My kind of town

Today, my friends, we are all very lucky indeed. For you have two photographs to look at and I am in Trieste. There'll be more, much more, about Trieste later but first we must concentrate on Venice.
Venice, of which you can see a small part in the first photo, that is Precious posing outside a dog shop, is a very nice place indeed. Its only drawback os the number of young female american tourists gagging for it. Take them away and I bet it's a lovely, soulful place to spend some time, full of history and of memories haunting it's maze of cobbled alleyways and canals.
However, for you and me, it's a menagerie of cackling tourists and idiots blocking bridges to take a, no doubt, romantic photo to show the folks back home. I may have imagined all those young girls walking the streets drinking beer but I don't think so.
Plus be sure to get back to your hotel before dark.
Venice may very well be sinking, but it is sinking far quicker through its mercantile chase for the almighty overseas dollar than it is through rising sea levels.
So here comes the controversy.

But first I must set a scene.
When cycling through Northern Italy, three things jump out at you. The flat landscape (good), the rain (annoying) and the vicious headwind (really, really annoying). if you ever find someone who tells you that they enjoy cycling in the rain and with a headwind, the odds are good that they've already murdered a prostitute or two.
And then, you reach the far North Eastern corner, it starts a little seedily until Monfalcone is in your rear view mirror and then something quite unexpected happens. You find yourself going uphill. And just as you're digesting this unnatural change the road sweeps left and then ...
I don't know what to say about this coastal road other than all those great coastal roads you've ever seen, Highway 1 in California, the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, suddenly find themselves in a jostle for position in your affection. If anything, you'll count this one better for it's compactness and it's all downhill, oh yes.
This is mesmerising. You've been lifted 100 metres up, I'm sure, solely, to give you a good view and there, in front of you is the Gulf of Trieste, Trieste itself and a road, smooth as silk, carved out of the rockface which gently descends the 15 km to Trieste. Trieste itself is saying, "yes we know, take your time, enjoy the view and we'll be waiting for you to get here."
Then you get there.
This is a City well done. It has, as the french would say, a certain je ne sais quoi. It is clear right from the start that this City and it's inhabitants are so self assured that they do not care what anyone else thinks. It's as if they've glanced across the Adriatic, looked at the disaster that's befallen Venice nad thought hang on a minute, we best get ourselves written out of any Shakespeare's plays and keep quiet. Not for us, the unseemly tourists and girls, less pretty than ours, throwing themselves at our feet. With any luck no-one will notice us and we can carry on as we are. Let's save our elegance, grandeur, majesty, simplicity and beauty for ourselves.

I expect when the UNESCO mob showed up and said, "my word this place is fantastic, there are at least five things here deserving recognition!", the Mayor, or whatever, of Trieste tapped them on the shoulder, took them out to lunch and said, "thanks for your kind compliments but we'd be awfully grateful if you kept this place to yourself. Pretty as they are, we do not want drunk American schoolgirls vomiting on our pavements and can you imagine those tacky souvenir stalls that would pop up. I beg you, leave us alone and future generations will thank you."
And so they did.
The second photo is of Precious posing outside her owner's new employer's Head Office. As you can see it is quite grand in a 'yes we know sort of way, now would you mind not spoiling our view of the sea'. Their name is Assicurazioni Generali and, this is a slightly detrimental note, every other building seems to have the name Assicurazioni Generali carved into it's stone. Jarring though this may be, remember that it is not on huge neon advertising billboards, so in it's own way, it's the least obnoxious advertising you'll come across. Insure with us, it says, and we'll promise not to ruin your view. Plus the year 1831 tells you that they've been doing something right for a very long time.
The grandest buildings are dramatically carved out of their white stone, their neighbours compete for attention by using appropriate pastel colours. Noticeable but not, if you know what I mean. I really don't know what to tell you but a free day in Trieste is an extremely rewarding and relaxing experience.
You'll return to your hotel room and you will find that the shower works, the towels are soft and the toilet rolls are conveniently located. The wifi will be free, glory be (damn you swiss com).
Then the sun will go down and you will find yourself in a bar with pictures of smoking nuns and of fat ladies sitting on stools while their small dogs peer at you. Above you will be a photograph of (and here's where I think my Fritish may have let me down) a photograph of the biggest clown school in the world. Every bar should have one. The men/women wbehind the bar will unobtrusively ply you with small snacks and beer and when the time comes to pay the bill, they will not surprise you with an exorbitant, inflated price.
The railway station isn't littered with drunks and the facilities are free. What's that about? It's a terminus. Where are the drunks? yearning to be free, and their inevitable odours. I do hope they don't sweep them out into the sea or force then to build majestic roads through rock faces. Hmmm, I may have hit on something there. Or, more likely, they're quite happy being drunk here. It's not all wine and roses, I did spot someone, who may or may not have been an ex-yugoslavian, selling some tasteful ladies wear in a not entirely relaxed manner on the street. Having said that the trams smell of oranges rather than urine. You can't help but wonder what they make of Berlusconi here. Unless, and this wouldn't surprise me, they did make Berlusconi here.
There does appear to be some kind of election going on here. As is the nature of these things, it has brought as unseemly shamelessness to otherwise perfectly acceptable squares and avenues.
In the end you will wonder why the only thing you knew about Trieste was that it was once the capital of the Austro Hungarian empire. You will leave absolutely sure of two more things. More tears will have been shed over Trieste than over Istanbul. You'd bet yours and everyone else's house that they want it back.
Trieste - where even the flunkeys are top drawer. I'd take it over Venice any day of the week.

Ladies and Gentlemen of Verona....

....I'm ridiculously pleased to have made your acquaintance. All those little Vicolos just begging to be walked around. I suppose it's a combination of via and piccolo. Very clever and mightily apt. Much to everyone's surprise, Verona was attained. It should have been 157 km but instead, thanks to the Brescian triangle, it was 198 km. If you fancy a laugh, I'll show you the Garmin map imaging. It 'll make your eyes water.
Anyway, judging from the number of lorries on the road, at least 1 in 4 vehicles was a lorry, the northern Italians are an astonishingly industrious lot. The strange thing is that it doesn't matter what road you are on. By far the most popular sign is 'Zona Industriale'. There is no escape. You are far better off on the main roads which, at least, have a shoulder to write home about. Having said that, the roads are a dream, the smoothest tarmac and, provided you're not lost, really quite easy to navigate. Once lost, however, is a completely different matter. Even armed with a compass and map (and I'm no slouch when it comes to maps), you simply will not find your way back unless by chance. After one misadventure too many, I simply backtracked and the road that had brought me there had gone. Vanished, kaput or, as the Pythons would have it, joined the choir invisible.
Anyway, there's a reasonable chance that Venice will be attained tomorrow. That, my friends is a good thing. What with it being Thursday. That means a little breathing space plus the possibility of another day off. Woohoo! I'm going to let the winds decide for me. For now, it is a very well earned bedtime. Sweet dreams!

East Grinstead by the lake

Before we get to East Grinstead, there's something more

important to talk about. I don't suppose you'll hear that sentence again. Precious and I had a falling out over the best way to cross the lake. Precious wanted to take it on and I thought the ferry more prudent. Precious bemoaned my lack of derring do (that's not what won us the war she said) and swore that she'd find someone who shared her sense of adventure. The result is as you see, Precious has made a new friend. It's all a little crowded, although Fabiana reckons the panniers are very comfortable. Guess who has to do the pedalling. I'm not entirely sure what to make of it, although Precious is not sharing a room with me tonight. It's a scandal.

Back to East Grinstead. It is twinned with Verbania. Verbania is an Italian town on the shores of Lago Maggiore and nestled amongst Alpine foothills. Instead of terraced housing, it has lakeside villas with terraces. Instead of a grimy london residue, it has a romantic mist. East Grinstead is solidly grounded in everyday town naming principles, Verbania sounds like it springs from C.S. Lewis' pen. All I can say is kudos to whichever East Grinstead officials managed to pull this off. One must assume that no-one from Verbania has ever been to East Grinstead.

Enough frippery, I chose to stop in Como today, mainly because I'm on holiday (getting lost in Varese, twice, didn't help - total progress 3.5 km in 45 minutes. Ye gods). However, it seems that my map reading skills have fallen out of sync with timing issues. I thought it was Monday. Oops. This makes Trieste a race against time. It ssems I have one more days hard ride. We'll see how far I get in my quest for Verona tomorrow - It's miles away!

Fratelli Italia!

In the beginning was a word and the word was terrifying. Dear God, if I ever have to go through one of those tunnels again....

Arriving in Italy necessitates at least one instance of blasphemy, so I'm pleased I got that out of the way. Here we are in Domodossola, which by the way is a great name for a town. I'm in an absolutely fantastic hotel and there doesn't appear to be anyone else in it. The upshot is that the hosts are truly attentive, perhaps too much so. Precious is still excited about her climb but frankly, between me and you, it was an extremely nervous 6 hours. 5 hours 45 going up and about 15 minutes coming down. Ye gods, I was expecting the legs to turn to jelly but not through vertigo. I'll be honest, I've been up higher mountains and never once felt that I'd fall off the edge. You can't go 50 yards without a twitching arse. I am not kidding, and that was at about two kilometres an hour. Imagine it at 40, that's the bit you're supposed to enjoy. You can test your brakes as much as you like, that isn't going to make you feel any better until they truly are put to the test. Stopping in Istella was supposed to be for a celebratory coffee, the twitching didn't stop until the third grappa. Precious, obviously, was tugging at the lead for another go, the nutter. The photo is Precious gazing wistfully back down the hill. Enough of that and back to proper stuff. Switzerland had been French, at least as far as Sion and then, in a trice she became German and all the niceties that involves. Don't get me wrong, I can order the wrong thing in any language you care to choose. I would just rather not to have to sound bitte(r) when trying to be polite.

Anyway, it's downstairs to join the hosts on the terrace and sip a coffee. The view is also admirable, what with it being the Alps and that. I shall gaze up at them and thank the lord that I'm not going up another in the near future. Onward into Italy. That reminds me, if you ever get the chance, buy some loose veg in an Italian supermarket, explain that you don't know Italian in your best French/German and watch the cashier miming how to weigh fruit. Tres amusing.

Cow bells and cockadoodledoos!

It seems that I left you in Pont de Roide. How remiss of me. Since then there's been a fair bit of hillage followed by a bicycle track to die for.
You may have heard of Le Doubs. I'm not sure I had but as I stumbled uphill wondering why, I couldn't have hoped for a better result. There's a gorge through which this river runs and although you have to climb out of it, falling into it is exhilarating. Maybe there's a video, maybe not. I don't know.
I also don't know if gorge is where the word gorgeous comes from but if it is, it's extremely apt. Le Doubs is where you cross the border into Switzerland, for better or worse, and instantly you can feel your wallet getting lighter. Honestly, I don't know how they get away with it.
Earlier on in the blog, the question 'Switzerland, what's the point?' was posed and I shall attempt to answer it here. I shall award up to +5 points for the good bits and -5 for the bad.
a) Bicycle paths +5 : the one that follows the Rhone through it's flood plain is truly memorable (and I had the wind behind me) plus it's made of the tarmac that Harrods would stock (with thanks to the authors of Yes Minister).
b) Cow bells and cockadoodle doos +4 : I imagine it's quite difficult to find your herd of cattle in the morning and the melodic peel of the cow bell helps you track them down. Plus it's quite nice to hear it and occasionally brings to mind church bells. The Cockadoodledoos help you wake up to find your cattle.
c) Hotel window views +3 : Snow capped mountains.
d) Chocolate box villages +2 : Those little villages you see portrayed on chocolate boxes and sometimes in jigsaws. They really do exist and are surprisingly restorative when cycling through them.
e) Thw Swiss people +1 : Impressive linguistic skills.
f) The 1/2 franc coin -1 : Too small, you think it's tuppence when its practically 50p.
g) Swiss banks - 2 : Surprisingly difficult to find.
h) Cow bells and cockledoodledoos -3 : The bells are huge. They make you think of those ladies with the long necks. I'd like to know what the RSPCA have to say about it. As for the cocks, it's already 3pm for Heaven's sake.
i) Bicycle paths - 4 : The sadist who designed the signs needs dropping from the nearest mountain top. I expect that they're they're OK if you know where you're going but then you don't need the signs. But frankly, a sign pointing in a direction that says 72 means what exactly? Reminds one of those ridiculous signs on London's cycle superhighways which give you distances using the 24 hour clock. Thanks very much.
j) La Chaux de Fonds -5 : This is the first Swiss town that you come across when entering the way I did. You're expecting Julie Andrews to jump out from behind a tree and launch into song. Instead, you're presented with a seemingly prefabricated mess masquerading as a town. There's a reason you've never heard of it. Do not stop. Completely pointless.

So there we are then, Switzerland - Nul points. It seems that the jury is still out.

The hills have arrived

Well here we are. The first hills are behind us and while it might be safe to say that Precious took them in her stride, a little impatiently even, her jockey took a little longer to settle into his stride. Nevertheless, the Col du Ballon d'Alsace, at a relatively low 1165m, did require 8km of hard work at 7%. We are on our way. It's a bit up and down all the way to Lago Maggiore now and, let's just say, I'll be looking forward to the occasional flat bit.
Here, by the way, is Pont de Roide. It's a smallish place straddling the River Le Doubs and nestling in a valley. There's no reason why I shouldn't be raving about it. There seems to be, however, a touch of the Deliverance about it. I'll be locking the windows tonight. The good news, and it is very good news, is that they do a damn good cup of tea here, even if they do all look like Shrek.
Slightly worryingly, there's a good chance I'll be in Switzerland this time tomorrow. What's wrong with Switzerland, I hear you cry. Well, as someone I hold dear once said, "Switzerland, what's the point?". I've seen nor heard anything since that's allowed me to satisfactorily answer that question and neither do I expect to see or hear anything over the next couple of days that will help. Nevertheless, it is there and there is where I must go.
I don't know if this is interesting or not but I shall mention it anyway. In Remiremont and in Pont de Roide, there are kebab shops. There may have been more but I wasn't paying attention. Anyway, both of these shops have been called Doner Americain. That's American Doner to you, unless you're my boss, in which case it is le mange intolerable. If any of you out there have ever known Doners to be associated with America, could you please let me know.
Finally, because I'm sure you're bored by now, Precious is overnighting in the beer cellar. If I were you I'd look forward to the retaliatory puncture.

The day off

Precious was given the day off today and it was no more than she deserved. As you can see, here she is treating herself to a Grand Cafe avec un peu de lait froid (with sugar).

We are in a lovely little town named Remiremont. It is in the Vosges departement and it is obvious that for the next few days hills are on the agenda.

Prepare yourselves for some posts featuring curses, self doubt, maniacal laughing and whinging.

However, for now, I have sworn to minister to Precious' every need. We are off to have her gears massaged and, perhaps, a drink or two. Actually, there's no perhaps about that, we are going to get drunk, or at least try!

I may be some time.

Well, Hello Nancy

Sedan - Verdun 86.56 km
Verdun - Nancy 103.53 km

Before I overwhelm you with superlatives about Nancy, we first need to deal with one of the most pressing issues facing mankind. I refer to the lack of adequate lighting in les toilettes of France. If you're anything like me, you like nothing better than accompanying a sitting visit (NB I am a man) with a perusal 0f the latest headlines or even examine a map. However, French toilettes have a unnatural aptitude for darkness. This presents a myriad of problems, mostly logistical. For example, where's the paper? and once found and utilised, where's the bloody bowl? or shall I just throw it on the floor? I hope I've made my point as, having not been able to read, the mind turned to the correct word for having a dump - one of very many metaphors. Urination also has plenty of metaphors but everyone knows what it is and to what it refers. It is now several hours after the event and I still can't think of the proper term, although it's a shame that disembowelling is already taken.



And so to Nancy, it was au revoir La Meuse and Bonjour La Moselle along some glorious roads amid some glorious weather and then came Nancy. I don't know what to say to you. My advice is visit. It's worth it alone simply to stand in Stanislas Place. It's a big square and, provided the battery didn't run out, I hope to have provided a small video. In the middle of this square is a statue of a chap named Stanislas. It seems he was a King of Poland, so quite what he's doing here is anyone's guess. Perhaps he's lost. Geographical confusion apart, this World Heritage site is sublime, a real feast for the eyes. How this square has survived a number of wars is something for which we should be truly grateful. If I'd been successful in a war here, I'd have stripped the gold leaf before you could say Zut Alors! Luckily, I'd broken one of my golden rules and booked a hotel room. It just so happens that the Grand Hotel de la Reine (which I might add has four stars and bathrobes for the punters) is on this breathtaking square.



This leads me onto another small muse. You may or may not know that walking around a French town is usually accompanied by a constant salivation. The Boulangers/Patissiers are simply eyewateringly tempting. I do not care if eyewateringly is not a word. So, I ask you to imagine for one moment that you are French. I know it's difficult, what with all those genders. But do try. And then imagine that you go on vacances to, let's say, the UK or Germany or the US. What on earth are you going to eat? Fried eggs ?!?! Baked beans ?!?!? Schnitzels?!?!? Hot Dogs ?!?!? Hamburgers ?!??! Good grief, what have we done!



Tomorrow morning, I shall have to leave this wondrous square and it will not be easy. However, saying goodbye to Nancy isn't supposed to be easy. Before then, there is the small matter of some room service, which I shall accept wearing nothing but a bathrobe. I may even be smoking a pipe and twirling my moustache.



By the way, did I mention the tot?

Cumieres le mort homme

When all is said and done, in Verdun it is difficult not to be reminded of wars. Indeed, since Douai, it is only a matter of time when one passes une cimitiere Americain before one meets une cimitiere Anglais or une cimitiere Canadien. However, not far north of Verdun lie a monument not to a man, or a group of men, but a monument to an entire community, which no longer exists. One finds this sort of thing in the 'New World' quite often when a group of settlers threw their lot in with a bit of land. It didn't quite work so they upped sticks and moved on. Not Cumieres le mort homme (that is its name and I know not whether the last three words have been added once it perished). Cumieres le mort homme was shelled out of existence. It seems that the ground on which it lay was so important as to be fought over and repossessed, so to speak, on a minimum of three occasions. I don't know if Hutin survived. Hutin was the community's cheesemaker. Hutin, then, must have had to find another town, without a resident cheesemaker to ply his trade. How many towns in France did not already have a cheesemaker? I wouldn't like to guess and I thank heaven that I do not have to find out. Although curiosity compels one to ask, exactly what do you do when the market for your merchandise is forced out of existence. So that I imagine is how war goes. Even if one is not a combatant, one is affected even so. And yet it remains so popular. Unless some bright spark can think of a way of distributing resources which sates everyone and still feed our grasping need to accumulate wealth, (which, I remind you, is exactly the same thing, unless you're an accountant), I'm afraid there are likely to be more. Hutin is not the last town's cheesemaker to have lost his town. If we're really lucky, it'll be the cheesemaker in the next town, in my case, Poplar. I do hope I never meet him. I know that sounds callous. However, when your 'tribe' goes to war, and it will, you will pray that it is the other side's cheesemaker who loses out.

Allez La Meuse!

Let's start at the beginning shall we. In the beginning there was birdsong. You stay in a forest and the chances are good that you'll leave accompanied by the trilling of a lot of birds. Not a bad way to start. This was quickly followed by the surprise that was Belgium. I certainly wasn't expecting it. To paraphrase the Pythons, nobody expects Belgium. Birdsong! Belgium! Whatever next?!?Anyway, before I knew what had hit me, and literally just around the corner, France welcomed me back. And as the road led to Rocroi, one wondered whether this King's rock was there to stop the rampaging Belgian hordes. Difficult to imagine, I know, although I expect there'll be beards. However, fans of ancient literature will remember the classic 'Asterix and the Belgians', or possibly, 'Asterix in Belgium'. It was all so very long ago. In this masterpiece, you'll recall that the Gauls fought the Belgians before they banded together to, how shall I put this, 'give it' to those dastardly Romans (that'll go down well at work). So here we are in Rocroi (there may or may not be a video at the bottom) sitting in a town square which seems to have been airlifted into a fortification. I kid you not. Imagine Beaumaris (and if you can't, find someone who can) with a town in the middle of it. All very pleasant indeed. And so to the Meuse, Precious' altimeter had steadily risen to 380 metres (not for nothing are forts built on hills) and the Meuse was a mere 10 km away. This meant that it was all downhill from here. Indeed it was, and then some. I urge you all to applaud Les Officiels Publiques de Belgique et de La Region Ardennes. The Voie Verte de l'Ardennes (I think)) runs from Givet in Belgium to the outskirts of Charleville Mezieres. If I'd known it existed I'd have started in Dunquerque. In a word it is sumptuous. Those with long memories can forget the bicycle path alngside the Columbia River, sensational as it was. This path runs a very long way indeed, following the meanders of the Meuse without breaking stride. I would urge you to do so at least once or twice. The Meuse cuts its way through the Ardennes leaving behind a valley with exceedingly well forested slopes. Sadly, it is precisely the kind of public work which the UK sadly lacks and will continue to do so. Not many votes in improving access to nature's treasures for the benefit of the public. Damn Nimbyism (yes Narrow Street, I'm talking to you!) and the boat that brought it in (that'll be the tories of the late 80's). More about that when I get to the Guerres de Monde tomorrow, where I shall attempt to explain where the blitz spirit has gone. Or not. Finally, if you ever find yourself in this part of the world and you see Ardennaise on the menu, expect bacon.

Fourmies, Non! Foret, Oui!

Calais Frethun to Nouvelles Gouyarde 135.58 km Nouvelles Gouyarde to Fourmies 106.01 km Fourmies is a town in France. It has all the usual amenities that one expects to find in towns all over the world. However, that appears to be all it has to offer. One will go so far as to say that it's probably seen better days. Not once did it cross my mind to stop there. However, jusy outside the town is a forest. I don't know if there is anything special about it. It may be the home of the Robin Hood de Fourmies for all I know. As with all forests, there is an abundance of trees and those who know me best will know that I have a soft spot for them. No particular reason, I just think that on the whole they're largely harmless and have a certain pleasing geometry. Not to mention the colour scheme. So here I am, lying here now on a hotel bed in the middle of the forest. As I look east out of the window, the trees are broken only by two lakes (possibly man made) and the final rays of a setting sun. So, all is well here then. It is a Saturday night and I can assure you that no carousing will be taking place within four miles of here. That, I am positive, will be limited to Fourmies. The flatness of canals are but a distant memory, as the usual up and down and up and down and up and down of the countryside have taken root. Cycling is obviously a much more popular pastime here than at home and it is not hard to see why, it ia la plus belle way to spend a sunny (on yes) Saturday afternoon although one must be careful to pay attention else one might crash (oh yes). Don't worry though, Precious is fine and as soon as this cast comes off, we'll carry on. A bientot.

La belle France...well, sort of

Firstly, I saw a cockerel. What else did you expect? Secondly, yet again canals prove themselves to be the cyclist's friend. Such is there flatness, straightness and gently lulling scenery that I found myself in Nouvelles something or other. It's just outside Lens and I'm parked in a motorway hotel complex. It's all very glamourous.

Anyway, because I'm knackered, I shall keep this post short. The image you see contains a UNESCO World Heritage Site. (I know, amazing isn't it) and your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to tell me what it is. I shall give you two clues. It is in Aire sur la Lys (Hair on the lips) and it is not the man wearing the flat cap.

More tomorrow, I promise, when I shall tell you what happens when you leave your luggage unattended five minutes before your Eurostar departure AND you haven't even got your ticket yet. As a little teaser, you will not be a very popular man.

Breakfasting with Kings

As with everything, we'll start with a question;

Who fell where the candle burns? The answer is at the bottom of this entry. My advice is not to continue reading until you've got it, That would be cheating.

To the left of the candle is The Black Prince, who may or may not have been a King, and to the right is King Henry IV and his presumably delightful wife, Joan of Navarre. Although she sounds suspiciously foreign to me. King Henry IV's alabaster effigy looks like it's about 5'1". The sort of height usually associated with Rugby coaches rather than Kings. Now I've never paid much attention to royalty because, well frankly, they're a bit irrelevant really and the very opposite of deserving although in this case I'll make an exception. That's because there's no way that 5'1" would cut it these days (unless you're Bernie Ecclestone) and I think some research into average heights through the centuries is needed. If someone would be so kind, I'd be interested in the result. Anyway, here's where I had my first snack of the day.

If you're still puzzling over the question here's a little clue in the form of a riddle. Two men submit nearly identical CV's for Beatificiation, the only difference is that one mentions his assassination by Frenchmen. Who gets to be the new Saint? Again the answer is at the bottom.

If it's OK, I'd like to recommend visiting this Cathedral, if only because £9, coupled with the Gift Aid, gives you as many visits to the cathedral as you'd like during a twelve month period. As with everything, this does strike one as odd considering that this Cathedral offers the usual services, Holy Communion, Matins Evensong etc. Something that doesn't ordinarily command an entrance fee. However, it is sufficiently impressive to be worth it, even to Atheists. And it's a World Heritage site to boot.

For the record, it's 120.37 kilometres from Dover to London (Why my device uses the measurement of the devil is a mystery to me) and you will ascend a combined 2047 metres along the way. The good news is, if you live a metre below sea level, that you'll descend more. If you start at sea level, that is. And I did, Dover remember. Further, I'd forgotten about the psychological battle with enforced solitude and frankly, I'd have stopped in the Medway towns (and where would England's Green and pleasant land be without them?) if the wind wasn't behind me.

However, now it is Sunday and I'm delighted to say that my lamb is beckoning and that takes precedence. Do come back in about a week when you'll be bored by English jokes about the continent, driving on the wrong side of the road and more baguettes than you can shake a, well baguette, at.

St Thomas of Canterbury, or Thomas a Becket if you prefer, fell where the candle burns and the new saint is Ian Ogilvy. Congratulations.