Day 52: The last day - Chepstow to Fishguard

The landlord of the Coach and Horses Inn, Chepstow was an absolute hero. He sorted me a full breakfast at the last minute, stopped to take a photo and wish me well and I was able to head out onto the road by 8:30. 

The road from Chepstow to Usk is a biker's dream. Stunning views, bends that you can lean right into, and very little traffic.

I suddenly realise - there are hedgerows. Britain has hedgerows. They are so familiar you miss how wonderful they are. I don't remember seeing hedgerows like ours anywhere on my journey. I'm beginning to appreciate what we have on our doorstep. Wales has everything. Wide vistas, winding lanes, distant mountains and fantastic roads. 

I ride down the hill to Lower Town, over the old stone bridge and past the Ship Inn. A couple of left turns and there I am, by the water's edge and home - journey's end. Sian is there with a bottle of fizz and a huge smile to celebrate, Floss wags her tail furiously - and the sun is shining down on us all. Perfect.

I wheel the little Honda into the garage and shut the door.  I give it a pat without thinking. It'll need a bit of work but there's time for that later. For now, I just sit in the sun grinning like an idiot. I did it. The bike did it. Wales to Greece and the Balkans on a Honda C90... and back. It's been a most extraordinary adventure.

Thank you all so much for your support and encouragement. I  hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did. 

Chris

Day 51: Looe to Chepstow

I wake Mum briefly to say goodbye and slip out of the house in the early morning.

Small fishing boats rock gently on the mirror-flat water in East Looe river as I turn and head inland towards the A38 and Plymouth.

I find a quiet lay-by and pull the bike up onto it's centrestand. The final drive chain needs sorting. I've heard it rattling against the chain guard since France but I've been in too much of a hurry to fix it.

Bags off, tool roll open, I take the guard off and am dismayed at just how slack the chain is. I loosen the rear wheel and carefully pull it back with the adjustors, making sure to keep the adjustment the same either side; it's important to keep the wheel straight in line. 

The view over the fields toward Keveral is stunning- mists and rising sun. I stand and soak it in for a moment, then lift my leg over the saddle and head on through the lanes towards the main road.

I hit the A38 and the traffic is starting to build. It takes a long time to find a gap so that I can cross and turn right onto the dual carriageway. There follows a couple of hours of head down, mirror-watching riding as I stick to the left lane and let the lorries, vans and commuter traffic hammer past me.

The West Country on a sunny day has scenery to make the spirits soar. As I head from Devon into Somerset I leave the A38 and enjoy the gentle back roads that lead through little villages, across old stone bridges and through some of the finest countryside you could wish for.

My route takes me through Bristol and under the iconic Clifton Suspension Bridge. I decide to cross into Wales on the Old Severn Bridge. The motorway is quite today and the crossing gives me a chance to look down at the brown waters below, dividing England from Wales.

It's only a short ride into Chepstow, where I've booked a roim in a pub in the middle of town. The landlord is a sociable man who suggests that I ride the Honda into the pub, past the bar and out into the back yard, where it will be more secure.

I head to my room, intending to come down at six for a pub dinner. After a shower I lie on the bed for just a minute and... it's half eight and the kitchen has closed. I head back to my room looking forward to tomorrow, my final day of this mammoth journey and the day I finally get home to Sian and Floss the dog.

Days 48 and 49: An unexpected phone call and a mad dash to Cornwall

I make my morning phone call home to Sian in Fishguard and hear the news that my Mum has been taken into hospital yesterday evening with heart issues. 

I pack everything quickly, set Satty for Calais and head directly towards the Eurotunnel. 

I don't stop to take photos. Head down, throttle open, I ride to the terminal as quickly as a Honda C90 will go and pay to bring my crossing a few days ahead. The next train is in 15 minutes - letter Z, row 2.  I ride on with half a dozen other bikes - the usual mix of tourers, and I pull the little Honda up onto its centre stand. It wobbles alarmingly as the train sets off. 

Time to point Satty towards Cornwall. Twenty minutes later I'm riding on the left. It feels odd - unnatural. I continue riding for hours, until the light starts to fade and look for somewhere to sleep. 

A Travelodge; "Full to the rafters. Sorry." A campsite; closed. No one answers the number on the reception door.

It's getting dark and I realise that my tail lamp bulb has failed. I'm tired and I've got to stop soon.

I see a break in the crash barriers and try to pull the bike in. The space might just be big enough for a tent. The wheel sinks into the mossy bog. It takes precious minutes to drag the bike back out onto the road. 

I ride with my foot resting lightly on the brake pedal so as to illuminate the rear. 

I come to a roundabout and turn off onto a smaller road, then turn again onto a, yet smaller, lane. I ride a few hundred yards and see a slight entrance into some rough woods, nothing more than ten yards deep. It might do. I wheel the bike in and lean it against a tree while I check the place out. There's rubbish and toilet paper on the floor. It's not pleasant and I can't see a space big enough between the scrubby trees to fit my tent.

I decide to walk down the lane on foot and find a little grassed-over track leading to a galvanised field gate. It doesn't look like it's used much. The lock and chain are rusty and the grass hasn't been driven on. It'll have to do. 

I go back and get the bike and ride up to the gate. In the last of the light I cover the bike with the camouflaged cover and set the tent up - right in front of the gate. I intend to set out very early so I shouldn't even be noticed, let alone cause any problems for the farmer.

I crawl into the sleeping bag, still in most of my clothes and give Sian a final call before falling immediately asleep as soon as I shut my eyes.

Day 49:   I ride flat out all day, stopping only for fuel, both for the bike and me. Petrol, hot chocolate and a pasty. It's a very long ride.

I get to Mum's, glad to find that she's been discharged, awaiting further tests. I'll stay here another day and then head back to Fishguard on Monday. It's a two day ride so I've booked a hotel in Chepstow and hope to get home to Sian and Floss some time early Tuesday evening.

It's been an unexpected detour but  it's been good to see Mum and  I'm relieved that she's OK. I'll take a few more pictures on my way home and post them up with a final message to wind up this blog and the adventure. Of course, there HAS to be a photo of my arrival back where it all started, one April Fool's morning, back home in lovely Fishguard in Wales.

Day 47: Charleville Mezieres to Cambrai

There's a  chill in the air this morning. I shrug my old fleece on and pull a woolly hat down over my ears. This morning I add a generous squirt of condensed milk to my tea. Hot and sweet - just what I need. I rush around packing the tent, trying to warm myself up with the activity.

Back on the bike and out on the road, I pass a sign saying 'Ardennes National Park.' I head into the shade of a deep forest. Tall trees rise to either side leaving just a strip of blue sky above me. 

Now I'm back out into the rich French farmland. There's a cold wind from ahead; the hot sun is on my back.

I ride down a short hill and around a sharp corner and there in front of me is a blue sign with the European stars -  I ride into Belgium. I've been looking forward to riding this road since before I left Fishguard nearly two months ago. It's a dead-straight, roughly tarmacced road that runs from the Abbey of St. Michel to the distillery.

It runs through farms and farmland, passing beautiful old buildings, little stands of woodland. In each there is the pungent smell of pine and leaf mould. For a while, in the open country it feels as if I'm not moving. The straight road remains stretching ahead to the horizon, unchanging.

Kilometre after kilometre, little  changes with the bike purring along in this perfect straight line.  A brightly painted petrol station-come-shop appears in the distance and grows as it slowly approaches me on the bike (or so it seems on this surreal road).

I stop and fill up. It's quite a task to pull off all the bungies,  lift off the tent bag, the panniers, the fuel can and then flip the seat and deliver three litres into the tank, while holding the seat up with my head. It's become a routine - automatic almost. I head into the shop to pay and take the chance to buy shampoo, bread and, because I'm feeling a little tired and hungry, milk chocolate. I eat the whole bar before riding off the forecourt.

Another sign. I'm back into France. Another drawn out French town. I become aware of the sound of a distant chainsaw. Unusual in a town I think. It gets louder - closer. I look around.  Behind me and slightly to my left is a young lad on a two-stroke moped. His head is tucked down, elbows out as he tries to overtake, getting the last ounce of speed out of his little bike. I smile to myself and slow down just a little, just enough to let him inch past me, but hopefully, not so noticeably that it looks like I let him past. Give him the glory. Another race won on his awesome chainsaw-moped. He just edges past then turn sharply to the right, across the front of me and into a yard. Bravo. 

I arrive at the municipal campsite in Cambrai. It is tucked away in a back street in Cambrai but once through the gate I find it is really good. Low hedges, good facilities and best of all... it has a grill joint opposite. I head there as soon as it opens. I've built up an appetite today.  I start with an aperitif of Ricard (I'm in France after all), followed by a grilled steak and salad. Perfect.

While I eat, I listen to another British couple - struggling with the language.  The waitress only has a few words of English. Their south eastern accents seem as unfamiliar to me as, no doubt, a south west or Welsh accent would be to them. 

English voices and GB number plates. I'm getting close to home. 

Day 46: Metz to Charleville Mezieres

I crawl out of my tent into the rain, throw my fleece on and walk to the far end of the camp for a shower. Feeling a bit more awake, I make the ritual tea and then shelter  from the drizzle in a little wooden 'information centre', a bit like a bus shelter with leaflets. The Spanish guy wakes and immediately takes the lovely dog for a play with the ball. He really cares a lot for that dog. I'm sad to say goodbye when I leave; we got on. A final selfie together then I face the bureaucratic window again, get another printed sheet and head to the barriers. The guard starts to wave me through then notices that he's being watched from the office. He glances at the sheet, which is what he is supposed to do, smiles, which he clearly isn't, and presses the button to open the barrier.  All day, he looks at sheets then presses the button. Despite seeing every single person go to the counter and hand over money, he still has to pretend to look at the sheet before pressing the button.

I head out of town and into the warm countryside. I pass cows, lying lazily in the sun. Everything is calm, enjoying the sunny morning. I watch the wind make waves in the vast seas of green barley. 

I stop in an aire for lunch. Its a secluded pull in with benches and seats. This one is really beautiful with trees, shrubs and flowers that make it appear like a well tended garden. It's hot in the sun. My hat is packed away so I throw a paper carrier bag on my head. It does the job. I look at myself in the phone and laugh out loud at myself. Ridiculous. I lay my lunch out on the table. More bread, tomatoes and cucumber with morbier - a local mature cheese that has a strong fermented taste. I cut a little saucisson. It has walnuts in it which makes it crunch as you bite into it.  In the warm sun with the sound of crickets and small birds around me, I decide to lie down on the grass and wait for my lunch to go down before heading off...

I wake to the sound of strimmers. The council workers are working around me. I still have the bag on my head. Feeling just a little embarrassed, I snatch it off and fill it with the remains of my food. I stand and pack away my things and wave as I ride back on the road. They wave back with a smile.

I'm riding through the Ardennes region now. The land around me is agricultural with open fields and ancient farms. A breeze has appeared and in this flat landscape, it pushes me from the side. I lean slightly into the wind.

Suddenly, I see a snake on the other side of the road, winding it's way across the hit tarmac. I stop and turn, hoping to get a photo but just as I get back to the spot, it slithers into the grass verge. I put my phone away, turn back and carry on.

I approach a roundabout. Satty tells me to 'take the first exit' but I glance down  at her display and it clearly shows  my route as turning left - the fourth  exit. I think she's over-excited about getting home and has decided to treat roundabouts UK style, as if I'm riding clockwise.  Another junction. "Turn right." I look at the display and turn left. Oh Satty! I'll have to keep an eye on her.

I arrive in the Camping Municipal in Charleville Mezieres. It's very nice indeed. No bureaucracy and I can choose anywhere I want to pitch my tent. I find a sheltered space under tree and set up the tent.

An hour later I'm at a table outside the restaurant watching a group of old men playing boules in the sand. With a glass of cold Belgian beer in front of me, I spend a while chatting with the proprietor's father, who's looking after the place. I tell him about my journey. He claps. "Bravo!" I laugh. We compare ages. He tells me that he's retired but his daughter goes for sleeps or shopping, leaving him in charge. He tuts at his absent offspring. His wife cooks me the most perfect lamb chops with salad.

 I'm waiting for his wife to bring out my côtes d'agneau- lamb chops, lightly seared, with salad, a pitcher of red wine and because I can-  a tarte au citron for pud. This is wonderful. I'm in the evening sun and I revel in the moment. There's nothing I need to do except enjoy my time. The tent is all set up, the laundry is finally drying on a line slung between the bike and a tree. 

The food arrives. The lamb is pink and delicious.  I savour every mouthful. I remain until the last old man leaves with his deckchair and the sun finally hides behind the old buildings of Charleville Mezieres. The breeze starts to pick up and flutters the advertising flags around the restaurant. I shake hands with my companion and make my way happily back to the tent and my welcoming sleeping bag.