We have now been home almost as long as we spent away on our cycle adventure.

We had a great time, cycled all the way from just north of Barcelona after using the train to get out of the city. From Girona right through to Hook van Holland, we only used our trusty bicycles for transport, surprised ourselves really, we had left it open to making up miles on a train or bus, but we got into the groove, cycling for four or five hours every day, mostly seven days a week, averaging around 55 to 60 kilometres a day, amazing how you can eat your way across a map .

Met marvelous people who made us very welcome, we hope we did not upset anyone by camping in the wrong spot, if we did, they did not say anything to us.

If you feel inclined, and have some time to spare, click on the links below to view some of the places we've been and meet some of the people who made the trip so special.

Photos from France.

Then Belgium and Holland.

And finally from England.

The Angels Story

Hello, I am an Angel. Not one of those that float around on clouds playing harps all day, no way! I am made of brass and only as long as a little finger on a human hand. My first memories are of arriving in a little cardboard box, wrapped in tissue paper and being unwrapped at the house of Claus Taeger in a town called Elmhorn, in Germany. There are a group of people in this town that form part of a tribe called "Christian". This branch of the tribe have a custom of lending members of my tribe to people who are about to begin, or are on, a journey of some kind.
Claus took me along with him on the back of his motorbike, when he set off to visit his daughter in Bordeaux, France. I was so excited, never before had I travelled so far and so fast. Claus was a very careful rider and I felt quite safe, but there was a nasty moment when a horrible wailing sound filled the air all around me and the motorbike came to a stop. A man in a uniform, talking a strange language was rousing on Clause and writing things into a book. I think it may have been something about the way he'd been riding his motorbike, so I was not able to help him this time.
At a place called La Rochelle (isn't that a lovely name), I was feeling nice and cosy in Claus"s tent, in the distance I heard Claus talking to two of the other campers, they talked for a long time into the night, and even shared a glass of wine together. It was very late then, when I was disturbed from my resting place and taken to the tent belonging to some people from New Zealand. Claus told them he wanted me to go with them on their bicycle journey and look after them, at the end of their journey, they should pass me on to others who are setting out on some sort of journey.
Later the next day, there I was, perched in a bag on the handlebars of Don's bike. I have worked out their names, the other is Val and they camp in the woods and pack up each morning, riding on and on and on. I feel very comfortable with them, they seem to make friends with people along the way, even though they do not always speak the same language, though Val is getting passably good at this French speak. In fact when Don and Val try to talk to each other as they ride along, it seem that they do not understand each other all the time either, but I am not one to tell those sorts of stories. For a couple of people their age, living on the ground and peddling a bike all day, they really do get on pretty well.

Every day or so they get me out of the handlebar bag and give me a loving rub with warm fingers, I really like that. One day Val put me into her handlebar bag for a change, I enjoyed that a lot, because she is a very careful rider, taking her time crossing busy roads and not taking the sort of risks that Don takes at times, really puts me on the tip of my wings at times getting ready to protect him, not that I can help too much in that sort of situation (remember what happened to Claus).

I'd been in Vals bag for several days, when, on a hot day in a small rural town in France, my two companions had lunch on the town green, then lay down for a short rest, Val going to sleep, with me in her bag just alongside her head. Don read a book for several pages before he too dozed off. I can't be too sure of exactly what happened next, but suddenly there was violent movement, a slamming car door, revving motor, followed by a fast take off. The voice that spoke was in French I think, followed by the sound of zips opening, the light momentarily blinded me and the camera that had been my best friend, was taken from my side. I was struggling to maintain composure, but knew I had to work really hard to ensure that I was safely returned to the ones I had been trusted to look after. I had no time to feel bad about letting this happen. I had a lot of work to do. More zips zipping, a cry of excitement from the person holding the bag, more rocking and tumbling for me and my other travelling companions, Val's favourite pocket knife was having a really rough time but managed to stay in place. My neighbours in the next pocket were gone though, the really nice Euro family, all 300 of them, gone in a flash. I was working really hard, concentrating on the best possible outcome. We had left the town and were speeding out the main road to the next town. My action sensors had finally established the wave length of the person holding me and really without thinking of the consequences for myself and my fellow baggies I got a "throw the bag out the window" message through, and next thing we were tumbling through the air at goodness knows what speed. Thump, roll, tumble, stop. Dead quiet. The Credit Cards in the side pocket were ok, so was the passport, oh sure we were battered and bruised, but out of the car. Still more to do.

Getting into long range mode, I began transmitting, could I possibly get Don and Val to come out on this road, even if they did, would either of them see us down here in the roadside ditch. So many questions, so much still to do. Twenty minutes later, it seemed an eternity (now thats something I know about!) I could hear the humming wheels of Domingo (thats Dons bike) approaching, oh joy, he''s sharp eyed, he'll see me. How wrong I was, he went past without a glance. Come on, I urged myself, get beaming, turn up the angel juice, you have to catch Val.

I thought she'd gone past, but then I heard the familiar screech of Gingers brakes, followed by Val caling on Don to stop. Soon I was back in Vals hands, assured and releived as she looked through and found each of her treasured items, notebook, pocket knife, bank cards, me of course, I had done my best and they were so relieved, I had failed to stop the thief, but had somewhat saved the day. Hey, but that's what Angels do don't they?.

Where Are We Now

In the town of Givet, the most northerly in France, following the Meurse River and canal path where this afternoon we will enter Belgium.

Another change of plan- not going to Cologne now, want to get to Holland and see as much as we can there, like art galleries, Van Gogh museums and some of the new towns in rural areas.

France has been just great, the people fantastic, fun loving and generous in sharing their beautiful countryside with us. Will try and recount some more of our experiences in later blogs.

Oh by the way, there was someone (or two) who tried to spoil our day. We were snoozing after luch a week or so back; a small rural village green, road on three sides. Both of us dropped into q deep sleep and Vals small handlebar bag was lifted. 300Euros, passport, bank cards, address book etc. We looked around the perimiter, no one in site to ask if they'd seen anything, so off we went to ride 12ks to the nearest gendarmerie. One kilometer out of town, in the tabledrain alongside the road, Val spotted her bag, everything intact except for the cash and her camera. The camera was the biggest loss because she had been taking photos of interest to her and some places we had not both been, so I had not doubled up. We recorded the loss with the police and will see how we go with insurance; but to ride out on the same road the theif had taken and actually find the bag ourselves was a miracle (that could be attributed to something we were given, and the subject of another blog)

Boules on the Street

It was stinking hot, we'd given up on trying to follow the L'Aigle canal and headed north for the Margne. Coming into a small village in the middle of grain crops as far as the eye could see, we were brought to a stop by people standing on one side of the road and bowling a wooden boule onto the road and into the gravel of the roadside; on closer inspection there in amongst the stones and debris of the tabledrain was a small jack. We were seeing road boules for the first time. All down thge hill past the village houses, teams of six were doing the same. We went on down weaving in and out until near the bottom of the hill a side street ran up to an open area near the church, here others were assembled, drinking beer, champagne (this was the Ardennes, Champagne country) and the odd fruit drink. This turned out to be day three of the Village Saints Day; we were welcome to stay and could put our tent up on a bit of grass at the bottom of the road out of town.

We bought a beer and sat down. Val had a chat to one of the locals, there was more boules to be played, then a barbeque followed by music and dancing. Did I want to stay asked Val, I'm not feeling too comfortable yet I said; the words were barely out of my mouth when a party going past on their way to the "boules pitch" stopped in front of us; You are from New Zealand one of them asked, pointing at the flag on Vals bag, yes, are you staying the night and have you somewhere to stay? The only person who spoke english was called in to help. Jerome has a mobile home and you are welcome to stay in it if you want. Off the group went and I said to Val that that was the sort of feedback that suited me and yes, it would be great to take up Jeromes offer.

A couple of champagnes later we finally tracked Jerome down, he was just off to ply the final of the Boules tournament. We went down the hill and there they were in the entrance to a farm shed, playing the last end. Jerome embraced his two opponents, did a double cheek kiss with his partner, turned and signalled to all and sundry to follow him, turning as he departed to make sure we understood that we were to come too.

In the tiled kitchen of Jeromes kitchen the champagne corks were popping and shot glasses put out for the nine or ten people in the room. Glasses filled there was general toasting to the Champions, followed by a second top-up of glasses, then Jeromes parntner, suntanned shaven head, well built, fixed his gaze squarely on me and rattled off something in French and came around the table to stand alongside me, glass poised below his lips and looking for me to meet the challenge, what could I do, the reputation of the All Blacks was at stake, I may drown in the attempt, but what a way to go; drowning in pink champagne on the rolling country of the Ardennes.

We drank two glasses each in quick succession and the mob in the kitchen went wild. Fortuitously one of the boules officials arrived at the door just then and summonsed the winning team back up the hill for the presentation ceremony.

What followed was a great evening, we got stuck into the dancing (one french lady was deluded by the way Val and I were cutting around the floor (ashfelt actually) in the first dance and got me up for the second, where she was soon disolusioned and delivered my back to Val before the DJ started the second bracket!

Jerome was a gracious host, we were to use his bathroom and kitchen whenever, we got to bed lqte qnd got up late, packed and rode off into a stinking hot day with great memories of a little village of around 100 people who allowed us to share their Saint, and it must be in the running for the town with shortest name in France, "Son".

Where are We

Tody we are in the home of the Sainmont family of Orleon. They found us yesterday, hot and forlorn outside the closed gate of the city camping ground, befriended us and invited us back to their house where we put out tent up on their lawn and we had a shared meal with them on the patio of their house. Philippe and Clauda have five boys, two we met last night, one, Johan is planning a working trip to NZ later this year, so we hope to see him in Picton at our house.

The trip is fantastic, we only get sick of it when the weather is too hot and thunderstorms blow the tent down in th e middle of the night, otherwise people arejust so friendly, as you can see by the above.

Riding into Rochefort a couple of weeks ago, we were dreading having to join a very busy road going over one of those high arching, inverted D type bridges, surprised that we were getting so far on a very new cycle path when suddenly there appeared a small Asterix looking man pushing his bike towards us. Tiny with shoulder length grey hair, a canary green cycle shirt with Tour de France 2004 on the back, and very short, tight cycling pants, he approached us with hand outstretched, shook us each by the hand and commenced a conversation with Val. It appeared that the cycle way was not completed and we were the first to use it, he then offered to lead us to the bridge. On arrival at the bridge, we shook his hand and thanked him, but no, he was comin g over with us. On the other side we went through the same routine, but once again, he signalled us to follow him and he would show us the cycle path.

Well several armwaving confrontations with tooting motorists, then . sitting at the front of the traffic on roundabouts gesticulating to the cars behind as to where his entourage was headed, we went through the middle of town and out the other side. Fifteen kilometres later we were sitting in the bar of a small village pub shouting our friend Andre a beer. We had been personally introduced to everyone in th e bar and it transpired from Vals conversing in French with a "little" English, that Andre was President of the local Cycling Club and a well known identity. We were very impressed by this "big" little man.

Our direction has changed again, we leave the Loire valley today on a line drawn across the map of Europe to Cologne, on the Rhine, following all the small roads as close to that line as we can.

Window On The Boulevard

Or two star hotel in Toulousse was on a sharply angled corner, our room on the third floor was the tip of the angle and our window looked straight up the Boulevard. To the right side was the Midi canal, whose cycle track had led us to the door, while on the left, lanes and streets led to back alleys and dead ends.

Sunday afternoon, drizzling rain, the window providing a peephole to life on the street. Something was happening, I noticed people gathering on the Canal side of the street, not many, a man and a woman pointing across the street toward a lane, something out of my sight, they were joined by a third and fourth person, all absorbed, pointing and chatting voluably. Another man arrived with a dog, handshakes all round, more pointing and chatting, I could not imagine what was happening.

Soon the gathering had swelled to ten or more, three or four with dogs on leads, then people started coming out of the lane, some walking boldly into the traffic and forcing it to stop, others more cautious, hanging back waiting for the gaps, but all being greeted enthusiastically with handshakes, back slapping and camaraderie from the people, not so from the dogs, snarling posturing and barking they milled about. What was going on, Val was soaking in the bath, I was supposed to be making a cup of tea (on our camp stove, in the room), but this street theatre had me mezmerized. Then a white van appeared, I had not noticed it arrive, but it was backing down the canal path from the traffic lights on a corner two hundred metres away and now stopped, people appeared at the back door and began unloading metal frames and vinyl covers, maybe a concert of some sort?

Now a colourful character appeared, rainbow coloured knitted Beret with a pom pom, two dogs and being greeted like someone returned from a long holiday. Another man arried with two back packs, three dogs and a set of Bongo Drums, maybe the concert idea was right. Dog fights starte up in three different areas, men yelled at and kicked at dogs until order was restored, the crowd now fifty or more surged forward in reasonable order as tables appeared under the awnings large white boxes were lifted onto the table by willing helpers, Sunday Soup Kitchen was under way. Some took their lot and sat on the ground alone, others sat in circles of six to eight, dogs interspersed among them, slovering for leftovers; all the dogs looked well fed.

Suddenly a dog fight erupted on the lane side of the Boulevard, a man in camoflage coloured trousers holding four dogs on a lead,was trying to cross the road, a fifth dog on its own, was harassing the others and their chances of getting across the road unscathed did not look good. The frol the canal side stepped the man in the coloured beret, holding up one hand to the oncoming traffic he walked to the middle of the three lanes stared the drivers to a halt, and signalled the man with the dogs into the road and to the other side.

The food van was there for several hours, the party went on till well after dark; I witnessed the gathering of an unusual club, one I suspect that is easy to join but extremely hard to leave.

Where The Tracks are Now

We did stick with our plan to ride the Canal bike trail to Bordaux, a really great experience. The canal does not have any commercial traffic these days, only private barges, some beautiful conversions of former work boats, and of course the many charter boats.

First night out of Toulouse we just camped on the canal bank, second night we asked one of the canal bank residents about camping on the bank outside his house and before we knew it we were in his backyard, then he waved his arms at a caravan on blocks in the yard and said we could use it if we liked. We did and for once it did not rain during the night, so we had dry tents for the next night.

The path this day took us past a Nuclear Power Plant, which seemed to be located alongside a small village and all seemed comfortable with the situation. The Garonne River was swollen with all the rain, water the colour of Tomato Soup, great tree trunks and assorted rubbish being swept along in the torrent. The canal ran adjacent to the river and we only saw it once every five or six kilometers. As the evening approached we went into a small village, had a beer at the local and enquired about camping. Mine host and several of the local lads indicated that the Sports Ground or the Canal bank would be ok, everyone would turn a blind eye apparently. On investigating the canal bank we heard people speaking in English, ¨Where are you from¨ Val asked, ¨New Zealand¨ they cried, pointing at the silver fern and NZ flag flying at the bow of their charter boat. They were from Christchurch, and one couple actually lived at Sefton!!

Next day we were approached by another Christchurch couple also on the same Canal, so we are getting some good chats in English at the moment. The bike trail brought us right into the centre of Bordeaux and we are set up in a two star hotel right in the heart of the old city, which is extraordinarily beautiful. Today we have been looking at some of the beautiful buildings, art galleries that are not closed, and eating lunch in a nice little restaurant, so this cycle touring is not all roughing it in the bush, dealing with ticks, slugs, ants and miriads of other crawlies, none as big and bad as those in Australia though.

Mothers Day With Louise

We d done a sneaky camp on the banks of the Arrone River, less than a days ride from Toulouse, the church bells had been really pealing their clangers off, and people the day before had been walking the streets with flowers and wine: for it was Mothers Day in France.

Louise was standing in front of a florist shop, big bunch of flowers in her arms, being bussed on both cheeks by a young woman I assumed was her daughter. ¨A photo¨ exclaimed Val. I got the photo when she was halfway across the street, and as she saw the camera, gave a lively jig waving her flowers at us, pretty good for a woman who looked closer to eighty than seventy.

A chirpy conversation ensued between her and Val, establishing what we were doing and where we were from, then as she spoke, I noticed her feeling around in her purse and then produced a Fifty Euro note which she thrust into Vals hand. ¨Non, Non,¨ Val protested, some further conversation ensued, after which Val relented her protest. We did ¨Merci boquets¨ all round, everyone bussed twice on alternate cheeks, and off we rode out of Louises life.

Well, not before we had got her name and address, Val telling me that she understood that she was a widow with no children and though that we were worthy of a pampering. What a lovely lady.

That morning on the riverbank, as we were packing our tent, three men in camoflage trousers and jackets came across the grass; weve done it now, I thought, fishing and camping inspectors for sure. No, just a jolly three fishermen, who, when they found we were from New Zealand, tried to talk about Rugby, with a smidgen of success; the names Merthens, Oliver and Umunga were mangled and mashed around with lots of ¨Oiu, Oius¨ thrown in. Needless to say, the conversation did not last very long, but bonhomie was well and truly established.

Then an hour later, when Val went for walk round a monster garge type sale in a town park, I struck up a conversation with an English speaking Engineer from the Airbus Company, who was keen on NZ, had not been there, but had business dealings with us and in particular a big fellow who was a former All Black (of course, by the end of this trip, I myself, will probably be one!). Actually he did name him and I recognised it, but have now forgotten who it was, Bill someone.

These are the sort of things that are just one of the delights arising from sitting on a bike allday, get hot, cold, smelly and knackered. I hope it inspires some of my readers into trying it sometime.

Where The Tracks Are Now

In summary, we have crossed the Pyrenees into France, just opposite Barcelona, then headed back towards the Mediterranean coast in the foothills of the French Pyrenees. Lots of ups and downs, but the scenery has been fantastic, the villages beautiful but very quiet compared to Spain, but the French people themselves have been a lot of fun. Vals French is improving by the day!

We arrived in Toulouse on Sunday, it was drizzling rain but the track along the Midi Canal side led us to the centre of the city, where we decided to pamper ourselves with a couple of days in a two star hotel. After finding a couple that were either full up, or just not interested in catering for bikes, we found one that just loved bikes and put up with wet tents in the bath and hanging out the window above the Boulevard. Doing some sight seeing and hoping the weather will improve.

Change of plan has us keeping on the Garonne Canal towards Bordeaux, may even slope across to the Atlantic coast, but we are nothing if not flexible on this trip, so that could change at any time.

Bad Day in Un Castillo

I rode down a long hill into Un Castillo, a small town two days bike ride from Pamplona, without putting on some warm clothes, the local bar had coffee, cigarette smoke and no Croissants, so we went looking. The girl in the information office said there was an Internet Cafe, but her directions did not work. The guy cleaning the street seemed to know where it was, but we could not understand him. My day was not going well; Val tried supportive councelling, but it fell on deaf ears.

Up to this point I had really been enjoying Spain, my ignorance of languages had been covered by Vals burgeoning Spanish skills, and the standard response to the question ¨Do you speak English¨ usually elicited a ¨Non¨, with an unspoken question that seemed to be ¨Why should I¨. Matter of fact and non offensive.

Being under pressure to get my Blog updated, this wall of impenetrable Spanish, accompanied by waving arms and pointed directions, led to my minor breakdown.

Such are the joys of cycle touring, the pressures, decisions, responses seem to be directly related to blood sugar levels, and at any one point in a days riding, a word thrown over your shoulder, or projected ahead to your cycle mate, can be blown away, torn to pieces and reassembled in many ways, not all of them gentlemanly.

Sneaky Camping

By definition, sneaky camping is staying along the track or roadside without the permission of the landowner or local authority. So, for me, the mission is to find a suitable spot, flat enough for the tent and concealed from the eyes of anyone passing by. Once this is established, the bikes and gear have to be moved off the road and into seclusion without being observed. Because it is obvious to anyone who sees you that you are looking to camp sneakily, and if they happened to be of evil intent, they could take advantage of us.

So, all this is in my mind as we search for the ideal site, add to this the rapid approach of nighfall and a cycling amigo who only has a couple of k´s left in her legs and the pressure begins to come on.

Our first night out on the road from Fraca, where we got off the train from Barcelona, and on a backroad to the famous Costa Brava, it was drizzling rain and getting cold, Val was riding shotgun and I was on the lookout for that ideal site when unexpectedly we came to a main road. Val thought we´d missed a couple of likely sites and things did not look too promising. Crossing the main road into a small ancient village we came across a bike trail and soon we found an ideal site where we spent a night in total peace and quiet, getting back on the road without upsetting any of the locals.

The next nght, having ´´done the Costa Brava¨ we climbed out of the town via a very steep road and found ourselves in a National Park area, signs all over the place saying no camping and one that I thought meant no ´bivvy´ camping as well, (this later proved to be an open tin can with a line through it, discouraging littering). Eventually we found a side track with plenty of trees and cover, and as the night was mild we decided to bivvy camp without the tent.

We´d been there an hour or so, and had tea well under way when the sound of a vehicle stopping close by and door slamming put (me) on high alert. Shortly, throught the trees I could make out a person scouting from side to side with a stick in one hand, looking intently at the ground, poking things every so often with the stick.
´´He´s following our tracks¨ I said to Val and indeed he was on the path we had made. Advancing and still peering intently at the ground he was only 15 metres away without seeing us when I decided to reveal ourselves.
´´Hola´´ I said (my only word of Spanish at this point), he looked around for the voice,
´´Hello¨ I said to alert him of the presence of Gringos (thats what the Tom Mix comics called the likes of us anyway)
´´Hola´´ he said unconcernedly and continued on his prodding, searching way. For the next half hour or more he moseyed around, not searching for sneaky campers but for little gems of wild flowers and herbs that were growing in wild profusion under our feet.

Buying A Bike in Barcelona

Well all my time spent on the Internet trying to contact bike sellers in Barcelona went by the board. In the end our International cycle host, Adrien, and expatriate Frenchman living in the city and working as a tourist guide, turned out to be a real goldmine. Apart from giving us somewhere to sleep and recover from the horrors of long plane rides, he knew all the bike places in the city and marked them on our mud map.

First stop, a bike rental place with a heap of worn out bikes for sale. The owner, a woman with a good sense of humour and a very adequate command of English, allowed me to take it for a test ride,
¨I will leave my wife as security´´
´´Ah but you may ride off to find a new one!!´´
It had plenty of gears, was lighweight, the seat had no adjustment following some past repair job and the deal was 100 euros with option to return it if we did not get a satisfoctory mechanical report. We wheeled the animal all over Barcelona looking for a shop I´d located online with a good reputation ( as endorsed by my international cycling buddies). Koos´s mechanic (Koos owns the shop), also Dutch, shook his head and tut tutted numerous times over the fact that the bike should not be sold with a seat that could not be adjusted ´´We saw this bike advertised on the internet and sent them an email telling them that it should not be sold in this condition´´. He had nothing in the secondhand line, but added his weight to our host´s suggestion that Tomas Domingo, a ¨Bike Warehouse´´, may be worth a try. We bought some fancy pink ´´Ortleib´´ panniers for Val, a bike pump and rejoined the streets of Barcelona with our less than healthy bike in tow, busting for a pee and discovering that Barcelona does not supply public toilets with any degree of generosity.
Arriving at Tomas Domingos, we found him away at Siesta, so we filled in time drinking a couple of beers on the pavement cafe opposite and watched with great interest the workings of an automated city bike hire system. Hirers swìped a card over the reader, one of the bikes was released and they rode it around to another rack in the city and plonked it back into the self locking recesses. There were hundreds of them all around the place.
Tomas had a good siesta, we used the cafe toilet (several times) and were first in the door when the shop opened.
They had the bike we needed, the salesman learned a new word of English when Val described his glasses, which broke in half across the nose piece, as ´´Freaky¨. They were held together magnetically, and when reading, he gathered both pieces from the string round his neck and clicked them together over his nose. All the other staff shared his amusement.
´´Domingo´´ is proving to be a good workhorse and has fallen madly in love with Val´s ´´Ginger´´. Ginger is feeling a little vulnerable as Val is now thinking that she needs a new touring bike too.

Minding the Green Apple "Chapple"

We talked a bit over the last few months about searching for someone to stay in our GAC (more about that later). Our real estate contact came up with a couple who were about to start building and needed a roof for some months. Well, the day they came to look over the house, who should turn up, at exactly the same time, but Leonie and Geoff, Leonie is an ex workmate of mine from my Rangiora days and they heard on the bush telegraph that we were were going "cycle-about" again. They are about to start building in Whatamango Bay, just round the corner from Picton, and dropped in to see if we wanted someone to look after the GAC.

Val has somewhat of a track record for serendipitous happenings around her house transactions in Plimmeron, and obviously the shift over the water to Picton has in no way diluted this wondrous gift, the first couple decided it was not for them, so Leonie and Geoff will be living in our house until August while they manage the project of building their place.

Counting Down

We've stripped Jindie (the bike staying at home) of pannier racks and accessories, cut things to the bare minimum in clothing and camping gear. Then clutching armfuls of all these items, plus panniers and Ginger, (Val's bike), I step onto the bathroom scales, while Val peers through graduated lenses at the tell-tale weight. We've got it down to 42 kilograms, hey, we'll carry that extra in our cabin bags (our limit is 40kg's).

Then friends come to stay for a couple of days, they have recently traveled to UK, and regale us with the news that cabin bags no longer run to two or three items, cram packed with all the overflow items, one under the seat, one in the overhead locker and the other in someone else's overhead locker space. These "new" rules now have one standard sized bag that needs to fit through the metal frame and weigh no more than 7ks. Hey, maybe there'll be a nice person on the check-in, they've been saying that for years now!.

Two weeks to departure but Val has left already, she can't put up with me in the last week before a big trip - feeling guilty about all the jobs left undone and the mopey thoughts of not being in our lovely house for months on end, missing all the machinery and tools in my workshop, as well as all the angst about only speaking English (and buying a bike in Barcelona). So she's gone to catch up with Gwil and Merla in Wanaka leaving me to annoy, only me.

The Excitement Mounts

I have spent a lot of time online trying to work out the best way to buy a bike in Barcelona. When it has all boiled down, there is still nothing in the pot. Someone offered me a near new Surly, but they were in Madrid and did not get back to me when I asked how much they wanted, not sure what they were up to.

Registering with Warmshowers.org and Cyclo Accueil Cyclo - Le CAC
we have made contact through CAC, with a cyling host in Barcelona, who, even though he will not be home when we arrive, will leave his key with a friend for us pick up and use his flat. This will be a great opportunity to crash for 12 hours and dispel the jetlag fog that is sure to be surrounding us.

Then it will be out onto the street searching for the bike that will carry me across Europe for the next 3 months. The only familiar thing about it will be the seat, I am bringing the seat off my old faithful Jindie, who sadly will be left home owing to our lean luggage allowance of 20kgs each.