France

The Magic of Progress by Bike 

Wobbling off the ferry in Boulogne-Sur-Mer, with the instant emersion into new sights and sounds and the slow movement forward, a beaming smile spread across my face. There is something magical about making progress on a bike. The combination of constantly changing backdrops and the pedals’ relentless demand for attention keeps my mind occupied and worries disappear as I crawl towards new horizons. My first evening on foreign soil brought a new high and on leaving the boat I laughed at everything I saw; I had cycled myself to France! A feeling of sensory overload hit me as my eyes darted between everything new, from posters to payphones to people and I never wanted it to end. 

Waking on my first morning in France, at a campsite I’d snuck into, I was keen to leave quickly, but the tent had other ideas. The hot days of England were continuing in France and as the dew rose in the cool night air, everything was soaked at sunrise. The worst thing that comes with a wet tent in France is the slugs; enormous monster-slugs. There’s nothing worse than finding a size nine slug squeezing into your size eight shoe first thing in the morning. Through preparation, I’d been recommended to pack a compass and last week I must have been the only person in 2010 to cross London purely by magnetic navigation. Today I found another use for it; realising that the tent definitely shouldn’t be in the shade in the morning, I decided to use the compass at every camp to make sure the sunlight hit my tent in the morning. 

With a dry tent, I said goodbye to the slugs and to the Atlantic, an ocean I won’t see now until the Americas, and my long journey East began. As my first country to cross and the third largest country in Europe, France brought with it diversity in every form. I instantly hoped this feeling could last forever as everyone I passed said ‘Bonjour’ with a friendly wave. Meandering down country roads my route unfolded through rural villages and farmland. 

Kindness of Strangers 

The tan lines that have been turning me into a pedalling Neopolitan ice-cream since leaving home, have become ridiculous in the intense sun. Clear blue skies and thirty degrees in the shade, has meant refilling water on a regular basis; the perfect excuse to meet locals. Introducing myself as a thirsty round the world cyclist, I’ve been amazed at the kindness and generosity of strangers and on my second night I was eating an enormous home-cooked meal that even I couldn’t finish, sleeping in the garden of a farmhouse and waking to breakfast with all the farmers. The regular conversation that I’ve now repeated countless times revolves around my route, the weight of Dolly (my bike) and the dangers of Iran. This is usually done with no comprehension of each other’s language, resulting in extreme gestures, map usage and weighing the bike combined with a quick exhalation and shaking of the head. This warm welcome is extended to me on most nights, and I have already been fortunate enough to stay in the company of countless families, wanting to share their lives and learn about my journey. I feel honoured to be able to share part of this real life so early in my trip and leave every morning feeling refreshed and alive. 

Simple Pleasures 

Crossing Dijon after swimming in a lake, I met Patrick at a crossroads. He spoke about cycling, welcomed me to stay at his house and to join him and his family for a traditional French dinner in town. That evening we dined on the finest duck, steak and escargot France has to offer, accompanied by the perfect Pinot Noir of Burgundy before returning to his house, looking over maps and deciding we would ride together for a couple of days. We cycled along canals, discussing wine, jumping from bridges into the water, stopping at bars and establishing a new tradition of decadent picnicking. As we pushed on into the Jura Mountain range, a storm brewed ahead. After 100km the heavens opened and we were stranded in a torrential thunderstorm in the middle of nowhere. Sheltering under a bus stop, we snacked and decided to make the most of the weather. Stripping naked and washing the day’s sweat and dirt from my body in the cold rain was the best shower I had in France and rounded off a week of learning to make the most of simple pleasures. 

I finished my wild experiences that night by sneaking onto a ski resort and pushing Dolly all the way to the peak. I camped on the very edge of the mountain and looked down 1600 metres at the lights of Geneva in the fading sunset for the most rewarding pasta and soup in the world. 

Life as a Sensory Adventure 

As I journey on the seat of a bicycle, between these experiences with locals, I’m absorbing the detail of the world as if through a macro lens, from the dew-covered spider webs in the morning grass, to the crickets and birdsong of dusk. I rest at the end of the day with hitch hiking bugs in my hair, I smell the rich timber yards as I pass through and every morning, like a slug to a wet tent I am tempted towards the smell of the boulangerie’s where I stock up on cakes and baguettes. I’m acclimatising to my own stinking body, to washing in rivers, lakes or storms and to separating the clothing that smells good enough to be allowed into the tent from what must wait outside before being worn again the next day. I ache at the end of the day because I’ve worked to get to where I am, and before collapsing with exhaustion, I acknowledge with a big grin that I am one very lucky and very happy young man.