Only the Washing Up!

We made it! What a year! It’s great to be back, though – we all had a fantastic time at Tolpuddle. It was great to see so many dear friends there, and we’re looking forward to catching up with more friends at home in the next day or two.

Ruth’s downstairs having a cup of tea with Bobbie and Jo, Charlie and Billy are playing with Ella, Joel, Daniel and Rosanna, while I’m upstairs getting egged by Daniel and fighting with car insurance companies. Welcome home!

Further reflections to come . . .

This time the kids were wise to the surprise . . . sort of.

Seeing Ruth check her phone for messages as we pulled into the campsite at Amboise, they followed me into reception in an attempt to listen in to my conversation.

However, their detective work neither helped them guess the identity of the visitors (they thought it was our French friends, Jacques and Annie, who had recommended the campsite), nor the sheer pleasure in meeting up again with our dear Dutch friends Dick and Josein, with whom we shared happy times in Morocco.

We spent a wonderfully silly afternoon looking round Leonardo da Vinci’s gaff (connected to Francois I’s royal chateau by a secret tunnel) and marvelling at his inventions, before having a late evening outside the van.

We went cycling along the Loire the following morning and swimming in the afternoon before heading to town for a food market then returning for an early night. We waved goodbye to them this morning as we set off to Bayeux and tomorrow’s ferry home. It was great to see Dick and Josien again, and to spend time in their company.

This will be the last blog on foreign soil because we’re back in England tomorrow lunchtime. Hope to see many of you at Tolpuddle!

Until then, two words: Comrades, Tony Benn!

The French have never needed an excuse to pop open a bottle of vin rouge, so when a genuine occasion presents itself you can imagine the carnage.

It’s like that on Tour days. Having experienced the exhilaration (and champagne) two years ago on the flat, we decided this year to do something different – a mountain stage and a start. Noting the huge amount of camper vans on the roadside on TV, we thought we’d better get to our mountain – Col de la Croix de Saint-Robert – the night before so, declining Joachim’s kind offer of supper, we arrived in the village of Mont-Dore at 8pm on Friday, only to find the road to the Col had been closed and a hefty gendarme was blocking the way.

He told us the road had been closed at 3pm because there was no more room on the mountain for camper vans, and that several vans had been camped up there since Tuesday!

Disappointed, we parked in what we thought was the last remaining piece of tarmac in the village, wandered into town and returned 20 minutes later to find ourselves surrounded by even more vans! It was crazy. We spent the evening chatting to a family from Lancashire who had parked next to us.

On race day I got up around 7am to buy supplies and was already being passed by people making their way up the Col, even though the cyclists didn’t arrive until 4.30pm. The other lazybone Lezards finally woke up, and at 10am we packed our bags and set off through the intermittent rain to the summit, some 6km away, passing camps of spectators with banners, horns, picnics, and tents but mainly beer and wine (at 10am!).

We stopped halfway when we saw an English van similar to ours and were invited in by Tony and his wife for a cup of coffee, and made it to the summit shortly before midday. We then selected a comfy-looking verge and sat down to enjoy our picnic while we waited.

The crazy caravan whizzed past at 3pm but, much to the kids’ disappointment, it wasn’t able to fling out freebies because we were in a national park. Billy stopped a merchandise van, though, and secured a Tour goody bag. Charlie got over her disappointment by drawing on the road with chalk.

It’s a great atmosphere sitting on the side of the road with hundreds of others, all waiting for the same thing. It’s a bit like a festival; strangers chatting away, sharing food, drink or,  in our case, chalk. People are constantly walking up and down and there were a fair few cyclists too, all enjoying (some more than others) the chance to cycle the same route as the pros.

We knew the cyclists were approaching when we saw the first of several helicopters down in the valley, and the intensity increased as more and more cars sped past (much to my amusement, one group of pensioners booed every police car) until, finally, the leaders came into sight.

This was what we’d been waiting for: the chance to see the world’s top cyclists close-up, to look into their eyes and witness their pain and determination as they powered past us up the slope. It was crazy, with people edging into the road to get a better look, to wave flags and banners to yell encouragement at their favoured riders. But that’s the weird thing because although people tend to have favoured riders, everyone cheers ALL the riders in spontaneous admiration, with rivalries temporarily forgotten in the excitement.

The gradient took its toll on the riders, with several groups climbing up and the peleton split into two. We managed to glimpse a grim-faced Andy Schleck as he passed us, and Ruth saw Mark Cavendish on the far side, then it was gone and we began the long walk downhill.

On reaching the van we drove the 70km to Issoire and wandered into town to experience the party atmosphere. It was great, with bunting up everywhere and music playing on the streets. We returned to the van after midnight, all knackered.

We were up early the next morning (yesterday) to cycle into town for the depart. The streets were packed but, to the kids’ joy, they were able to wander round the caravan before it set off, collecting all the freebies they’d missed out on the previous day. Having collected loads, we then found a spot on the pavement to watch the caravan go past, giving them a second chance to stock up.

The highlight of the caravan for me was watching two women scrap over a free packet of sweets thrown onto the pavement between them. They both sprinted towards it and the first one stooped to pick it up, the second stamped her foot down on top of it, inches from her rival’s fingers. Shocking! Surely she would have flattened the sweets. She’d have been better off aiming for the fingers.

When the caravan passed we struggled through the streets to the technical area to see the cyclists warming up. The big stars tend to remain in their team coaches, but we got to see plenty milling around, saw Thor in the yellow jersey cycling past, yelled encouragement to Cavo as he passed, and got David Millar’s autograph. Ruth spotted Alberto Contador too.

We then went back through the streets, beyond the start where all the riders were lined up, to find a vantage point on the course to see them cycle slowly past. What a spectacle!

We saw the end of what was a dramatic stage on the campsite in the chalet of a French family, who gave us tea and cake. The father was a keen cyclist and the following week was riding the same route as today’s stage, with 10,000 others. He reckoned it would take him eight hours. He was very serious, explaining no French people like Mark Cavendish. He frowned when I replied: “Of course not – he’s not French.” His wife laughed though. Their son, Nicole, was the Northern French champion, so must have been pretty speedy, but you wouldn’t have thought it if you’d seen Ruth and I overtake him around the lake later that evening.

We’re off to the Loire Valley today to enjoy our last few days of the trip. Until next time. two words: Vive la Tour

PS Thanks to Joachim for your terrific hospitality – it was lovely to meet you and to see Christophe, Susanna and Ava again – and thanks, too, to Papa-Nous for your kindness. Billy loves his new bike.

No sooner had we said a fond farewell to Juan, Reyes, Lucia and Miguel, than we were saying a happy hello to Christophe, Susanna and Ava, the German family we met in Morocco. The kids were surprised again when we drew up outside a familiar-looking camper van.

(Well, it wasn’t quite that quick because we had to drive almost 1,000km through the Alps first, including the Mont Blanc tunnel, but these things are all relative).

On their way home to Koln, Christophe, Susanna and Ava have been staying with Christophe’s father in a beautiful barn conversion in this rural French village. We rocked up last night to join them and were treated to a feast in our honour, with English-speaking neighbours and friends invited too.

We ate far too much (delicious hunks of Portugese beef, a cheeseboard to die for), drank far too much (Champagne – obviously – , wine, homemade cassis and homemade pear schnapps) but had a great time. It was a truly European evening, with English, French and German all being spoken around the table, sometimes all at the same time!

We’re spending today recovering before heading up Mont-Dore and spending the night  on the Col de la Croix Saint-Robert  in anticipation of tomorrow’s climb by Le Tour. The kids have designed banners to encourage the cyclists, who are expected around 4.30pm, so if you fancy watching Billy in his maillot jaune asking Cadel Evans who won the Ashes, tune in to ITV4 then.

Until next time, two words: La belle vie!

So here we on the Italian lakes, basking in the sunshine, jumping into the water, when a camper van pulls up next to us and out jump our friends from Seville, Juan, Reyes, Lucia and Miguel.

Us grown-ups had planned this for months (the Spaniards are en route to Austria) but it was a complete surprise to both sets of kids. You should have seen their faces!

After getting over the initial shock, the kids spent the rest of the morning pushing each other (and us) into the lake and are now happily watching Tom & Jerry on the computer.

They bought presents of Spanish football tops for the kids, together with one of Charlie’s socks she left behind when we visited in February.

It’s brilliant to see them again – a wonderful way to lift the end of our trip as we return home.

I wonder what other surprises are in store before we make it to Tolpuddle. . .

Until next time, two words: Go, Cavo, Go!

(Sorry about the misleading headline, but The Smiths didn’t write a song called Wife in Maggiore).

Yes, we’re in the Italian Lakes, and very nice they are too. Very busy, too, with just about everybody in Italy here for the weekend.

We made it to Italy after a terrific week in Lefkas (thanks Bob and Jean), but not without a scare thanks to crazy Greek ferries. They cancelled our ferry, so we had to catch another one, camping on deck, which was fun.

We celebrated our first night back in Italy in the stunning and stylish mediaeval hilltop town of Urbino (thanks, Freda, for the tip-off) where we shared pizza and 13 scoops if delicious ice cream.

Last night we camped outside a mediaeval fortress perched above beautifully green and peaceful countryside. We’ll be free camping in Lake Maggiore tonight before moving to nearby Lake Orta tomorrow.

Until next time, two words: A fortnight to Tolpuddle!

You’ll probably know ancient Olympians competed in the nude (women who snuck in to watch were thrown to their deaths from a nearby rock), so it was ironic that our own Olympic champion (Asterix / Billy) was reprimanded for taking his top off to celebrate his victory.

Even as he twirled his shirt around his head in triumph having beaten myself, Charlie and Chris in a 200m sprint, a shrill whistle sounded to the side of us and a woman stepped out of the shade, ordering him to get dressed.

Maybe it was a new whistle and she wanted to test it, because she was certainly more than happy to use it afterwards, telling us off for standing on a stone and for putting our bag down on another stone. We tiptoed out of the ancient stadium as if it was a minefield, afraid of putting a foot wrong.

We didn’t let her ruin our day, though, and spent a lovely couple of hours wandering round the site with our new friends, Swiss Chris, Italian Freda and their young son, Sammy. They were a lovely family and Freda was the most Italian Italian I’ve ever met. She spoke perfect English but midway through her sentences she couldn’t resist a wistful “Amore!” or “Bella!”.

We met them in Olympia the night before and had a lovely dinner together, only to return to our respective vans and find a notice from the police ordering us to move on – we weren’t allowed to free camp outside the ancient monument. (Maybe the authorities had a premonition of semi-nudity and stone damage). So we free camped outside a supermarket instead, and returned to park in exactly the same place the following morning.

Olympia was magical – one of my favourite ruins. The gymnasia, training area and temples were serene, spacious and well-preserved, and I felt a tingle of apprehension as I strode through the tunnel to enter the stadium, wondering how many elite athletes had done the same over the years. The difference (apart from them being elite athletes and me being a bit limpy), was they had the easy task of facing 45,000 spectators while I faced whistle-woman.

The Games were held here every four years for 1,000 years from 700BC until Nero – a latter day Sepp Blatter – took control, entering himself in the chariot race and allowing himself ten horses compared to his competitors’ four! Even then he failed to finish because he crashed, only for the judges to award him victory anyway, presumably because they didn’t want to be whistled at. Maybe I’m being a bit unfair in comparing the egotistical Roman tyrant to Blatter because, although Nero’s intervention ruined the credibility of the Games, at least Blatter hasn’t awarded himself the World Cup . . . yet.

Before Olympia we visited the ruins of the last Byzantine city at Mystras (beautiful churches and ruins on a hill), afterwards we called into Agamemnon’s palace and tomb at Mycenae (ruins on a hill, no churches) , Epidavros (huge theatre on a hill) and, later, popped in to visit the Oracle at Delphi (more ruins on a hill, plenty of temples). Disappointingly, the Oracle wasn’t there. I’d have thought she’d have known we were coming.

In between Mycenae and Delphi we visited ancient Corinth (ruins and temples on a hill), spent the night in Kalavrtya (where the Nazis executed 700 civilians during WWII), lunched above the impressive Corinth Canal (the construction of which began under Nero, only to be abandoned due an unscheduled invasion of Rome) and then spent the night free camping at Thermopylae, bathing in the hot springs and sleeping where the invading Persians, led by Xerxes, camped in 480BC before the battle.

There’s a huge statue of the Spartan leader, Leonadis, on the battlesite itself, where 300 Spartans defended a narrow pass through the mountains – the only way to Athens – against an army of 2m. Xerxes called to them: “There’s loads of us – save yourselves and give me your weapons.’ Leonadis famously replied: “Come and get them!”

The Spartans held off the Persians for three days (killing 20,000 of them!) before being betrayed by a Greek who showed the Persians a goat path through the mountains that enabled them to surround the defenders, all of whom perished. They did enough, though, buying enough time for the Greeks to assemble an army to defeat a now dispirited Xerxes.

We stopped at Messalongi to pay our respects to Lord Byron’s heart, then drove to Lefkas, where we’re now staying in an apartment just across the road from Bob and Jean, Ruth’s parents. It’s lovely to see them and we look forward to a week of fine eating, cycling and watersports.

Until next time, two words: Congrats Tam & Kerry!

So we made it to the Peloponnese at last – no thanks to the selfish public servants who put their livelihoods – and those of their families – before our holiday.

We woke up outrageously early (7am) in order to get to the port at Kissamos in time for the ferry at 8am only to find the boat was not due until 10.30am because it had been delayed somewhere else during the previous day’s strike.

This meant we wasted TWO AND A HALF HOURS of our year-long trip (total: 8,760 hours) lying in the sun on the dock simply because some lazy, good-for-nothing, so-called ‘workers’ were angry because their jobs were at risk.

How about my holiday at risk, I want to know!

They said they were concerned about Austerity Measures. Well, I’ve never heard of her, but it seems she’s been made a scapegoat of the whole affair. And she’s not alone. On no: the Lezard family has been scapegoated too, through no fault of our own.

Yes, I know the public servants are not to blame for Greece’s economic problems but then neither am I!

Yes, I know they’re within their rights to strike, but aren’t we’re within our rights to enjoy a holiday?

Perhaps they should think about next time they plan about having a strike.

I’m looking forward to getting back to England next month because public servants are always so treated well there, there’s no chance of a strike back home, is there?

Until next time: Daily Mail reader, moi?

If  you have a blow-out, I suppose 200m from a petrol station isn’t a bad place to have it.

After surviving some 15,000km across the globe, along the desert tracks of Morocco, across the rough plains of Turkey, through the twisty  mountain pathways of Spain, and, most amazing of all, the pot-holed, glass-strewn roads of southern Italy, we succumbed to our first puncture on a relatively well-surfaced stretch of tarmac just outside Kissamos.

We have no idea what caused the puncture because by the time we had limped to the petrol station, the tyre was well and truly shredded. Or “Kaput”, as the multilingual mechanic helpfully told us. Rather more helpfully, he installed our spare tyre for us and directed us to the nearest tyre shop which, as it happens, was 500m the other side of the puncture site, so half an hour and €100 later, we were the proud owners of a new tyre and ready to go.

It was our second sojourn to a Cretan garage because we failed to start (again) in Plakias (where we were jump-started  by Antonis’s friend) and at Stavros Beach (where Ruth & the kids pushed the van down a slope), so we called into a Fiat dealer in Hania.

This garage, owned by a man whose brother was a member of the Greek cycling team, was very helpful and after half an hour or so diagnosed the problem – too much gunk in the electrics – gave it a good clean and now it’s working fine.

But we’re not going to let minor mechanical irritations overshadow what has been a marvellous few weeks here. It really is a beautiful island – rugged, inhospitable terrain; rugged hospitable inhabitants – and we’ve loved exploring it in the van, on foot and on bike. Cycling through the gorges and mountains of southern Crete, accompanied only by birds of prey and the occasional rambler (and Jacques, our French cyclist friend on one occasion), has been a real highlight for me. I’ll try to forget the dead badger.

We met up with Jacques and Annie (from Bordeaux) free camping outside an ancient Minoan city, again in Plakias, again in Hania (where we cycled into the beautiful Venetian port for a drink and Jacques insists he ordered a ‘small’ beer despite pictorial evidence) and again in Paleohora, a neat town on the SW coast, where we walked into town for a lovely supper on the seafront together with our German friends (from Dresden) Tom and Anke and their delightful kids Younis and Yana. We had met them, too, at Plakias, and were delighted to find them at Paleohora also.

Even as I type, they’ve just turned up here too, which is brilliant news. We look forward to spending our last three days on Crete with them before we catch the ferry to the Peleponese on Thursday.

Until next time, two words: Tyred of punctures

When we were on Rhodes, we had the good fortune of striking up a friendship with a lovely English woman named Sue who worked part-time in the local supermarket. She was kind enough to do a book swap with us but, without thinking, I gave away Mediterrnean Waltz, in the front of which we had Benno and Rhune’s contact details.

So, if you’re reading this, Benno and Rhune, please get in touch. And, Sue, if you’re reading this, please could you look at the book and email us their contact details.

Cheers,

Tim

PS We’re finally moving on today after our longest-ever stay on a campsite. It’s been great, but we’ve left ourselves only ten days to see the rest of Crete, so farewell Antonis and thanks. Hania, here we come . . .