Allo Allo and the Mexican Tandem Wave

The Allo project has been running for almost a week now, working tirelessly to bring a friendly Allo to cyclists we pass, challenging the German norm of passing other cyclists like they were invisible.

The Mexican Double Tandem Allo is our latest invention. In this manoeuvre we ride directly behind each other so we occupy about 8m of path. When a target is approached the leading tandem captain starts the sequence by firing a loud Allo, quickly followed by Allo from their stoker, an Allo and honk on her twin horns from Hannah in her buggy and Allos from the following tandem and stoker. The passing rider experiences a wave of smiles and Allos that can't fail to make an impression. Although initial results suggest even this can't break the concentration of a hardened road racer or break the ice cool pose of bandana man. Perhaps cycling is a more serious business than we thought.

Allo Allo is a simple friendly game.  It's a lot of fun and brings a smile to our day, but not always to others.  Reactions vary wildly from looks of shock horror to mild bemusement to wholehearted return Allos or fits of giggles.

Lycra wrapped, helmet clad cyclists on shiny bikes seem impermeable to even the most threatening Allo. We've tried everything: loud and cheery, quiet with a nod; gruff and manly, but nothing gets a response, barely a flicker of recognition. You're looking at a 10% response rate here and lucky if you can even make eye contact. Our verdict: don't waste your energy and Allos on this lot, let them stay focused and miserable.

Local recreational riders are much more up for it. The trick here is to catch their eye when they're 10 to 20 metres ahead of you, then fire a firm Allo with a friendly nod in their direction, letting them know it's for them. Response rate? 50% or better, usually bringing a smile, chuckle or Allo in return.  Our verdict: worth a shot at brightening up their day. The other 50% nearly fall off their bikes into the river so that's good value too.

Baggage laden tourists are the most productive.  Perhaps it's because travelling more slowly it takes longer to pass us making us harder to ignore.  Or maybe they're just in more sociable mood. With this crew maybe 75% or more respond. Exceptions seem to be anyone wearing a bandana, those with exceptionally tight cycle shorts and young single females. Obviously their various circumstances make it more difficult for them to respond.  Our verdict: leave the young girls alone but otherwise fire away, you might even make some friends and you'll have a lot of fun trying to annoy bandana man.

Not just desserts

Rows of spiralling colours, with peaks standing as proud as the mountains we will climb in two weeks time. Sauces swirling, usual flavours enticing. Bailey's, Amaretto, Fererro Rocher, gummy bear or as many types of chocolate as there are types of chocolate. The kids stand for hours, peering in, paralysed by choice.

Eis cafés are in my opinion the best invention in Germany. I'm almost tempted to export home the idea to my village. On a hot day we anticipate the signs and gravitate towards the buildings. Eis café's are all about ice cream, although they do a pleasing range of coffee. Who can resist?

At the front of the café, the individual flavours are displayed in their smart trays. But this isn't what most people come for. Here ice cream is a whole meal. Literally. Locals and tourists make for the menu's, and greedily select. Will it be spaghetti carbonara -piles of vanilla, somehow shaped like a plate of spaghetti, with a combination of fruity flavours making up the sauce? Or pizza, with a pastry base and kiwi and pineapple taking the place of salami and onion. Or perhaps something with chips? Or a concoction for the children in the shape of an animal or cartoon character. Pinocchio's head, with smarties for eyes and a cone for his hat? Or a traditional Sunday in a towering glass, washed down with ice cold water?

However different these inventive ice creams are, there's one thing they all have in common; the price. On a budget, we are in the habit of choosing a small cone of something nice and refusing the more expensive variety of refreshment. But sometimes this isn't allowed. Sometimes an ice cream sundae is the minimum purchase, even though the window display is full of cones; it all depends on the café owner.

After a soggy wild camp one night, we were desperate for breakfast to warm us up. "You can have anything you like," we told the children, who pedalled even harder every time we said it. Ten kilometres on, we came to a small town, where the only shop open was an eis café. "You said we can have anything we want," Cameron reminded us, choosing a huge bumble bee. It took pride of place in the centre of the table, an artistic mix of striped vanilla, peach and melon home made ice creams, with liquorice for antennae and M and M's for eyes. Between us we polished it off, and then reverted to cones in the future after seeing the bill.

The ice cream may have quickly disappeared but the phrase stuck. If I want Matthew to push up a hill or go faster on the flat in return for a small reward I shout 'ice cream breakfast' and get an instant response.

Yesterday was a hot and punishing day. On the outskirts of Frankfurt, there was no breeze and the city's tower lay miles ahead, taunting us with its distance, as we pushed up pointless hills, around unnecessary barriers, and up steep bridges only to discover steps all the way down; classic tandem traps.  The children were keen to get to a museum in the city, but were tired, unmotivated and drained by the heat. Even the words 'ice cream breakfast' got barely an extra pedal.

Ten kilometres from the city, we stumbled across a town and tumbled into the eis café. Stuart opened a menu. "Let's have something special," he said, and asked me to order a 'burger and chips,' as well as three cones. I talked to the waiter, ordering the meal and three small cones of chocolate ice cream as well as a glass of iced water for me. Hannah and Cameron were overtired, overheated and hungry and both took a strop. Hannah was the worst so I took her to the toilet to wash her face and cool down. When I returned the table was packed with plates. The meals were undeniably beautiful. The burger; a rich mix of chocolate and truffle ice cream, carefully shaped and sprinkled with chocolate to appear grilled. The chips, extra frozen chunks of vanilla, surrounding the plate like perfectly cooked French fries. The vegetables, covered in a rich raspberry sauce to resemble ketchup.  But the trouble was there were three of them, each accompanied by a large glass of sparkling water.  "I've tried to send them back, but he says you ordered them," Stuart said helplessly as the children, instantly cheered up, picked up a spoon and heartily dug in. I glanced at the waiter, who looked directly back at me, as if waiting for the row. I rummaged around in my very limited arsenal of German words, and realised I just didn't have the vocabulary for an argument. Also, the children were happy. I shrugged, picked up a spoon, and tucked into my unusual lunch.  The most expensive burger and chips we've ever had? Perhaps. But very memorable. Powered by our ice cream breakfast lunch, we were in Frankfurt within the hour.      

The pleasures of forbidden fruit

We leave the vineyards behind and hit fruit tree alley; kilometres of cycle
path' lined with orchards. From the night blue of the ripening plum, to the
seductively pink cherry hanging from the tree just waiting to be picked, the
colours are set against a blue sky with clouds like people paint them in
murals. But I feel a bit like Adam. I can't eat the apple because, while it's
not entirely forbidden, it's not mine and stealing it would set a bad
example to three impressionable kids. Well that's the theory in any case. In
reality, every cyclist and pedestrian has their hand outstretched as they
pass to pull a pear, or pick a plum, and I start to feel a bit prudish.
Eventually I give in. It seems cruel to deny the kids a taste in order to
feel good about being an upstanding citizen. We will be gorging magpies like
the rest.

But I don't want them to do it in the best orchards. Instead we select some
random trees by the roadside, and send the kids in by stealth. First Matthew
tentatively picks an apple, which comes away immediately in his hand, It's
pale green with a hint of pink, and he bites into it with enthusiasm
declaring it the most delicious apple he's ever tasted. Then we progress in
our thieving academy to plums. This time both boys give it a go, picking
what looks to be the ripest. We all take a bite of one, it's tart but juicy.
But then there's a shout and a smartly dressed short man charges out of the
bushes, crying, "Don't eat those" in German. Despite our limited knowledge
of the language, its clear we have violated a rule. "Oh God it's the owner,"
I say, dropping the plum like it's hot. I try to formulate an excuse in
German about the educational benefits of examining fruit trees up close,
while the man thrusts a bucket at me. It's full of fat blackberries. "Don't
eat those plums, they're not ripe," says shorty. "Eat some of these." He
pushes handfuls of the berries he has obviously spent some time and effort
nicking, into all of our hands, and another handful into the buggy for
Hannah. They are ripe and delicious and guilt free as someone else has
stolen them for us. He's no policeman, he's a kindred spirit.

But then we get more confident. We squeal as we spot apricots and pears,
pretending to stop and examine the map, then the kids bomb in. The cherry
trees are declared the absolute favourite. We have to restrain them from
stripping the branches.

As we move out of the countryside and into the town, heading for the city of
Mainz, the kids tell me they need no vegetables tonight. They've had their
five a day. In town, boxes of fruit sit on window ledges with prices
attached. I wonder if they've been stolen too. But with a price tag on their
heads they look less appetising, less succulent. Less naughty. Fruit's
better when it's forbidden.

A word from Father Rhine

I negotiate an evening off from the kids and skip off to an orgel konzert in the Munster Basilica in Bonn.  It's a strange experience for the uninitiated, sitting silently in a sacred space, with a hundred or so other people, all sat two or three to a pew, all eyes towards the altar, listening to the mighty organ sitting high above and behind.  Facing this way there's no performance to watch, just relics, icons and symbols of faith to look upon.

The music fills every inch of this cavern as the organist takes us on a musical Promenade in Provence. Powerful reverberations envelope me and resonate within my physical body. But the organ has a power beyond the physical, stirring a lifecycle of emotions, memories of christenings, weddings and funerals. In its dischordant tone I can feel the wrath of God while joyful pipes and sifflet quickly summon joy, peace and the hope of eternal life. 

I sit transfixed for an hour, enjoying the space, the sound, the feelings, the contrast, the sweet smell of incense ingrained in the Basilica. I imagine the organist, a wise, old virtuouso and am surprised to find a youngish imp appear to take a bow at the end of the performance.  For a moment I see a little of myself in him; a younger self with my life before me. I wonder if I'd followed a musical path with focus and discipline whether I could have been as talented and not just a play at home pianist.  Is he the young man I could have been?

At the Deutches Museum of Technology in Bonn, I'm in my element. There are exhibits here as great as any work of art. Why are art and science seen as so different when the skill, attention, perseverance, ingeniuity and commitment to perfection needed to create an ion collider, mp3 compression algorithm or computer tomograph is surely as great as that for an artistic masterpiece?  While the kids enjoy the simple pleasure of button pushing I am fascinated by the stories and details of German inventiveness, research and development that lie behind so many of the things that shape our modern technologically dependent existence.  I recognise so many things here; the racks of equipment, chunky switches, circuit boards and silicon chips, shiny metal, dirty solder, sub atomic particles. As a former engineer I know this place.  It is a kind of home for me. It is the man I was but am no more. Although when ever anything goes wrong I'm still always the one who's asked to fix it. Once an engineer, always an engineer.  A part of me yearns to be back in this world, to enjoy the satisfaction of complex problems, fixing things, making things work, understanding how the world works.  

Sitting in McDonalds letting the kids enjoy a Happy Meal (or at least a happy toy), I stare out the window and gaze at a loaded bicycle and trailer passing.  The rider struggles to balance the load and move it forward, negotiating inconsiderately placed street furniture.  I laugh and go to point it out to the children. How ridiculous, pulling all that weight and a baby. Why would anyone want to do such a ridiculous thing, especially in a city?  But in a moment I realise I am looking in the mirror laughing at myself. For this is the man I have become. At least for now.

Towards the end of our time on the Rhine, we visit Burg Rheinfels in St Goar, one of many castles and fortresses overlooking the Romantic Rhine. This one has dominated this stretch of river and St Goar below since mediaeval times. We climb up away from the riverside to visit it and from the castle ramparts get a whole new perspective on Father Rhine. We wander around crumbling dungeons, scramble in the dark through ancient tunnels and perform belly dances in her damp, candlelit cellar. The dank stone walls remind me of our 200 year old stone house back in England. As I run and play with the kids I wonder how I will age, what will it be like when they leave home, what will I do with myself then. Will I grow old gracefully, running round and having fun or become a wreck and ruin?

As you travel up the Rhine you come to see its many different characters, the different forms it takes on in different phases of its life, the differently textured landscape it passes through, the different uses it has, ways it looks, paths it carves.  My journey up the Rhine and encounters along the way leave me wondering about my life journey. What will I become and how will my encounter with the Father Rhine shape me.

A moment of quiet

The church bells are ringing 7am. The river flows fast beneath me and a black and white ship struggles against the current. Opposite, on the heavily wooded hill, sits one of the fairytale castles that Hannah believes are inhabited by "Tinkersbelles." The sun is already strong, no signs of rain today. The white plastic table I'm sitting at is damp with the condensation of the night. This is my hour. The hour I rise from the tent in silence, with no one wanting anything from me, crying at me, fighting, tired or hungry. The mist hangs over the woodland, and behind me are the first few vines of wine growing country. The outdoor swimming pool, a hive of industry yesterday, is deserted. No one is around. I'd love a coffee.

Quiet time is something to be guarded jealously on our trips. It comes so rarely and must be celebrated. Stuart tried to snatch some last night here at the camp riverside restaurant, when we came down for a beer. But the kids were intent on playing UNO and their mood was competitive,testosterone filled. And loud. His attempts to take evening photo's of the passing fairy lit cruise boats were met with thumbs up being constantly thrust into the lens. Sometimes you have to concede that quiet time just isn't going to happen. But this morning they all slept soundly as I crept out onto the dew covered grass, unlocked the bikes and wandered down to the riverside.

Tiny birds punctuate the rippling of the water as it flows down to the sea. We have followed this wide, impressive river for days now. It's always with us, lulling us to sleep, beckoning us in for a swim. Today it looks fast and fierce and I have no desire to plunge in.

Today I am the captain. That means a day of decision making, of rallying, cajoling, and bribing with sweets. In half an hour the shop will open, and I'll buy fresh rolls, and hopefully take away coffee and wake my team, pulling away sleeping bags from warm reluctant bodies. But for now, I am captain only of myself, feeling small amidst the towering cliffs either side of me. The river passes by. The birds tweet and the sun catches the sundeck. Another ship forges its way up the current. There's no sign of life on the Lady Anne cruise ship, except for her red white and blue flag, flapping happily in the breeze. Perhaps her captain is also grabbing a few minutes of reflection. 

10 things I like about Germany

10 things I like about Germany:

1) The beer is as cheap as the bottled water.

2) When I speak to people in German they understand me. In Spain I speak to people in Spanish and they laugh.

3) The compulsory visits to McDonald's are made more bearable by the addition of McCafe extensions. 

4) You never have to turn a tap on; they come on by themselves. Like the self flushing toilets.

5) The Punk movement is still alive and kicking.

6) Tattoo bars are as packed as restaurants. 

7) Lidl and Aldi are exactly the same as their exported stores in the UK. Same mayonnaise loaded products, same random layout. Just like coming home.

8) Unlike in Holland, mopeds aren't allowed to dominate cycle paths.

9) The rain always comes in quick showers and stops when you are sufficiently drenched.

10) They eat toast with chocolate sprinkles for breakfast.

Ripples

I've always enjoyed the fact that in England passing cyclists usually acknowledge each other.  Often with a cheery hello but at least with a nod or a grunt so it came as a bit of surprise to be pretty much totally ignored riding up the Rhine in Germany.

Now while it's hard to interpret cultural codes the practices are quickly apparent. Here the rules seems to be: look straight ahead, ride past as if no-one's there, avoid eye contact, say nothing. It's interesting how quickly we took this on board; no-one told us to stop saying hello but as is the way with culture, we quickly conformed to the norm.

Now while I'm sure it's not the intent, the lack of encounter does make riding a little boring, removing the simple joy of human contact that comes from a passing smile, nod, wave or hello. So I decided upon a small counter-cultural experiment, to say Allo to every passing cyclist.

It takes a bit of oomph to break with norms but the results can be interesting. At first I though it made no difference at all; the reaction I got remained mostly the silent same. But then Kirstie and Matthew caught me up.

"What did you say to that pack of cyclists?" asked Kirstie.

"Just  'Allo'" I explained.

"Weird. Because everyone of them said 'Allo' to me. And that just doesn't happen here."

I wonder where else in life the ripples we send out turn up somewhere else?

Four cities in four days

Four cities in four days, with my four pedalling companions. Duisberg, town with a frown. Just like Cameron, who has switched to riding in buggy, his glum face peering out of the net, advertising his tiredness and a dodgy knee gained from swinging around a lamppost too quickly. He looks as tired and wan as his surroundings. No camping for him tonight. We stay in an out of town hostel and he goes straight to sleep. Nothing to entice us back into the grime in the morning, not even Legoland. Cam is bright again  today but chooses to see the world from the cocoon of the buggy as the local heavy industry gears up for another day in paradise, and we pedal on. 

Four cities in four days with the fab four. Dusseldorf. Playful and summery, like Hannah. She’s on the tandem, and pedals away with abandon, loudly singing songs of two little dickybirds. Highly recommended in the guidebook for its architecture and nightlife, in the afternoon sunshine the banks of this relaxed river city are lined with colourful bars, and packed with people supping cocktails and chilled local beer. Like my daughter, everyone is smiling. We zig zag along a prom that’s like the Med in summer, into the trendy media quarter, past the foil fairy tale building that intrigues us all. “Look, it’s the flossies,”Matthew shouts, nearly falling off the bike when we pass the giant fluorescent plastic people crawling up the side of a building. There’s something for everyone in this city, particularly the rich.  We are offered a family room in a smart hotel for 430 Euro’s (about 400 pounds).  “We need a really rubbish hotel in the 50 quid range,” I say, diving down a side street. Hannah sings of rubbish hotels, as chance, or fate takes us to a family run place, where its owner hauls our trailers into the reception, our tandems into her restaurant and our bags into every corner of the ground floor. You can’t move for our stuff. And its fifty quid a room, as requested.

Four cities in four days with four faithful friends. If everyone is a city then Matthew is Koln. Bigger, edgier, more aware of its’ place in the world than the others. In the fountain outside the biggest cathedral in Germany our children join three punks in the cold water. The kids splash, the punks splash and snog.  We park our bikes in front of a jewellers where a pink watch costs 90,000 euros. The doorman installed outside the Louis Vuitton shop glares at me through dark glasses. Stuart takes the children up the tower of the Dom while I chill out outside the cathedral where the relics of the three magi lie in a golden casket. I wonder if I’d choose gold, frankinsense and myrh or the more modern  delights of a Louis Vuitton suitcase on wheels with matching cupcake pink jewelled watch, if the kings were to offer me gifts. A hundred piece gospel choir sets up in a circle in the square, just in front of the human statues of Charlie Chaplin, the Angel Gabriel and Zorro.  As an audience gathers I realise I’m the only one in the square not wearing dark glasses. A doorman comes over from the five star hotel next door and I wonder if I’m about to be moved on. But he just wants to see the tandems and find out our destination. The man from Louis Vuitton tries to ear wig, removing his dark glasses and cool image for just a minute. Stuart and the kids return and we glide downhill. It’s German beer o’clock.  A crowd ahead of us starts to shout and run, but not towards the beer kellers. It’s a mini riot. Seven or eight police cars swerve out of a nearby square. I hold up two police cars by jack-knifing the bike as further down the road the first punch is thrown. We divert to the river for pizza, beers and cokes. Before we’re three quarters of the way through an icy bottle of Becks someone tries to relieve us of the bottle to claim the deposit. Two of the punk girls from the fountain jingle past, black tights laddered, tight leopard skin tops still waterlogged.  They carry a blue plastic cup and offer kisses in return for money. There are few takers.

Four cities in four days with my four tandem riders.  Bonn is the home of Beethoven, the cultured one, the grown up one, the former capital, the parent. It’s Stuart, but smarter. It’s in a foul temper too, as we crawl along its banks amidst headwinds and squalls. Time and again we are forced to shelter under a tree, sodden and cold. We find a rubbish hotel. It’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Stuart goes to watch an organ concert somewhere while we go to Netto to buy cheap chocolate and an even cheaper carton of German wine. 
Four cities in four days. Four of my favourite people. Perhaps I am the river, flitting around them all, fast flowing and choppy, too busy and focussed on the journey to spend too much time with each. But unlike the Rhein, I can slow down. I declare tomorrow a day off. To relax on the banks, wander the city and explore a museum or two.  It’s a popular decision. The sun shines on us all for the first time in four days.   

Carry on up the Rhein

We cross over the Rhein in search of a campsite that may or may not exist, and stumble across a stony beach. Lying our washing out to dry, we put on crocks and swimming costumes and wade in. Stuart first, into the wide murky freshwater. “Ouch!” he stubs his toe on something in the depths. A brief exploration pulls up two handlebars, followed by a bicycle frame complete with rusty chain and buckled tyres. He hops on to the bike and tries to pedal into the current. The kids all take a turn at posing with the bikes before a quick swim.

The party ends with a clap of thunder. “Let’s carry on up the Rhein,” says Stuart. “I don’t want to go up the Rhein,” says Cameron, a phrase he has been repeating for days. We quickly dress and pedal into the next village, which seems to be hosting a battle of the brass bands. Thunder competes with horns and drums as we push on, in search of the mythical campsite. Behind us, menacing clouds paint the sky. The horizon resembles a frozen tornado.  ‘Boom, pedal, boom, pedal, boom boom boom,’ Lightening flashes in every direction, adrenalin pushes through our systems and our pulses seem to beat in time with the constant thunder. Still no rain, but no campsite either. Heading for the only road to have a halo of light around it in the black gloom, we pass through a nondescript industrial town. As waves of rain head towards our backs, we race on, into the trees. With seconds to go before the deluge, we pull the tent out of the bag. As Stuart puts the pegs into the ground and we grab the guy ropes, lightening flashes directly above us.  The thunder almost bursts our ears as we pull Hannah out of the buggy and rush into the tent. Outside Stuart is caught in the monsoon, his clothes sticking to his body as he drips onto the tent.

Inside, we calm a panicked Hannah, listen to the thunder, and eat chocolate while Stuart tries not to drip onto the sleeping bags. We laugh about Dad getting wet again. “I told you I was going to cycle up the Rhein,” he says. “But you haven’t,” says Cameron, reminding everyone that he has no intentions of doing such a thing. But soon the penny drops. “Oh, is the Rhein a river? I thought it was a mountain range,” he confesses, snuggling down into his sleeping bag. “I don’t mind cycling up the Rhein with you after all Dad. I like that river.”

Things that make you feel small

Things that make you feel small:
~Swimming against the current of the Rhine.
~Trying to sleep in a tent in an almighty thunderstorm.
~Gazing up at the Gothic spires of Koln's Dom
~Taking a three year old up 1260 steps noticing she's not tired and you're almost dead.
~Cycling across a continent, knowing there are five more you could try.
~Listening to a gospel choir knowing you can't sing.
~Accidentally cycling into a neo-Nazi demonstration with police vans behind you.
~Realising we're less than a quarter of the way to Venice.

Crossing the line

Somewhere we crossed a line and something changed. It wasn’t the border; that passed without about as much fanfare as a coffee in a café. The road from Holland to Germany has no obvious border. No flag, policeman, passport control, bureau de change; not even a Wilkommen sign. Not even a line in the road. Just an EU blue sign marks the end of one nation and the beginning of another. 

European borders are not what they used to be. Gone is the excitement of passport checks, a customs inquisition or foreign exchange transaction while struggling to mentally switch languages or find your new phrase book in you pannier. No, no such drama these days; the price of freedom of movement. Shame, for it made European travel so much more fun.
Somewhere we crossed a line and something changed. Somewhere in Germany, riding up the Rhine, sweet innocent Rhineland left us following her dark industrial brother.  No more pasture, wheat field, canal, orchards and windmills. No more cobbled squares, village pumps, churches, bakerei, cafes and mediaeval charm.  No more bird song or whip of wooden boom gibing on the wind.

Freight barges dominate the river here, overruling currents to drop loads where and when they want to. In the dockyards juggernauts rattle on industrial cobble, past railyard and dock to smokestack horizons. Dockside is blockside, concrete buildings, modern lines, function dictating form; no place for art or architecture here.  The grey sky says it all. What need for colour beyond the charcoal, silver and grey of the great industrial revolution.  It’s easy to yearn for sweet Rhineland but we need to experience these contrasts to appreciate the many different characters of the Rhine.

Somewhere we crossed a line and something changed. I couldn’t tell you which day it was or when or where it happened but there’s been a quiet transformation in the family in the week we’ve been on the road. We’re not the family we were at home, now shorn of our usual routines, personal space, possessions and private time. Now we’re tied together on tandems, trying to work together, pushing and shoving, jigging and jostling, hugging and hitting, learning and loving, as we struggle to figure out a different way of being together on this journey. 

It takes a while to work it out, to find our new places, roles and ways of relating, to appreciate the complex meshings of our different characters, but as we do we come to know that as a family we can also forge ourselves into a team.

Getting into the rhythm of the road

Our first full week of cycling. Filled with the usual first week questions of how to establish a rhythm, pace and sense of purpose for the trip. Setting the ground rules, figuring out how we function as a family; what works for us now as opposed to last year, individually and as a group. It’s probably the biggest juggling act we do all year and as usual at the beginning we are inept at handling all the balls. At home the rules have been long established. We all know what we do and we know our place and role within the family. Here, it’s all up for grabs. These days any one of us is capable of putting up the tent, shopping for bread or sorting out bedding. But for us all it’s an unfamiliar world; we don’t speak the language or know the area and there’s no one to rescue us if we’re stuck in a city without a bed, or lost somewhere on the Rhine. Stuart decides to make each person a different team captain every day. It’s on a rota and everyone has a turn. Matthew takes it all very seriously and works out coffee stops, playground breaks and a route for his day. Cameron instantly loses the captain’s armband and can’t be bothered to make a decision of any kind unless it involves a happy meal. Hannah defers her decisions to Dolly. When it’s my turn to be captain Stuart makes me navigate which results in a row.  Stuart meanwhile can’t give up making the decisions and undermines everyone all the time. 

It takes the kids a few days to realise that the most expensive ice creams aren’t sustainable on a long trip like this. It takes a few days for us all to come to terms with the daily routine of cycling, and with the tiredness that accompanies it. And for Stuart and I to figure out how much cycling is too much. A challenge for us is how to make it safe without being dull; and how much we humour the narrow interests and preferences of an 8, 7 and 3 year old. Do we divert to campsites every night or throw ourselves at the mercy of fate and locals? How much of the budget do we spend on conventional attractions? Two days ago we splashed out on visiting a Roman town complete with breezeblock coliseum. But the kids preferred the dollar’s worth of Haribo sweets they were rewarded with afterwards for being good little Roman soldiers.     

One thing we know from experience..when it all goes belly up, it’s the children that come to our rescue; pedalling hard to get us to where we need to be, navigating or putting up the tent in the dark. Last night, in Duisberg, after a long 50 kilometre day of cycling, we biked to where the hotel was marked on the map. It turned out to be several districts away, involving a 20 kilometre ride. Tired legs had to take us without complaint to a hostel with no cooking facilities and we would have to make our own beds. While Cameron climbed into the buggy and fell asleep, it was Hannah who powered Stuart and his tandem right across town. “We are the winners” she shouted as she passed me, in the suburbs, one hand in the air in a victory salute. A true captain doesn’t always have to ask her dolly.

The Language Barrier

In the town of Maarsee we make a detour from the main road. A tent icon on our map indicates there is a campsite nearby. But it seems unlikely, as row after row of houses line ordered roads full of smart terraced homes. Neatly dressed people take their evening stroll. I ask for directions to the campsite from two matronly looking ladies standing gossiping by the roadside. They have no English and we have no Dutch, but they quickly understand we need to camp, as we keep hopefully repeating the word ‘camping.’ The ladies launch into an animated babble, pointing left, then right, then round the corner. We try to keep up, pointing left then right then round the corner with them, but it’s pretty obvious we don’t know where we are going. An elderly couple walk past holding hands and are dragged into the debate. They have no English either, but shout a lot and point right then left then around the corner. Five minutes later they are still debating, screaming at each other in Dutch, and we are standing helplessly with our bikes, wondering how to close the conversation down when we don’t speak the language. A woman and her daughter walk past with their dog, enjoying the evening sunshine. Soon they too are babbling, pointing right then left then round the corner. When two more people are brought into the conversation and eight people are now pointing right and left and around the corner, we start to laugh.
We spent a week in Holland at Easter, and not a single person spoke Dutch to us. In the last few days we have been desperately swotting up German, unconcerned about the Dutch language as we haven’t needed it. “Everyone speaks English,” we happily agreed, as we bought bread or negotiated for a youth hostel. But clearly, if you venture more than 200 metres off the main road, they don’t.

The woman we initially stopped grabs us by the arm, then points into her house. We shake our heads vehemently; we can’t stay with you. But then she grabs a bike from her hall, and pink flowery dress billowing behind her, she beckons us to follow her. Left, then right then round the corner we go several times, before pulling up at a caravan park. The gentleman at reception doesn’t need much English to tell us we aren’t welcome. A simple ‘no’ is sufficient. But now we have two problems; the first is where to sleep and the second is how to dismiss the lady in the flowery dress who seems intent on accompanying us on wherever we go next. It seems the nearest campsite is in Utrecht, fifteen kilometres away. We thank her for her time and she babbles on enthusiastically. We bid her goodbye, and she talks even more. We get on our bikes, cycle left, then right, then round the corner, and she parts company with us at the main road. It’s no place for locals, they speak a foreign language there.

Two hours on and we reach the campsite in Utrecht. Here everyone speaks English, or rather Irish; the run down site has been taken over by a gypsy community. “How much did your bike cost?” is the first question they pose before crowding us with their queries. Babies in nappies, cats, teenagers and a goat hang out all over the site, and the men hold an Irish football tournament across the only available field. We put up our tent with an audience of children, and a goat wanders onto the groundsheet and makes off with the Ritz crackers. Our children chase after it and retrieve a box covered in goat flem.“Is that your goat,” Stuart jokes? “Yes,” a child shrugs. The goat is very interested in our bikes and the tent. We shoo it away and it urinates on the tent next door.

At bedtime I take all our valuables and our children into the tent while Stuart goes off for a shower. A few minutes after he leaves, there’s a snuffling at the front of the tent, then a shaking, then something rams it. “It’s the goat,” I squeal, bashing it with my novel. Further along the tent the material shakes violently. “Go away you stupid goat,” Hannah cries, whacking it with her dolly. Then, a rustling from the other side. “It’s the goat, he’s over there,” cries Cameron. At the same time one of the gypsy girls shouts, “Here goaty, come here goaty.” I am incensed. “Who brings a damn goat on holiday?”I start to whack the side of the tent with my book where the goat was last seen, and pull open the zip. Crouched on the ground is Stuart, on his knees, with two fingers against his head to make horns. He’s ramming the tent with his head. I whack him with my book on the top of his horns. My language, I’m afraid, is unrepeatable, but everyone, from the Dutch to the Irish, gets the gist of it.

The storm before the calm

Everything's gone crazy: tandems in the yard, trailers in the living room, panniers on the breakfast table. Clothes, sleeping bags, tents, toiletries, toys, tools, torches, tickets, plasters, ponchos, passports, locks and keys, maps, guide books, cameras, credit cards, kitchen, and more. Everything you need (or think you need) to take a family of five on the road for seven weeks. All waiting to be packed. It just all seems so complex. So many things and all got to fit into those panniers. There will have to be some culling - of things not people!

 

Right now it all seems so crazy and complicated. So much to think about and remember.  And that's just the packing. Then there's the other list: money to get, hostels to book, campsites to research, library books to go back, house to clean, mp3's to load, phones to charge, washing to do, teachers to thank, kids to bath....... Too much. TOO MUCH. And what for? What could possibly be worth this living nightmare?

 

Answer? The simplicity that follows. For once it's all packed and loaded things life on the road is pure and simple. Eating, drinking, camping and pedalling, laughing, living and learning as family on a romp across Europe. It's the certain knowledge of that that will get us through to lift off in just 47 hours.

In the grip: pre-trip gear anxiety

Do you suffer from pre-expedition gear anxiety? You know that feeling there’s some vital piece of gear you’re missing without which your trip could take a turn for the worse and be ruined in ways you can’t yet imagine? You don’t know what this gear is but you know it might be out there somewhere, in one of the many mountain hardware stores, outfitters or camping shops you feel obliged to visit in a vain and time consuming effort to allay your generalised anxiety by either finding the missing link or confirming you really have already got every possibly useful gadget known to man.



I can’t believe I still get it, after so many years of planning and gearing up for tours. Although I’m getting better at resisting the pull of the gear shops in the months and weeks before departure day. For I increasingly know in my heart of hearts that it’s not the hardware that makes our tours a success but the software – our skills, mental attitude and experience, things you can’t buy off the shelf but have to nurture and develop in yourself and those you travel with.

I had an email from someone recently, who sounded in the grip of gear anxiety: “What are the most important things to take on a family bike journey?” she asked, “I'm a bit paraniod that I'm going to forget something!” We exchanged lists of gear at first, comparing notes on what she had, what we took and what she though she might need. But in doing so we nearly missed the most important things because it’s not getting the hardware ready that matters (although it does) but preparing the team....

Family expeditions are an essentially human endeavour. And while it’s easy (and tempting) to focus all your attention on packing your kit bags, your success depends on getting yourself and your family ready together. Of course what you’re going to need depends on you, your family and what you hope to achieve so there’s no easy list to follow here. But it’s interesting to think about what the other ‘stuff’ is that you and your family need to make your adventures together a success, for everyone.

Here’s where we got to thinking about making our long-distance cycle tours a success; it’s a kind of mindset kit list for a happy family tour.

1 Positive attitude(!)
2 Patience and flexibility.
3 Determination (but only if you really want to get there)
4 Imagination (to overcome whatever obstacles you encounter)
5 Good route choices (safe, quiet= enjoyable, past interesting things to stop at)
6 Clear goals everyday (that everyone’s on board with)
7 Keep everyone looking ahead (things to look forward to: today, in a few days, this week, next)
8 Well managed expectations (about hills, hard days, easy days, when to stop, where to stay)
9 Staying open to unexpected (even if it slows you down or takes you off route)
10 Accomodating everyones needs (the hardest but probably most important)

So, what would be on your list?
(Here's a tip: Make a list. It'll keep you away from the gear shops. You'll save you a fortune.)