he was 5 miles in the wrong direction, so I said I wanted to go a bit further that day. He said alright... but take some zucchini. After talking a bit more I discerned he had spent a few months biking around Europe and was, surprise surprise, passing along the good vibes (a good surprise! Just not so surprising, as a theme of the trip is people passing along good vibes).

I sat on the church steps to eat my lunch and a lady walked by with her dog. She said something about that being a great place to eat, and how much were tickets. We laughed. A few minutes later, she came back with her lunch and sat at the other end of the church steps. We talked for a few minutes and I asked if I could sit next to her, and then we talked a few more minutes and she offered me some yogurt. I stared dumbfoundedly at it since it was the second item of free food I'd been offered in the last 30 minutes.

"You don't have to take it."

"No, please! Thank you!"

And there on the steps of the church I shared yogurt with a stranger.

Before we parted I was talking about how I liked bicycle touring because it meant I could have those moments with strangers, and she said of course I had them, when she was walking by she could tell I had an inviting deameanor (I wish I could remember how exactly she said it because it was much more graceful; french almost always is), and when I smiled at this she said, "and you have such a beautiful smile."

And then my heart melted. Thank you, Claudette, for being.


On France: The food

Almost every town in France has a bakery, so the first thing I do in the morning is find a bakery and get fresh bread. If the town is larger, it will have more than one bakery; usually, I don't have to ask, I can just ride down the street and one will magically appear. Barring that, I can follow my nose – they smell fantastic, and usually the smell goes for blocks. I haven't had to ask yet, though of course I know how (tangent: I read in a French magazine for English speakers a story about someone who intended to ask for the "patisserie" (pastry shop) but, in enunciating too clearly, accidently asked for the "petite souris" – the little mouse).

So breakfast is usually a few pain au chocolate, or sometimes tartes aux pommes (apple tarts), or sometimes a croque-monsieur. I also pick up 3-5 butter croissants, which I eat throughout the day, sometimes plain if they are really good, or sometimes with marmalade, cheese, jam, or nutella. I also get a baguette and have half for lunch and half for dinner. I supplement this with bananas and apples, cheese (the cheese is so good here), and the occasional stop at a restuarant or cafe. Wine is cheap (I've seen bottles for 2.50 euro), but as I can't drink a whole bottle by myself and still bike straight, I haven't picked any up yet.

Almost everywhere advertises "moules frites" – mussels with fries. I stopped somewhere to ask for internet, which they didn't have, but I was exhausted and they said I could charge my phone if I ate there so I was like... alright. The special? Moules frites. I don't recall that I've ever had mussels but I was in France, so I got the special. It was literally a bucket of boiled mussels and a plate of fries. The second course was slices of cheese on lettuce; the third, a huge bowl of creme fraiche, add sugar if you like and strawberry syrup; the fourth, "un cafe," which in France is not a cup of coffee but a shot of expresso, in this case served with a cracker.

Also... bread is rarely served with butter. For dinner at my Warmshowers host, I asked about this, and they said in France you'd never have bread with butter when you could have bread with cheese. That's my kind of logic!


On Travel: Spirituality vs. Coincidence

I'm not a religious person but I do believe in some things that can't really be proven (like that people are basically good), so in my mind that makes me spiritual. I don't know if I believe in karma but sometimes I feel like I do, I feel like there's this karmac cosmos that grows when people do good things for each and you can sort of draw from it, or channel it, by listening to your gut and doing "what you're supposed to do," whatever that means. Some people call this God; if I call it god, it's a lower case "g."

(pause: I'm not trying to impose my religion on anyone, this is just a statement of my experience. Yours might be different, you might believe something else, your god might have a capital "G" – awesome! Let's share, and let's also respect each others' experiences and opinions, because I think it's cool to talk about. But I'm absolutely not saying my opinions or experiences are somehow better or more "right" than yours. Cool? Cool.)

I've been thinking a lot about this on tour. I wonder if listening to my gut improves the tour – if there ares ways I'm "supposed" to go and if I'll enjoy the tour more if I go those ways. This is one of the many reasons I think planning out a tour too far in advance can be a bad thing: if you have a flight to catch you can't go off to look at such-and-such or stay with so-and-so (recall that I've already had a major change in plans once: I was going to go through London, east out of England, but then decided before getting to Cornwall to go west out of England through Wales and Ireland). So I was originally planning on going east out of France into Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany, but everybody I talked to (including, but not limited to, a few people in England, a few people in Ireland, and at least three people in France) said the "way to do" France was to go north to south or vice versa. I also had three offers of places to stay in southern France.

So first I picked a Warmshowers host that was south of Cherbourg (where my ferry landed), not east. On the way there I met Marcel, who you'll recall offered to set me up with a vineyard. Then my host said I should go south, but if not south through France, at least south to Mont St. Michele -- it would be a shame if I was only 100 miles from it and didn't see it. So I did that, and on my way to Mont St. Michele I had that experience at the farmer's market with the free zucchini and the lady on the church steps, so by the time I got to Mont St. Michele going south felt... right. It's what my gut said to so. Maybe that's bogus or can't be proven or there's no concrete, substantial evidence that I "should" have kept going south, but that's what I decided to do.

Also, Mont-Saint-Michele was gorgeous.

(this means I might not hit Belgium, the Netherlands, or Germany for the foreseeable future. The current plan is to do the Camino de Santiago, then somehow get back to France, and head east out of the Schengen area via Italy, Croatia, possibly Greece, etc)

When I got to Ancenis, a city on the Loire (where I had my moules-frites, and come to think of it I only ate there because someone in the previous city said they might have internet – though they didn't), I had no idea how I was going to get south to Spain. The waitress, upon seeing my bike, handed me a map of the bike route down the Loire river valley ("This might interest you"). I won't say I was "listening to the signs" here or anything, but going down the Loire seemed like a good plan, so that's what I decided to do, right then and there.

Along the Loire I saw many tourists, but passed three times someone who would become a friend – Hans-Gerd. The third time we passed each other was just after it started to rain – there had been a storm precipitating on the horizon for the past hour, and we were both looking for shelter. Hans doesn't speak much English, but we managed to communicate that it might be cheaper to split a campsite, so that's what we did.

At that campsite were loads of other bicycle tourists. It was inspiring. Hans and I waited out the rain in the camp lounge, and talked about everything and nothing as best we could with his broken English and some beers. He's about 40 and is biking from where he lives just outside of Dusseldorf to Portugal, a lifelong dream that he's never been able to do until now because of kids, work, etc. After the rain died down we went out to set up our tents.

It happened once that I was looked at his tent and he was looking at mine, and he pointed to the vestibule of my tent and said, "It's very... very..." and I looked at him and he looked at me, and he didn't have the word in English but we both started to smile, and then laugh, and then we couldn't stop laughing.

I know it sounds silly, but for some reason I think Hans and I have something that trascends language; even though we don't have the same words we can still communicate – and laugh. We were talking about possibly riding together when one of the tourists at the site next to ours said, "You should do it. You have good laughs together: the most important thing!"

Bosnian?

Hans wanted to take a break day the next day to try and find a map. I offered to guide him but he wanted to guide himself, which I respect. I wanted to get going, so I left.

But not before having an impromptu jam session with another tourist who brought her flute. Hans played his toothbrush. Someone took a photo and I'll put it here when I get it.

Throughout that day, though, the feeling grew inside me that I had made the wrong choice, that I should have stayed with Hans, and we could have biked together all the way to Portugal. At about 1 PM my anxiety brain started playing "Listen to your heart" over and over again, and I couldn't keep mentally kicking myself, but I wasn't going to go three hours backwards. There was a fallen branch in the middle of one of the trails, and it was hard not to tell myself it was some sort of sign that I should go back. But I told myself: if we are supposed to ride together, it will work out that way. A nap cleared my brain, and the clouds left from the storm the night before, and I carried on.

That night I found an awesome spot to camp by searching "picnic" on my maps app.

DID I MENTION PICNIC TABLES ARE BACK

The next day I found Eurovelo 1, a signed cycle route up the west coast of Europe, all the way from Portugal, through Spain, France, Ireland, and Scotland, to Norway. This was the route Hans had wanted a map for – if we were to meet up again by chance, it would probably be along this route.

I headed to a summer home that had been offered to me by one of my hosts in England. That's where I am now. I've sent Hans an e-mail with the address and told him I'll wait a few days. I hope he gets it and we can meet up again and ride together. But if not – that's how life goes sometimes.

Like I said, I'm not religious. But the past few days have felt really good. I'm in France. I eat fresh bread for breakfast every day, I'm staying in a summer home (which started three weeks ago when I went into a pub in England and asked for water, and did they know anyone I could stay with that night?), I've met some really awesome people (tourists, locals, crazy germans), seen some beautiful places, and am headed to Spain to do the Camino de Santiago. I still feel lonely from time to time, but for the most part... life is really good right now. It's hard not to attribute that to the listening to my gut that I've been doing. I can't prove that there is some karmac cosmos that I'm drawing from, I can't provide substantial evidence that there was actually something inside me saying, "Yo, maybe you should go down the Loire river valley?" and that listening to it is why I met Hans, that it's made the tour better, but... sometimes it's hard not to believe that.

When Ian and Ann were driving me from their home near Abersytwyth, Wales, to my ferry to Ireland, Ian said, "My biggest fear is that you'll go to France, love it, and never come back to Wales." Whether it be for spiritual reasons or complete coincidence, I can see where he was coming from. I'd like to go back to Wales, yes. But I'm also in love with France. Last night I was recounting the occurrences of the past few days, and by the time I finished my gut felt much like it did the night before Christmas as a 5-year-old: this is just so darn exciting I don't know what to do with myself.

I'll leave you with some photos that didn't otherwise fit in with the tales above. Au revoir!

This bridge has historical significance... but for the life of me I can't remember it right now. Till I do, it's just a pretty place I put my tent next to.

Every town in France has a church. A big church.

Tintin makes an appearance.

Sometimes there are castles, too. Big castles.

Breakfast outside a random boulangerie (bakery).

How you know you're in France...

Galway, Ireland to The English Channel: I just biked across Ireland

I got into Galway around 9:30 and began my search for a place to sleep. I had already asked someone in the train station who “knew people” in Galway, but he seemed to think I'd be better off in a hostel, which was fine. I seriously considered getting a hostel, actually, due to getting in late and the predicted rain at about 3 AM that night. Once I got off the train, a friendly Irishman began asking me about my trip and suggested a beachhead in front of town, even going so far as to walk me there since it was on his way home. He would stop every few feet and point something out – “The city centre!” – then keep walking. Even his wife didn't wait for him. The spot he suggested was extremely visible from the city and there were people walking all over. It probably wouldn't have been any trouble for a night, but I had a bit of energy left and didn't want to risk it.

Since I was in Galway, I figured I'd treat myself to a walk out on the quay to watch the sun set before leaving town.

I scouted a few places on my way out and found one that seemed particularly promising: behind a billboard with no fence. For some reason, there was a horse in the same field, which I didn't quite understand. Was it so obedient it didn't need a fence? In any case, I didn't want to risk being trampled in my sleep, and the drainage wasn't good in case of rain, so I carried on. I also considered a castle near the water, but eventually settled on bivvying in a nice grassy area behind a church. And that was my first night in Ireland.

It didn't rain overnight and didn't even begin raining until well into the next day – inaccurate forecasts would become a theme of Ireland. So I got lucky there. The only grocery store I could find was small and expensive; I paid with a credit card and tried to grab some cash at the nearby ATM, but my card was rejected. So I was, for the time being, cashless (Ireland uses the Euro – I had only GBP from England and Wales). I passed an old church (though the church is disused, many of the gravestones were recent), two castles, and biked through an area called “the burren,” which is supposedly an archaeological marvel, being that rocks are visible from many periods of the earth's history. To me, it seemed hilly and rocky, if beautiful. Maybe I didn't bike through the right part?

At some point, the rain began. I had hoped for a Warmshowers host that night in Limerick, towards the middle of Ireland, but I also wanted to go down the west coast, so I resolved to head between the two until I heard or didn't hear from Warmshowers. Around 12, I borrowed internet from a local pub and there was no reply, so I decided to head west to the coast. By this time the rain was pouring and by about 2 it was starting to creep in my rain jacket and down my socks. I knew there was nothing I could do and resolved to stick it out, though the thought of camping in the rain for the next week didn't exactly brighten my mood. Cornwall: hilly but beautiful. Ireland: rainy but beautiful?

Then, a car I thought was passing me instead matched my speed and I heard from inside, “I live just down the road if you'd like a cup of tea to get out of the rain?”

“Yes, please!”

So, I followed this stranger in her car another 2 miles, mostly uphill (for bonus points, before it got real hilly she got out and insisted I dump my panniers in her car – my bike wouldn't fit. “It's nothing I haven't done before,” I protested. “It's pretty hilly,” was the reply. In went the panniers). At one point she disappeared and I worried for a moment all my belongings were gone, destined to be sold on eBay to the highest bidder, but she reappeared again around the bend. Eventually, we made it to her home, where she got out and introduced herself and the two kids in her back seat (kids are usually a sign that someone's not a serial killer, by the way). Erin, Lucas, and Maeve.

I was invited in for tea and, while I waited, Lucas showed me all of his favorite things – dinosaurs and trucks, of course! Lucas and I immediately became close friends as we had the same favorite dinosaur (stegosaurus, though we agreed it was a close call against triceratops) and the same favorite superhero (Superman).

At some point, Erin brought out tea, and Lucas asked, “Why are you feeding him, mommy?”

“Because he's been out in the rain.”

I looked around and noticed on one of their shelves a biography of a bicycle tour across the states.

It seemed one of those uncanny coincidences: I wasn't even planning on being there that day, but upon choosing to go to the coast and deal with the rain instead of doing the less adventurous visit to Limerick, I met Erin. I wondered if Lucas would remember this day when he got older, the day his mom took in a random stranger just because it was raining, and if he would one day do the same.

We talked for a bit more about our lives and our tours, and at some point I was very kindly invited to stay the night. Knowing I had a place to stay, I decided to venture into the rain again to see the Cliffs of Moher, which... I'll let a picture do the talking.

The wind and rain had picked up so by the time I returned, I was drenched. Erin's husband, Joe, had returned home, and I got to geek out with him, too, about cycle touring. Erin was from the States and Joe from Ireland, so it was interesting to see the confluence of their two cultures (Erin even keeps a blog about it here, if you're interested). They both had some wonderful stories to tell, which hopefully will end up on the map at some point. Side note – Joe works as a stonemason, which I thought was interesting. Not something you'd see in the States; but indeed, many houses here are still being made of stone. A very cool career.

Despite spending hours in the rain that day, I slept well that night in a warm bed. It was truly an unexpected blessing.

For better or worse, I had to continue my trip the next day. On Irish weather, Erin left me with this: “Sometimes it'll rain, sometimes it'll be sunny. Sometimes, the forecast will be rain, and it will be sunny; sometimes, the other way around. You just have to smile and enjoy it.” And yea... in the week I've spent here, that seems pretty accurate.

The next day was fairly uneventful, except for a cool couple I met on a ferry ride. I had parked my bike to look around the gift shop while waiting for the ferry; when I walked back to it, there was a motorcyclist sitting on a bench not too far away, smiling at me. I walked up and said, “Hello!” To which he replied...

“Je ne peux pas parler anglais.”

So naturally, my reply was, “Parlez-vous francais?”

And then we spoke in French. His wife came over a short while later, and we spoke in French, and then we got on the ferry and spoke some more, and they must have liked me because they paid for my ferry ticket and invited me to stay with them when I got to Switzerland. I could understand about 80% of everything they said, which is pretty good considered I've never actually used French without having English as a fallback – I learned it in middle school and high school, more than ten years ago now, but never used it in a non-academic setting until then (though when pedaling I do speak it out loud to myself to practice). They were there on a four-week vacation, motorcycling around the coasts of England, Wales, and Ireland. Before getting a motorcycle, they used to do bicycle tours themselves. They were awesome. And I hope to see them again!

Something sad did happen that day: my seat broke.

I “fixed” it by sliding it forward a bit, thus clamping the break in the seat clamp. To compensate, of course, I had to raise the seat a bit, and then tilt the handlebars back... fitting bikes can be such a pain. But, it'll keep me going until I can get a new seat.

That night I ended up asking someone if I could camp in their yard. That someone was Ted, who, along with his wife Maura, ended up inviting me in for tea that night and breakfast the next morning. We talked about Trump and travel – the two “ts,” naturally (I don't always mention it, but people do want to know what I think of world politics, sometimes going as far to ask me who I voted for). I was grateful for their hospitality. Despite the forecast for rain – both from my phone and from Ted – it just remained cloudy.

Ireland has four peninsulas on the southwestern coast, all of which, supposedly, are beautiful and culturally rich (the “real” Ireland, I have been told multiple times, happens the farther southwest you go). I had originally been planning to head straight south to Killarney National Park and then keep going south to Beara peninsula, which had been recommended to me by Ian and Ann in Aberystwyth. Ted, however, strongly pushed me towards Dingle peninsula, which had been recommended by a friend back in the States as well. Deciding to trust the local, that morning I turned west towards Dingle.

Ireland hadn't been too hilly until then, but when I got to Tralee, the city just outside Dingle, I knew I was in for a change:

Place I am going: those mountains on the left.

It was possible to go around the edge of the peninsula, which would have been fairly flat, but I hadn't summitted anything in a while, so I just charged through the middle, meaning a 410 meter climb and descent.

With the accompanying view, of course.

I took lunch in the city of Dingle, after seeing this busker/possibly gypsy (?):

...and then headed out to the edge of the peninsula (as Ted said, “If you just go to Dingle, you haven't seen the peninsula, have you?”), which was well worth it. It was really freaking beautiful. I took a lot of pictures. And swam in the ocean (which I would regret for the next three nights as I tried to get all the sand out of my tent which somehow got there via my socks).

When I got back into Dingle, I started looking for Dick Mack's, a pub Ted had suggested for their great Guinness. I stopped to asked someone for directions, and upon my asking what I should get there besides a Guinness, the reply was, “two Guinnesses.”

I made it almost all the way there (it wasn't too far, but there were lots of curvy roads...) and decided to ask for directions again. There was a group of folks on the sidewalk watching me in that this-guy-looks-interesting sort of way, so I asked if they were from here. The reply?

“No english, sorry.”

So just for giggles, on a whim, and honestly I'm not sure entirely why, I said,

“Parlez-vous francais?”

We all took a beat to recover (I surprised even myself) before one of them said, “Oui,” and then I asked for directions in French, and they were very happy to help and even repeated a difficult bit again slowly for me.

There was a brick-oven-in-a-trailer pizza place behind Dick Mack's so I ordered a pizza, intent on having pint one while waiting for it to cook (the chef: “It might be an hour or so. This isn't Domino's, you know. Do you like Domino's?”). I was caught up by a golden retriever on the patio, though, and upon asking to pet it, ended up getting invited to sit with the owners. We talked for a bit about my trip before they offered to buy me said Guinness, and we ended up discussing Trump and travel and musical instruments (I hadn't practiced uke yet that day so I offered to play for them – their son played guitar so there were some witty quips between us about whether 4 or 6 strings were better, and by the end of it I'm not sure how welcome my uke playing actually was...). At some point my pizza came out, and before finishing it my new friends were able to tell me where I could put my tent that night: by a castle.

So all in all a pretty successful day.

Days 4 and 5 in Ireland were not so great. Ireland was great. But between the rain, the wind, and being alone, I wasn't in a great place. When I left that table with the family in Dingle, I felt an acute sense of loneliness: now I'll leave the city by myself – again – set up my tent alone – again – and handle whatever happens, whether I like it or not.

I have had the privilege of being invited into peoples' lives and homes many a time on this trip, often intimately, and for that I am grateful and consider myself lucky. But I have yet to spend more than 48 hours with anyone (except when I took a week off in Madison and DC to see my friends and sister, respectively). I get asked the same questions over and over, which I am happy to answer, but I don't see anyone who really knows me, who I can trust completely and develop a rapport with. I would get to know very few people if I wasn't enthusiastic about what I was doing, if instead I discussed how lonely it was at times and how isolated I feel. I don't share the load of this tour, either physically or mentally, with anyone. My dreams are regularly about friends I miss – I've “woken up” on Schiff's couch, in Seattle; with Kerri, in Madison; I've dreamt about being served tea by Casey; going dancing with Mandy. I often wake, alone in my tent, more alone than I can ever remember feeling.

I never got so close as to consider quitting. I want to at least make it to a volunteer stay I have set up in Ukraine (one month in the same place!); honestly, I'd like to “at least” make it to the Middle East, the part of the tour I am most excited about. However, I don't know if I have the mental fortitude to make it around the world alone. I don't know how people do it. What keeps me going is knowing I have people to stay with in certain places, being excited about the Middle East, and sometimes, wondering what else I'd do with my time between now and the graduate school deferral I have for fall 2018 (which I can always not take if I do decide to go all the way around). I'd rather say I took a gap year to bike halfway around the world than that I worked at xyz job for money that, to be honest, I don't really need (There are two ways to be rich: one is by acquiring much; the other, desiring little. I don't “need” money in the sense that I live within my means).

I am lucky to be living this life and I haven't forgotten that. But I've also been thinking about the priorities I want to demonstrate. Do I put travel above having meaningful relationships? Can the two co-exist? I don't know. I often think fondly of the story told to me by one of my Warmshowers hosts in Illinois about the “cycle city --” the group of 300 cyclists who pedaled cross country together. To me, that sounds like the ideal situation: travel and seeing long-term friends in person. But I haven't heard of any other cycle cities since then.

In any case...

On day 4 I got to see Killarney, which was beautiful.

My sleeping arrangements involved walking into a bar and asking if anyone had a field nearby. Yep – the bartender. On day 5, I asked someone just getting home from work, and they let me use their yard, in addition to inviting me in for tea and a show that reminded me of Ms. Doubtfire (one episode's plot: the main character finds out her husband's lover will fall dead at 11 PM that night. She tries desperately to complete her bucket list, ending at a bar where on every few chimes starting at 11, another woman in the bar falls over dead... and then a few men, too). Thanks, Tony!

On day 6, I ran into Aris, a tourist from Greece:

We geeked out about our bikes and all the places we'd been and planned to go. He'd been on the road much longer than I, a few years all told, but broken up into segments. He, too, struggled with the mental aspect, quitting his first tour after 15 months (I'm not even done with month 3!), and since then has always returned home on a semi-regular basis. He invited me to stay with him in Greece, which was awesome, and I hope to take him up on it. He was inspiring.

That night I had arranged (and gotten a reply to!) a Warmshowers stay. On the way to that stay was a very long, very cool rail-trail bike path.

Complete with tunnel!

At one point, I passed three guys walking their bikes.

“Need any tools? Everything ok?” I said.

“Everything's ok,” one of them replied.

As I left I could hear them conferring. “What was that about?” “He was asking if we needed help.” A little while later I was pulled over taking a snack break, and the three passed me, riding their bikes now.

“Do you need anything?” one said. “A smoke perhaps?”

“Uhm, yea actually.”

“Meet us in Kilmac then!”

And they were off. A little while later I caught up to them again. I didn't plan to join them for a smoke, as I was running behind my promised arrival to my Warmshowers host. But we did get to know each other a bit, and I'm going to wonder if they would have offered me a place to stay, had I needed it. Did I miss out on new friends by over-planning my time? A question bicycle tourists frequently ask themselves...

As I pulled into the driveway of my host there was a man working on a landscaping project who semi-acknowledged me. He was busy so I didn't want to bother him too much, so I opened with,

“Are you Tom?”

“No,” flatly.

I took a beat to decide what to do next. Should I ask him if he knows Tom? This seems like the right house...

Then he chuckled. “Just kidding.”

And the tone was set for the night.

Tom and his family have excellent senses of humor, which I'll sum up with one of the O'Neill's own slogans: HTFU. Harden the … up. Humor can be made out of everything, even pain (I got whacked by some nettles on a hike through a field. Tom's reply, in a whiny voice: “No fair! Why didn't I get whacked by nettles...?” If I was feeling bolder, my reply would have been to whack him with nettles...). Tom and his family graciously let me stay two nights, and though they insisted I “take it easy” on my day off they also kept inviting me to do things like take a motorcycle tour of the coast, bicycle to the nearby castle, walk along the quay, etc., etc. The nights were filled with Settlers of Catan and storytelling – about Tom and his wife Fiona's motorcycle tour of Europe, and about Irish culture in general. To complete my education, we watched Father Ted.



I consider myself lucky to have landed such an adventurous, easygoing, down-to-earth family as the O'Neills, not just for one night, but two.

My last full day in Ireland consisted of another ferry, a castle (complete with mannequins in the oubliette), an Abbey, and my host, Pat, who lives above the pub he runs (thanks, Pat!), which has been in his family for three generations. On Tuesday, July 4th (happy Independence Day!), I biked to Rosslare and boarded my ferry to France. There's an accordion-violin duet strolling around the lounge, which made me smile at first, but they're playing Beer Barrel Polka for the fourth time now... maybe I should just grab the accordion and whip out some real accordion music? Guido Deiro, Clifton Chenier, Silly Wizard, anyone?

Ireland has been a plethora of things. Hospitable is definitely one of them. I've been introspective, wondering what I'll get out of this trip, what I'm looking for – if anything – and how far I can make it. Confused about the weather, yet it's been beautiful. And yes – there are things I need to come back for. I only got to do one peninsula of the four, and despite multiple claims that the “real” Ireland is in the southwest corner, there were also numerous suggestions that the northwest corner (the “untouched” Ireland) was worth a visit as well.

Ireland: there are fairies.

But for now? On to France.

Bristol, England to Galway, Ireland: Wales, Tractors, Boats, and Trains

When we last left off, I was in Bristol, about to head into Wales. I was well recharged from my stay with Hattie and Will, who let me stay through midday to update my blog and fed me copious amounts of food, for which I was most grateful. Bristol was nice; despite being large, it was cycle-friendly, with lots of bike lanes, quiet side roads, and not too many hills (not compared to Cornwall, anyways). In any case, at some point I had to leave the security of my gracious hosts and venture out into the world.

Well... I got to Wales, and it looked like this:

Okay, it was a bit more dramatic than that. Maps.me, the app I use to route plan, told me there was a footpath shortcut to the bridge to Wales, which I gladly went towards. I got there only to discover cement poles blocking the path, about a foot between them and five feet high, intended, obviously, to prevent bikes from getting through.

Without said shortcut, I would have to go ten miles out of my way, so... I just lifted my fully loaded touring bike over my head. Twice – once on either side of the path. After biking uphill out of Bristol in 80 F weather, lifting a 60 lb touring bike over my head was very, very, hard. But it saved me an hour of pedaling.

Then I went to Wales, across the Severn Bridge, which is about 2 miles long with a pedestrian/bike path on either side. Once across, I was at sea level, which of course meant there was only one way to go... up.

Around 6 or 7, I started looking for a place to stay. Feeling bold from my success two nights ago at asking to sleep in someone's field, I decided to try again. The first person I asked said... “We've got horses, try our neighbors.” I tried their neighbors... and met Paul!

Paul was happy to help – they had sheep, but only in one of their two fields. After checking with his wife, he, his rusty scythe, and his beagle Gus walked me out back to show me a nice spot under an ash tree. I could tell Paul was friendly, but if he had managed to fool me and was planning on killing me and taking my stuff, he would have gotten style points for using a rusty scythe. But no – the scythe was for clearing a path to the river, which I was told was clean, so I promptly went swimming in it. After a day of lifting my bike over cement poles and biking up hills in heat, diving into the cool, clean water of a random river in rural Wales was heaven. I did it again and again. Shortly after my return, Paul appeared with a plate of food – “My wife thinks you look a little skinny” – and a beer – “You're not a Mormon or anything, are you?” I would have loved to join them on their porch and entertain them with my uke, but my sense was (in bringing the food out to me instead of inviting me in) they wanted privacy. All the same, they were very kind, and it was a good night.

I didn't see anyone in the morning so I left a thank-you note on the door and went on my way. Wales is quite mountainous and the roads, houses, and industry have mostly developed in the valleys – including some very good cycle routes. Going off the advice from my hosts in England, I chose not to take the most southerly route, putting me through a valley about 80 miles north of the coast. That day was mostly uphill...

...and I met two other cyclists doing the same route, Ian and Ann:

Ian and Ann were very kind and humble (upon seeing me approach, Ian exclaimed, “A proper cyclist!”) and invited me to stay with them near Aberystwyth on the west coast of Wales, even suggesting a route to get there (and also suggesting that I might have a “meal, bed, shower, and laundry” if I were to make it to them). I hadn't yet booked my ferry to Ireland so this seemed like a definite possibility – I told them I would look into it (I generally try and accept every invite I can, since doing so usually leads to making new friends, but the logistics sometimes just don't work out). Wales was mentally challenging: very hilly, limited route selection, and lots of highway noise (all because of the aforementioned mountainous landscape), so a stay with a kind host would have been an especially welcome reward upon reaching the coast.

That night I made camp in the woods of a park near a town called Glynneath. It was, unfortunately, just across a river from the highway – such things happen when everything needs to be crowded into a valley – but the river was beautiful to watch the sun set over.

I left the next morning to discover the bike path went along... a towpath!

If you're just joining me, towpaths are a theme of the trip so far – I've hit at least one in every country. I also passed by some abbey ruins; sadly, they were closed to visitors at the time, but they were still pretty from a distance:

The rest of the day was pretty long, and I didn't make much progress. By noon, I had only biked 18 miles – having gotten up around 6 that day, I wasn't really sure where the time had gone. I was tired from the hills of the past two days, the weather was overcast and chilly, and there was a headwind and occasional rain. So I guess you could say morale was low. But I pedaled on, knowing there was almost certainly a bed and a shower in my future.

I saw a lot that day, and I'll let the pictures do the talking:

Memorial for the disaster at Gleision Colliery, 9/15/11.

Graffiti under a bridge, Pontardawe, Wales.

Two horns wasn't enough.

I decided to take the side road. There was a hill. This was my reward.

Fish and chips.

House sign I liked.

"Viennese Finger."

Another abbey.

I reached abbey #2 around 6 and wanted to call Ian and Ann to confirm my arrival the next day. I asked a few people walking around the abbey, but nobody had service – one of the double-edged swords of cycle touring is you see things in the middle of nowhere... but you're in the middle of nowhere. I was about to give up and use the local payphone when I decided to try one last person, a fellow across the road from the payphone who was digging a trench out from his house. That was Lloyd, and after communicating that it was a local call (“It's a pound to call the US from the phone or a pound to call the US from my house...”), he invited me in for tea and let me use his phone. Ann and Ian confirmed I could stay with them the next night. Awesome.

Lloyd and I ended up talking for another hour or so. He was a treat to talk to because he considered himself a laborer, but was very humble about it (“the time came to go to college and learn how to use computers – this was back when they took the space of an entire house – and my friends and I decided we'd rather learn how to build houses and install pipes. Now we feel like we missed out, and all our jobs are being outsourced, which is frustrating. But I'm proud of the work I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way. When we're gone, you can have your way with the world”).

Eventually we looked up the distance to Aberystwyth – just 39 miles! I could make camp anywhere. I asked Lloyd if he knew anywhere a tent would go unnoticed, and he did – the neighbors just across the way had a pasture where some sheep were grazing, but it was a large pasture and there was likely to be a spot where I could pitch a tent without disturbing them too much.

The next day, I pedaled through wind, mist, and rain, over dirt tracks, and past fallen trees, 39 hard miles to Abersytwyth. Ian and Ann were waiting at the train station with a cup of hot chocolate, which was just about the best thing I could have had at the time. We drove the few miles to their house outside of town – a beautiful drive – and my one night stay quickly became a two night stay as we compiled a list of things to do (me: “Is there anything I can do for you?” Ian: “You can drive my 1965 Massey Ferguson... I mean, mow for us.” Ann: “Next he'll ask you if you've ever done beekeeping”).

Sampling of the weather on my ride in.

Part of the route to Abersytwyth.

Me on a 1965 Massey Ferguson.

I didn't take many pictures during my stay, mostly because I wanted to relax. I'd been feeling mentally exhausted lately and a day off – completely off, no picture-taking or blogging or story-telling or anything – was much needed. Ian and Ann were very generous with their hospitality, for which I am most grateful.

Recall that during my stay in Calstock, England, just outside Plymouth, I decided I was going to go from Ireland to France instead of Scotland. The ferries to France were mostly booked up for the next month or so, so I picked one of the few dates left that I thought would fit with my schedule and pulled the trigger. This means I didn't have as much time as I would have liked before needing to be in the southeast corner of Ireland. To give me more time, Ian and Ann kindly offered to drive me to the ferry; once arriving in Ireland, I planned to take the train to the west side so I could bike back east in time for the ferry to France.

Of course, the whole time we were driving to the ferry, they kept saying, “Ooooh, there's a great cycle track here...” and “this bit is just beautiful to cycle...” and “We have friend all along the way you could stay with....” I felt a little ambiguous about having accepted a ride, but that's just the way the timing works sometimes (it was also raining – though it's always raining in Ireland). It seems I've added yet another place to my “come back to” list – the ride from Abersytwyth, where Ian and Ann live, to Holyhead, where the ferry to Ireland was.

Then... I was on a ferry.

(it was pretty cool, they let me ride my bike on and off instead of taking it through security)

Then... I was on a train.

(I didn't take a picture, you'll just have to trust me)

Then... well I assume I'll be in Galway shortly.