Travelling By Express Spoon

Myanmar (Burma) - The Road To Mandalay

2012-02-10T05:58:00.004+01:00

The men’s hamster like mouths bulge at one side, bubbling and dribbling with the thick red Beetle nut juice, like vampires fresh from the kill. Their waists held in tight by the chequered ankle length Sarongs or Longyis, as they stare at the strangers in their land, chewing and spitting, spitting and chewing, as cows and their cud. The painted women greet us with wide smiles, some perfectly white and others crimson stained from the years of masticating. Their thick white, gold makeup ranges from almost tribal art adorning their cheeks and nose to a full, smothering featureless mask. People travel alone by bicycle, Ox and trap, horse and cart, and together on motorbikes, clinging onto the back of pickup trucks piled high with bodies and produce, or hanging out of overcrowded tin like buses. The mornings are bitterly cold with locals clutching blankets around their head and torso as they walk to the local outdoor cafe for a breakfast of fresh samosas and hot tea.

This is Myanmar. It’s incredible, just a tiny step away from Thailand, yet years and worlds apart.

Arriving in Yangon we spent a day in awe wandering the beautiful, busy streets, passing the crumbling facades, mosques, golden stupas, churches and street sellers on every corner frying all manner of treats, the smell of curry and spice lingering in the air.

The following morning we set off to travel Mr Kipling’s famed Road to Mandalay. What old Rudyard forgot to mention when he was waxing lyrical about this place is that there is in fact a ridiculously strong headwind the entire way, and cyclists will be pedalling for hours in vain! Apparently he’d never actually been here, and had he been I doubt cyclists would have been at the forefront of his mind, so I’ll forgive him on this occasion, but cyclists beware - it is stupidly strong!

We spent three long days battling our way from Yangon to Toungoo passing through village after village of gobsmacked locals at a snail’s pace before realising at this speed we were never going to make it all the way to Mandalay and the other main sights in our limited time here. So on the third day, as soon as we came across a station we caught a night train to Mandalay in the hope of covering more distance by cycling Southwards with the wind behind us.

In a bid to keep costs low we opted (much to the surprise of the ticket seller) for the hard seater, ordinary class, train ticket, and oh how hard it was! Having hopped off the bikes in Toungoo and buying tickets there and then on a whim we hadn’t had time, or the appropriate facilities (toilets are back to tin sheds in the garden with a very wet hole in the wooden floor) to remove our padded underwear, which proved to be an absolute God send! The pair of us, bags chained underneath the seat, and bikes locked up in the same carriage, huddled together on the solid seat padded with our measly little camping towels, freezing under every item of clothing we owned, and settled in on the rollercoaster 12 hour night train ride. Bumping and leaping across the tracks, as the ice cold air rushed through the open windows the entire night; we thought we might never see the light of day again! Sleep was sporadic and sparse, but as the dawn rose across the beautiful countryside and we watched the passing villages come to life one by one, the neck cricking, and bottom pinching pain of the previous night all seemed worthwhile.

A better way to travel!

Needless to say we arrived in Mandalay in much need of a rest, so after cycling round the city we found a reasonable hotel (accommodation is much more expensive here than the rest of SE Asia) and here we will stay for a day of mainly sleeping and possibly a little sightseeing before heading towards Bagan hopefully without the wind in our faces!

Goodbye Cambodia ... Hello Thailand!

2012-02-03T03:55:00.006+01:00

We left Cambodia heading West via the Conservation Corridor, home (we were assured) to real live Elephants roaming wild, but despite pausing at every rustle in the bushes and our ride being accompanied by The Boys bizarre attempts at elephant mating calls there was not so much as a trunk in sight! Considering it was a three day ride over more long, sweaty, shade less hills, we were more than a little disappointed, but having said that it was probably the most remote and picturesque journey we had in Cambodia.

Stopping on route at a tiny village, Srae Ambel, we came across an eco-tourism project where we home stayed with a local family, and were offered a variety of activities including the chance of an Elephant trek with a local guide. Desperate to see these amazing animals in their natural habitat, we excitedly asked how close we'd get to them and were informed "Oh no, we no see Elephants, we see Elephant poop for sure. You come?"! Tempted, we declined the offer, opting instead to accompany the local fisherman that night, in what sounded like the most exciting activity in the world... Lobster Hunting! And there we were thinking they were just caught in a box somewhere out at sea. Oh no, not in Cambodia. In Cambodia Lobsters are caught by floating silently down a river in the dead of night, armed with an over sized fondue fork, scanning the clear water by torch light in search of two little red eyes glinting up from the bottom. Once spotted the fisherman moves the boat closer with a single oar in absolute silence, poised at the ready, then suddenly springs to life, jabbing the oblivious little creature in one fail swoop and popping it into the boat. Well that is the idea anyway.

Look at the sign in the background!

It turns out I sadly, do not possess the skills of a Lobster Hunter! My total catch amounted to one prawn head (jabbed too hard!), and one crab claw, and The Boy, despite his efforts didn't prove much more talented bagging himself the grand total of three small prawns in three long hours! Luckily for us the fisherman, tittering our frustrated attempts, managed to catch us a huge pile of crustaceans, much to the delight of our awaiting family who had them barbecued and divvied out between us, before we could even contemplate joining in the heartfelt karaoke blasting out of the industrial sized speakers in their door less, light-less living room (well there is only enough electricity to power one thing – priorities)!

After our feast we were back on the road and over the border into Thailand the following day, with no problems, fines or fees, just straight over and onto the undulating roller coaster roads leading away from the crossing. As we raced down from one of the steep inclines we were greeted with a truck hurtling towards at top speed, one hand on deafening horn and the other gesticulating wildly for us to move over into the left hand lane. Veering out of his way we remembered having read that one of the countries we'd be cycling through was Left Hand drive, this was apparently it. Well, you'd have thought they had signs or something!

Disaster averted we pushed on into the thick muggy heat, the air heavy with the unwelcoming stench of drying fish. At the first opportunity we veered off the main road to follow the coastal path stumbling across the most stunning little fishing village. Brightly coloured boats bobbing and clinking amongst a maze of raised walkways, women shelling crabs, and lo and behold... a little hotel tucked away behind it all. So, there we too bobbed in our lovely little wooden hut smack bang in the middle of the pastel paradise that is Mai Rut for our first night in Thailand.

Mai Rut

So lovely it was that we had to force ourselves to leave, reluctantly rejoining the real Thailand – the land of overprotective barking dogs chasing us along the busy motorways and pit stops at Tesco! Yes, Tesco! Thailand is, so far, just like Europe, except ever so slightly hotter and little bit cheaper! There are coffee shops, Wi-Fi, Seven Eleven's at every corner, and probably more Europeans than in Europe itself, getting off the well worn tourist track here is already proving a bit of a challenge!

When you enter Thailand via a land border you are given a fifteen day visa free of charge, to renew this visa in the country you need to pay, whereas if you arrive by plane you are given a free 30 day visa. Obviously we can't cover the whole of Thailand in 15 days so as we were working out which visa office to stop at, we came up with a brilliant idea! We thought; why not leave the country to visit somewhere a little less traveled on a cheap (Air Asia) flight for the same price as we would have to pay to renew our visa. We could then pick-up a free 30 day visa on return to Thailand, Genius!

So, that is exactly what we did.

Within minutes of our brain wave The Boy, desperate to feel once again like a real adventurer, had booked flights to Myanmar for the grand total of thirty dollars.

So, we're off in three days – just enough time to embrace the Bangkok craziness and search out a decent map.

See you all on the road to Mandalay!

Cambodia - New Years Resolutions

2012-01-20T16:13:00.002+01:00

Kep in the last moments of 2011

As the sun set on 2011 we found ourselves gazing at the reddish glow, flickering across the Gulf of Thailand. Devouring plate upon plate of Keps much celebrated crab, we sipped chilled wine as we watched the fishermen haul their last catch of the day to shore.

In silence taking in the last moments of 2011 we were reminded how fortunate we are to have had this incredible opportunity; the year that started by running through Berlins snow covered streets dressed as Super Santa's and ended 8000kms later riding tinsel covered bicycles to the Cambodian beach.

The most fantastic, exhilarating, challenging and utterly terrifying year of our lives had finally come to end and we couldn't help but smile at the memories, suppressing that little twinge of sadness that they were already, just memories.

Pushing any melancholy aside we popped along the waters edge to meet some French friends for a very civilised New Years Eve before dashing over to the tiny town square for midnight. Here we joined the whirling mass of locals all dancing our way into 2012 (round and round a vase of flowers none less) to an interesting mix of Cambodian classics being pumped out of six festival sized speakers.

Normally at this point we’re filled with resolutions and ideas for the forthcoming year, about what we can do differently to make it better than the last, but this time we were well and truly stumped. How can finishing our cycle and going back to the real world of jobs, houses, and routine possibly be better than waking up in a new place everyday wondering how on earth we got there, and how on earth we’ll make it the next 100kms, because despite all this time, it never gets any easier!

Obviously we want to cycle through as much of South East Asia as finances will allow, and The Boy is adamant we hit the 10,000km mark before heading back to Blighty, but other than that we had no new adventures or challenges up our sleeves, only fear about the return to the Motherland after three long years on foreign soils.

Fortunately though, we needn’t have worried as our families came to the rescue with a surprise gift of a PADI Open Water Diving Course.

At this news, most people would probably be leaping with excitement, thanking their family for their generous present.

I was not!

Having been petrified (I mean actually genuinely terrified) of sharks and deep water since watching Jaws back in the Eighties the thought of offering myself up as bait in the hope of catching a glimpse of a fish or two does not appeal to me in the slightest. In fact there is nothing I would like to do less. Putting my hand in a sausage mincer would surely prove a more enjoyable past time than bobbing around in the salty depths with old Big Tooth!

In light of this, it would perhaps have been sensible to have politely declined the generous offer suggesting that they keep their hard earned cash and save us the sleepless nights. Sadly though, us Spoons (and Boys) are a proud bunch who believe fear is not an acceptable excuse for not trying something new, so we immediately (if a little apprehensively) adopted diving as our first 2012 challenge!

And thank goodness we did ...

... It was incredible!

Okay there were a good few sleepless nights, hours of classroom study, numerous pool sessions, the odd refusal to crawl down the rope to the bottom of the sea and even a few sneaky tears steaming up the mask (what? some fish look like baby sharks!), but we got there in the end, and it was one of the most liberating and amazing experiences! It really was fantastic floating around in a new world full of colours and creatures, the likes of which we've never seen before in real life.

Now with our fear firmly behind us (and a lovely looking certificate stating we’re fully qualified PADI Open Water Divers), we have fallen in love with one of the most expensive hobbies (thanks folks!) and intend to try and squeeze in as many dives as possible before heading back home.

Who knows, we might even force ourselves to come face to face with real live Shark-beasts, after all that's what it’s all about isn’t it; facing our fears?

"Look Mum no hands!"

Cambodia - Too Proud To Push?

2012-01-14T11:02:00.009+01:00

Neither of us are sports men, or persons should I say, we both ran for our respective counties until we reached an age when running through dark and freezing cold streets twice a week and racing on Sundays got well in the way of socializing. So our sports prowess was short lived. But now we’re cycling on an almost daily basis a disturbing competitive edge has reared it’s ugly head. We both refuse to stop before the other which keeps us going for hours on end, and when it comes to getting a lift, well, it’s just not an option! You’d have thought it’d be easy, after cycling for eight months for goodness sake, it’s not like we have anything to prove, but we never can quite overcome the innate feeling of shame and disappointment as we lift the bikes onto something faster then ourselves.

After our stop in the Capital, we continued South, our bikes now in tip top shape, decorated in tinsel, and baring home made ‘Merry Christmas’ messages as the only reminder, in the bright sunshine, that we were a mere day away from our beach retreat, when suddenly illness struck.

We both woke with churning stomachs, feeling queasy and light headed, but put it down to the previous nights meal (chicken bones in a mountain of chilli’s) and set off regardless for the days cycle. Within 100 yards we were cowering in the shade unable to hold our own weight let alone our bikes, and close to passing out. After several failed attempts to push on we reluctantly walked back to the hotel checked back in and were asleep within an hour. Two full days later, on a diet of only water and a daily forced banana, we finally saw the light of day again with a little walk round the bare town of Takeo. Against our better judgement but desperate to make it to our pre booked beach hut in time for Christmas we once again set out on the road. This time we made it an astonishing 13kms before rolling into a petrol station, dashing to the toilets, slumping exhausted into the shade, pouring with sweat and panting like overexerted dogs. This is the moment I (yes I caved first) suggested getting a lift. Weak from lack of food, but unable to keep anything more than rehydration salts down we sat fretting about whether or not we could or should get a lift. I mean how insane have we become in our own little cycling self obsession?! We couldn’t walk, let alone cycle, our every orifice was exploding with illness and we were still too proud to get a lift 70kms!

Needless to say we had a little talking to ourselves, decided we were getting a little too full of our own self importance and hopped (well squeezed) on to a passing minibus making it to our hut just as planned, where we slept for one more day before feeling well enough to brave the beautiful beaches.

On the upside though, the illness was a great way to loose the old pre -Christmas excess and fit into the bikini for the festive season!

So we spent a very unusually slim Christmas, basking in the sun, eating the beloved Baked Beans we’d carried for a month (only to find they serve them everywhere here), and swimming in the sea for the first time since Kazakhstan.

Cambodia - To The Sea

2012-01-05T11:19:00.013+01:00

Spot the dolphin!

“2000” demanded the Officer leaning back on his rickety wooden chair , “2000 or I no stamp”.

“But we have visa. We paid to come into Laos. We want to leave.” replied The Boy crouching awkwardly on the floor to peer up through the tiny dwarf height window of the tin shack marked Customs.

“You pay 2000 or you no leave. Saturday. Overtime” came the stubborn reply sending The Boy into overdrive. Seeing the scene unfold in front of me I sauntered up in my Lycra (convincing myself I looked ever so slightly more appealing than the wobbly, sweaty, dust covered mess I surely was) slowly leant into his little window eyelids fluttering, breasts strategically perched on his desk “Overtime?” I tittered “You joke with us? I purred. No response... “You tease us?” I tried again, still no movement. “But we have no money” doing the universal empty pockets signal by slapping my thighs theatrically... still nothing. “Well we only have 1000 ... what can we do? Can you help us? We are poor cyclists not tourists.” I whined in one last attempt to strike any human chord within the Iceman!

“Pay 2000” came the bored reply, obviously completely oblivious to my assets! More than a little offended by the realisation that my days of charming may well be over, I quickly showed him the contents of the wallet (dollars well hidden in the depths of one of the bags) containing only 1000. Flashing us a look of disgust finally he accepted stamping our passports and waving us through.

That was just the beginning, well the end of Laos, the beginning of Corrupt Cambodia!

Ducking under the barrier across the border we were waved over to a makeshift tent; four bamboo poles, a sheet over the top shading a wooden table, three chairs, a plump man in half a uniform, and a pile of papers. Attached to one of the four poles with sticky tape – a sign marked “Quarantine”. We approached cautiously (ten borders and this is the first time we’ve seen quarantine) wondering if they’d spray us down like passing cars when the man produced a bizarre gun and pointed it directly at our terrified little heads. Before we had time to duck and take cover we were thrust a yellow form stating we did not have Bird Flu, deduced from the magic temperature taking gun, and swiftly followed by the inevitable demand for two dollars each. This, it transpired, was not overtime, but an administration fee for the piece of paper!

Having heard about the fantastical charges at these borders The Boy simply said “No” as he peddled off victoriously leaving me struggling to follow suit. In my unglamorous panic of trying to make a smooth get away, I struggled under the weight of the bike, legs scooting wildly, giving the Officer ample time to snatch the precious Bird Flu “all clear” certificate from my hands! Stunned, and thinking better of trying to wrestle a man in uniform I scooted off (still unable to take control of my overweight bike) tutting loudly in his direction, silently panicking that I may be stuck in no mans land forever all because of my stupid bags on my stupid bike with a stupid un-mountable stupid crossbar and so on...!

Thankfully though no one in the visa office asked for said form, instead they demanded... you've guessed it, more money!
This time double the normal price of the visa and yet another admin fee.
What they make the paper from in these parts I have no idea, gold perhaps?
When we refused to pay it (showing them the correct amount as written in this years guide book) they simply ignored us.
So, we simply sat.
Sat, for thirty long minutes in silent protest.
Sat until the sight of some other Westerners sent the dollar signs in their eyes whirring and the price magically changed back to normal, I suspect, to get us well out of the way when trying to overcharge the next lot.

And so it went on for two long hours each control post coming up with more ingenious charges to welcome us to The Kingdom of Cambodia!

Although the crossing might put off even the hardiest of travellers the locals more than make up for the unfriendly welcome with their huge smiles and literally endless shouts of ‘hello’, even more so that in Laos. The Boy, in fact, counted 256 “hellos”, 4 “I love yous” and one bag of free barbequed frogs before 8.30am one morning!

Avoiding the main roads as much as possible we found ourselves skirting down sandy tracks alongside the river, with whole sections of road that had simply fallen away, leaving pot holes the size of small settlements. The route took us through some fantastic little villages where we were always joined for our lunch of noodles, or duck foetus sandwiches (it’s amazing what you’ll eat after four hours on a bike!) by the local English speaking teacher, past Wats galore, more orange clad monks, old women with their checked scarf's piled high above their tiny crumpled faces, and much to my excitement, ninety percent of the population wearing pyjamas as standard dress (a rule I feel should apply in all European countries – how comfy and snugly would we all be?!).

From the border we headed directly South in the hope of making it to the coast by Christmas. On route we stopped in Kratie to search unsuccessfully for the soft-shelled river turtle but instead managed to see the rare and elusive Irawaddy dolphins glide silently through the tranquil Mekong waters only metres from our boat.

We stopped in Phnom Penn to get some much needed work done on the bikes – I’ve been cycling with no front brake for three weeks, and no top of bottom gears since China, and The Boy as always wanted new sparkly bits on his bike too!

De-lish!

Whilst waiting for the work to be done (at Vicious Cycles for all you cyclists out there) we tested the local delicacy - deep fried tarantulas, which despite taking half an hour to get down were surprisingly tasty, visited the horrifically haunting s-21 prison of Pol Pot, and the tasteful memorial of the Killing Fields. We watched Cambodian boxers kick, thump and pummel one another only a blood splatter from the ring at a tuk tuk drivers recommendation (we decided against asking his advice on dinner reservations after that one), and hand fed monkeys in the zoo before heading back on the road.

S-21

Now we're on a race against time to reach the water in time for the big day! Watch this space...

'Tis The Season

2011-12-24T07:33:00.000+01:00

Just a quick note to wish every single one of you a huge... Merry Christmas!

Thank you all for following our blog, sharing our stories, and being so incredibly supportive and encouraging when the going got tough! You have all been amazing!

Thank you also to all those people who have been so kind; welcoming us into their homes, throwing us melons on the roadside, handing us bread, water, oranges, tea, beer even, and of course rescuing us from the searing desert heat!

Hope you all have a fantastic Christmas wherever you are in the world, and here’s to 2012 being the best year yet; full of happiness, challenges and new exciting adventures in every aspect of life.

Sending you lots of Christmas love from the white sands of Cambodia.

See you in 2012,

Spoon and The Boy

Laos - The Southern Bit

2011-12-21T13:52:00.005+01:00

Despite the bizarre aches and pains we’d incurred from our Kong Lor cave excursion we were back in the saddle the next morning following the Mekong all the way to Pakse. Making the most of the pancake flat landscape in Southern Laos, we raced past rice paddies, water buffalo, and endless villages of waving families clocking up a daily 100-120kms.

From Pakse we popped inland exchanging our bikes for a cuddly little Elephant to trek to the Tad Lo waterfall. I say cuddly, but it was actually quite spiky, and a little terrifying when a passing tractor startled the beast into bolting full pelt into the jungle with us screaming and hanging on with all our might! After a dip in the rather built up waterfall we hopped back on the bikes continuing south to before rolling onto a perfect white sand beach to catch a tiny wooden boat to Champasak. The sleepy little town (they call it a town, but there is in fact only one street!) hidden away on the opposite side of the mighty Mekong river is home to another UNESCO world Heritage site: Wat Phu. Almost alone we cycled the 12kms along a dirt track out of town to visit the crumbling fairytale-esque Wat entwined with the twisted branches of Lotus trees (I confess I have no idea if they were Lotus trees, but they did have pretty white flowers scattered all over the floor and windy trunks, and it was a buddhist temple so I’m taking a wild guess). This unique little town with only a handful of other Westerners is currently having it’s dirt track tarmaced, so hurry if you want to get there before the tour busses arrive!

The following morning we took the boat back to the other side, cycled the 105kms to yet another rickety boat taking us over to the Island of Don Khong one of the well known Four Thousand Islands (Si Phan Don). This, again, is a lovely peaceful island with nothing more than a couple of guesthouses overhanging a pristine, silent stretch of the Mekong surrounded by locals. From there we cycled the length of the Island, hopped on a boat at the tip to Don Som which is completely isolated and untouched, across farm tracks, through rice fields, buffalos, and even snakes until reaching the opposite end where once again we hopped on another boat to Don Det. After such a fantastically remote ride we were shocked to arrive in the hap hazardly built up ‘Happy City’ of tattooed masses finding themselves at the bottom of plate of Space Cakes welcoming us to their own little paradise where every single restaurant, cafe, hotel welcomed ‘Happy Travellers’ wanting to sample ‘Happy Treats’. We had planned to stop here, but forever on the mission to find the less known hidden gems we carried on cycling over the bridge to the next island of Don Khon. Here we are now, once again swinging in our hammocks (well The Boy tries, but somehow manages to fall out with such regularity the thump as he hits the floor has become an hourly event) overlooking the river watching daily life from a distance, making the most of our last couple of days in lovely, amazing, fantastic Laos!

We love Laos! If anyone out there is thinking of venturing into the world of cycling touring it would be a perfect place to start. It is a cyclists dream. The distances between cheap guesthouses (£3-£8) are never further than a days cycle. The roads are well made, the traffic practically non-existent, and the people so incredibly welcoming. Getting hold of food and water is so easy, and compared to Central Asia, it’s luxurious! Not only have we had the option of comforting western food in towns, or fresh Pho (noodle soup) and condensed milk sandwiches (surprisingly tasty) at every roadside stall, but also an array of random local treats such as deep fried Crickets, Hornets, Frogs, boiled Hornet Lave (the latter of which took three attempts to get down) and we were even offered, but politely declined BBQ Rat, complete with claws and teeth.

Rat kebab anyone?

So if anyone is toying with the idea of a cycle touring holiday Laos is a great place to start.

And now, for us, it’s a race South to the Cambodian Coast in time for Christmas, we hope!

Laos - A Road To Nowhere

2011-12-12T05:39:00.006+01:00

A couple of days in one of the worlds smallest capitals Vientiane were more than enough to extend our visa for an extra ten days (did I mention we love Laos!) and buy an extortionately overpriced tin of Heinz Baked Beans to stash for our Christmas Day treat.

Business taken care of we were back on the road continuing South before detouring inland to the most tranquil, picture perfect little farming village of Kong Lor, home to the most spectacular seven kilometre long cave. We spent a day alone basking in the sunshine on the white sands of the caves crystal clear lagoon before deciding not to take the guided tour, but to load our bikes on the rickety wooden boats and make it part of our journey. In our infinite wisdom, and using our well honed map reading skills we discovered a little brown line, indicating a track, 50kms long leading from the caves mouth linking it to the main road which would bring us out further south to continue our ‘Length of Laos’ cycle. So for the grand total of £12 we chartered two, two foot deep, traditional long boats each with two skippers wearing head torches to take us, our bicycles and all our gear through the darkness of the breathtaking yet slightly petrifying cave and out to a little village the other side.

Five hours later we were back at that very same village, dishevelled and beaten pleading for someone to take us back through to civilisation and paved roads! What we didn’t realise is that a track here in Laos is no more than a line on a map, a route that someone once walked leaving little if any trail! After dragging all our gear up the muddy river bank, and fixing it all back together we headed off down the only route visible, in the direction we were instructed by locals. For three hours we cycled through sand, tottered across crumbling bamboo bridges, skidded through loose stones, beat our way through dense jungle and even waded knee deep through two rivers, The Boy carrying the bikes on his Tarzanic shoulders as I struggled across with a bag or two! Only to be told at the end of all this, by the one and only passing farmer that we were in fact meant to turn onto a different track an hour earlier! Not easily defeated we retraced our steps turning up the track in question only to find ourselves trying to push, pull and heave the bikes up a near vertical dried riverbed. After yet another hour we realised we must have gone wrong and attempting to cover 50kms in this fashion before dark would be impossible. Without the tent (we sent it home in China), aching from head to toe, surrounded by big black jumping spiders and with the night fast approaching we had no choice but to race back to the cave before darkness fell and the boats stopped running.

Fortunately for us we arrived just in time. A couple of locals were only to happy to relive us of another £12 as they finished their days work and headed home through the cavernous tunnel themselves.

In pitch darkness, motor roaring, we skirted our way back through the maze of stalactites and might's at a speed of knots, clinging on for dear life as water filled our little ship and the driver multitasked by bailing frantically whist navigating the choppy waters. Arriving just in time to see the last shreds of daylight the other side. Thankful to have survived, and elated by the incredible experience of being in such a vast, petrifying place alone we clambered off clutching at the dry land and began hauling our gear back over the slippery rocks, down the beach, across the bamboo bridged lagoon and back to civilisation, back to the lovely little wooden hut we’d left 12 hours earlier!

Laos - The Northern Bit

2011-12-05T12:50:00.021+01:00

Luang Prabang at sunset

We wound our way over the spiralling roads of Northern Laos following Route 13 to the peaceful riverside town of Luang Prabang, awash with tourists and Western comforts. So slow and comfortable was the pace of life in this well preserved UNESCO World Heritage Site that leaving it to cycle back into the mountainous wilderness proved harder than anticipated and we found ourselves gazing across the Mekong at sunset for four days running! When we finally did peel ourselves away from the soft bed and freshly laundered sheets for our 6am start, not only were we greeted with streams of orange clad monks silently collecting alms from genuflecting worshippers lining the streets, but we were also accompanied by two Swiss chaps both named Rene for the tough, but still spectacular, three day stint over the mountains.

With new male company at his side, The Boy developed an astounding pace leaving me puffing and panting my way up alone cursing the extra souvenirs I’d stashed in the bags, and to add insult to injury to be overtaken by numerous holidaying mountain bikers shouting words of encouragement as they raced passed with their support vehicle in tow! Support vehicle I tell you!

As the pace quickened and the roads deteriorated the strain of the previous six months finally took their toll on The Boy’s bike cracking his rear wheel rim on the approach to the Laotian version of Blackpool Pleasure Beach; Vang Vieng. Fortunately for us after a bit of miming, asking around and giggling at the phrase “Your rim is broken” we managed to find a handy man with a brand spanking new Chinese made replacement (there goes three months research into the prefect touring wheels!) which would only take a day to replace.

Legs aching and desperate for a break after all that climbing, we accepted our fate and decided to embrace all that Vang Vieng is famous for; floating down the river in a tractor inner tube getting as drunk as physically possible. Well, at least that was the plan until we watched the revelry from a distance. In a trance, eyes wide, mouth open, staring across the road, The Boy quickly informed me that dancing on the table, bucket of Whiskey cocktail in one hand, Opium milkshake in the other whilst wearing my knickers as a necklace was perhaps not acceptable behaviour for a thirty year old, so ‘tubing’ was out of the question! Such a killjoy! With Grandpa for company I had to shelve my teenage dreams and settle for a different kind of high with a ride in a hot air balloon taking us far away from the madness below and across the bizarrely beautiful Karst mountains that perhaps were the draw before it became the slightly embarrassing travellers mecca that it is today.

After a couple of days in the party town and now with a new shiny rim in place we peddled on to Vientiane, the luxurious little Capital full of sophistication, French restaurants, bakeries and not a great deal else, thus ending the Northern section of Laos.

Now onwards, and South-wards with the promise of long flat roads!

Laos - The Start Of A New Chapter

2011-11-21T10:47:00.002+01:00

Hopping aboard The Adventure Taxi was the perfect ending to our Chinese chapter. We camped, had bonfires, fireworks, and played endless games of Monopoly and Spoons with the surprisingly hilarious Chinese guide Louis (who nicknamed The Boy "Special Nose" on account of his rather striking honker). We raced through the Yunnan Province in the hands of others, with no responsibility, and not a care in the world making it the easiest part of our trip to date. More importantly though, it made us realise how lucky we are to have our bicycles because, you see, there really is no comparison.

No other mode of transport allows you to integrate with locals, high five children as you pass through their village, come to a dead halt at the sight of a prehistorically large centipede crossing your path, or squeeze under the low ceiling of a locals wooden hut to avoid the midday heat. In the bus these moments are just a blur outside, a camera held out of the window, or an orchestrated group decision that never quite captures reality.

So despite having to say goodbye to some amazing new friends we were more than a little excited to get back on the bikes, get our bodies moving once again and start our South East Asia cycle.

Leaving behind the huge Chinese customs building full of scanners, uniforms, polished floors and order, we pedalled through the 100m of no mans land arriving at a row of wooden sheds. Here we bought our visas and simply rode off into the distance. No security checks, nothing more than a wave as we passed through the so called 'customs' into the most breathtaking scenery.

There is no denying it Northern Laos is beautiful, hilly, ridiculously hilly, in fact positively mountainous, but a truly stunning, photographers dream. The quiet road from the border climbed slowly into the dense jungle alive with sounds of creatures. We passed through endless little hillside villages, the bamboo houses perched on stilts as half naked children ran amongst the piglets, ducks, chickens and dogs. Women in sarongs washed together around the communal water supply as the men chopped and gathered from the surrounding jungle.

As the hills became steeper, our pace steadily slowed allowing grasshoppers the size of small kittens ample time to practice their long jump skills by leaping onto the strange cyclists invading their untouched habitat. Snakes of all shapes, size and colour lay squashed and flattened across the road amongst all kinds of unidentifiable creatures, the likes of which we've only ever seen before behind very thick safety glass at London Zoo! Every ominous rustle from the undergrowth sent us further and faster up the seemingly endless hills really putting our out of shape bodies to the test.

After two and a half days cycling on deserted roads through the tough yet magical terrain we reached the beautiful riverside village of Nong Khiaw. A place with just enough western comfort to make it feel like a holiday, but not so much that it's natural charm or beauty have been lost in the mix.

Here we finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally out China, away from the continuous noise, the dirt, the fumes and the absolutely terrifying traffic undertaking and overtaking to an unknown rhythm.

And now instead of our friendly "Nee Hows" being greeted by a seemingly disgusted stare or even a spit in our direction our celebratory status has once again been restored. Naked children, glistening in the sunshine rush from the water with huge grins, waving frantically and shouting "Baideeeee" at the tops of their voices with such uncontrollable joy that even the hardest hearts would melt.

So here we swing in our hammocks at the waters edge, surrounded only by the sounds of nature relaxed, refreshed and for the first time in weeks, smiling.

China - The Adventure Taxi

2011-11-06T14:40:00.004+01:00

Throwing down the last of our seemingly useless guide books after a heated debate as to how to begin the next stage of our trip, The Boy frowned as I trotted out one of my standard lines "Lets just leave it for now, the answer will come to us". I know, not exactly the moving words of wisdom one might expect from a wise old Spoon, but believe it or not I have faith in these situations. So there we were staring at the overwhelming heap of maps and books, deep within the all consuming cloud of post cycle blues when three weary travellers plonked themselves heavily onto the adjacent seats and began discussing their drive from the Mongolian border. Bored of our own travels, and eager to hear of others adventures The Boy wasted no time in jumping into the seat next to them, introducing himself and cracking open a beer.

Thus began our travels on The Adventure Taxi, a converted six seater bus preloved by day tripping pensioners, now revamped, spray painted and being driven all the way from London to Bangkok by Aussie friends Tash and Jules and an array of travellers at different stages throughout the journey, currently all American Aaron fresh out of college and their genuinely miniscule Chinese guide Louis.

We joined the merry band in Xi'an filling every available space in the bus with bikes and bags and were kindly whizzed to Guilin in time to renew our Visas in just three days, stopping only to see the monumentally unspectacular Three Gorges Dam which deserves not a single word more, and of course to sleep! Our days were filled with beautiful scenery, dodgy service station cafes, endless monopoly games (of which I'd like to think I was the reigning champion, though others may disagree) and snoozing on the hand crafted bunk beds.

With our visas safely at the Embassy in Guilin we left the bus in favour of our bikes and cycled the picturesque 70kms to Yangshuo past fields of purple, gold and green with the spectacular karst mountains jutting into the skyline. Okay so Yangshuo itself was everything they promised – tourist central, China's answer to Ibiza without the sun, sea and sand, but none the less after our months in the wilderness, we loved it. Surrounded by fantastic scenery we spent the time making the most of the western comforts, friendly hostels and multitude of activities on offer, the favourite being an incredible day paddling down the tranquil, undisturbed Li river surrounded by towering cliffs, water buffalo, and fishermen gliding silently past on their traditional bamboo rafts.

With the days full of cycling, canoeing, and cooking we met a host of other travellers from all walks of life, which of course meant the evenings were full of socialising. I say socialising, I mean re-living our sixteen year old days of random booze fuelled nights, always planning on one quick drink and wandering home in the early hours!

One evening after yet another failed attempt at Beer Pong we found ourselves playing the drinking game "I Have Never" (you know the one where you state something you've never done, and everyone who has done it drinks) with a group of 20 or more fellow hostellers, when one guy announced "I have never turned 21". Horrified, I took a deep slug of my beer whilst scanning the circle of players to see only three other glasses out of the entire table raise. In that moment we realised we were probably ten years too late for this party, and the open road was once again calling.

Without a second thought we were back on the bikes retracing our steps to Guilin to collect our passports, and returning a very tiring 140kms later the following morning to jump back on The Adventure Taxi, which after the boys recruitment drive the previous night was full to the brim with the grand total to nine sweaty travellers all making our way to the sunshine in Laos!

China - Searching For Real Crispy Duck

2011-10-28T04:32:00.000+02:00

As we sit here curled up on the sofa in a lovely warm, clean hostel, nibbling our huge western style pizzas, our bikes banished outdoors steadily rusting under a multitude of chains, cycling the Silk Route already seems a lifetime away. This is the calm after the storm, perhaps the moment when the comedown hits hard and we find ourselves in a quandary of what to do next. Perhaps? But with the Spoon sister and her man flying out to meet us there wasn't a moment's despair in our cram packed, fun filled couple of weeks of pure full fat indulgence, celebration and debauchery Chinese style.

So just in case anyone out there is still interested in our travels here's a speedy rundown of our luxurious little two week holiday off the bikes here in China.

We started in Xi'an walking the city's walls, climbing the Bell and Drum Towers in time for traditional performances at both. We weaved our way through the unbelievably crowded streets (due to national holidays) into the heaving Muslim Quarter where we bartered like never before for all manner of junk – everything from fake Calvin Kleins to waving golden Buddhas (come on you know you want one). We were up at the crack of dawn (despite four raging hangovers from trying to keep up with these 21-year-old hostellers) visiting the fascinating Terracotta Army the moment it opened, thus avoiding the endless flag wielding hoards that seemed to follow us to every attraction in every city.

We hopped on the overnight train to the picturesque but overly touristy town of Pingyu where you could almost miss the beautifully intact courtyards and intricately carved wooden buildings due to the tat smothering and suffocating them, leaving it more like London's Soho than the preserved ancient Chinese town promised in guide books.

After two days of walking the city walls and looking at temples we bundled our merry little party of four and a years' worth of luggage into a tiny pedalo back to the station and jumped on another train, this time to Datong. Previously we'd managed to get tickets for the soft sleeper section of the train – a lovely little private room with snuggly beds and clean sheets all to ourselves where we played games until our hearts content - sadly this time we weren't so lucky! We were on the hard sleepers – open carriages with blocks of six hard beds. In our pre-booked beds we found two naked children lying in suspiciously damp patches, and a belching woman who actually looked me in the eye whilst letting out the longest, most horrifying, animalistic burp I've ever had the pleasure of encountering. Let's just say it was a very long, crowded seven hours that ended in a "burp-off" between said lady and The Boys!

In Datong (which is developing fast, and will no doubt soon be on every tourist's route) we explored the unexpectedly beautiful hanging monastery, a sole wooden structure perilously perched on a sheer cliff face held only by stilts, and the unbelievable caves of Yungang. These fifth century caves have over fifty one thousand hand carved Buddha statues adorning every face of every enclave. It really is an incredible and truly unique sight.

One last luxurious night train later (soft sleeper if you please) and we were in Beijing tasting Peking Duck, walking the unrestored section of the truly jaw dropping Great Wall in Jinshanling at dawn (once again beating our stalkers – the flag wielders! ). We visited the Forbidden City, Tian'anmen Square, floated our way across the lake in the Summer Palace, and chewed our way through starfish, silkworms and snakes in the Donghuamen Night Market famed for its bizarre and surprisingly tasty treats. We went back to school, learning to cook real Chinese food from a real Chinese chef and apart from the addition of a few too many chillies (by those of us who thought they were harder than they are) all our dishes were actually edible.

Of course spending all this time with the lovely Spooners we had no choice but to test out the Chinese social scene by following the nation's passion and heading down to a KTV (Karaoke) bar. The four of us found ourselves huddled together on sofas in a private room, strobe lights flashing and the disco ball rolling trying to decipher the high tech Chinese song menu. After a shaky start we were soon blasting out English classics to one another in our tiny booth as a regular stream of onlookers peered through our port-holed door. I'd like to think the audience was due to the amazing talent, but I fear they may have been worried for our safety given the noises we were producing!

So you see there really was no time for those post adventure blues. Well at least not until we had to wave goodbye to our companions, pack our bags and board one more night train back to Xi'an (in peasant class) before embarking on the next stage of our trip.

China - We did it!

2011-10-11T11:06:00.001+02:00

And that, folks, is all!

Four and a half months after boarding our Turkey bound Easy Jet flight, armed with two second hand bikes, all the 'gear' and genuinely no idea, we have by some fantastic miracle completed the Silk Route by making it all the way to Xi'an in China on a ... BICYCLE!

Hurrah, Huzzah and Hurray!

Each one of us has pedalled every single one of the 6000kms with our own little legs, carrying all our luggage. As The Boy informed me: "That is the equivalent of cycling from London to Birmingham 30 times, over a ski resort, and a desert the size of Wales with two small children strapped to our backs, or a light dwarf I suppose"!

Our final week was one of the most challenging to date. We knew covering 650kms (plus an unexpected 40kms worth of mistakes due to poor map reading) in six days was going to be a tall order, in fact given that the average cycle tourist covers 70-80kms per day we did have the odd doubt but having got this far, nothing was going to stop us arriving in Xi'an on time for our own party! We had so much distance to cover in so little time over endlessly undulating hills that we had no choice but to be on the road for sunrise and simply cycle each day until our legs could no longer turn. Within days everything ached and our tired little bodies were crying out for just a couple more hours in bed, and just one hill free day. We plodded our way through some of the most beautiful scenery we've seen here in China, terraced hills as far as the eye could see, stunning gorges and really beautiful mountain passes (when we looked back after the uphill slog that was)!

Sadly after the first couple perfectly scenic days we were greeted by a lovely array of rain, mud, black smoke belching lorries, pitch black tunnels with no lighting whatsoever and the rest of the cycle became about simply getting through it! The first couple of days in Gansu really were incredible, but as soon as we'd crossed into the next province of Shaanxi we were met by the most horrifically polluted areas full of trucks delivering coal, factories pumping eye stinging smoke into the already hazy air, erratic lorries hurtling from every direction and roads blackened with an oily sludge giving us the perfect filth covered look we needed for our dramatic entrance to Xi'an.

On our last night, completely exhausted after another 120kms cycle, we found ourselves in a grotty little roadside town with all of about six, one toothed (and I suspect slightly inbred) inhabitants, who much to our surprise informed us there was in fact a hotel right there in Hicksville! We were promptly led to a women who at first refused us, then after much persuasion from our alcohol scented guide informed us we'd need to pay 100RMB (£10) for a night – a little overpriced for a local hotel, but we thought we'd check out the room before opening negotiations. Keys were found at the bottom of a huge drawer and we were taken to an enormous, seemingly, derelict building. Bolts and locks were clanked, cranked, and removed and finally the rusty door creaked open into...was it? Yes it was in fact nothing more than a rotting building! The walls were thick with black mould, ceilings hanging loose, and windows lay smashed amongst the rubble littering the floor, but one single room remained intact. Bed linen left from fairer days, now damp and stale on improvised hardboard beds, dubious wires swinging from the ceiling, and a toilet, well lets just say in it's glory day it would have been a horrific experience, and since it had obviously been in use long after the water supply hadn't it was the worst yet!

With darkness falling, and an uphill slog ahead of us we had little choice, we were shattered and more importantly needed sleep before our final day. So after much negotiation (yes we still paid to stay in the hell hole) we decided upon the grand total of £3 for our last night of luxury, barricaded ourselves and our bikes into our damp little cell, fit only for the Adams Family and passed out within seconds!

We woke the next day surprisingly refreshed and were on the final straight in no time, dashing up those hills with excitement (okay, dashing is a slight exaggeration, it was slow going, but it felt faster than normal) knowing the end was only hours away.

Then came the rain...

Then a burst tyre...

Then a broken pannier rack...

A puncture...

Were we ever going to get a break?

The end was in sight - only 50kms to go, but the clock was ticking...

Obviously time for...puncture number two!

But our resolve remained strong (well mine did, The Boy had a minor tantrum at one of our many service station stops), nothing would stop our arrival in Xi'an before dark.

So with one slow puncture, a taped pannier rack and a split tyre (we'd run out of spares) we wiggled our way through the last 50kms, just as we had started all that time ago in Turkey; slowly, surely and praying for the best!

Four and a half months after leaving the UK, four ripped tyres, twenty three punctures, one snapped chain, two broken racks, eight countries, two deserts, four mountain ranges, six thousand kilometres later and shattered beyond all imaginable belief, we arrived at our hostel in Xi'an. At 7.30pm, as darkness fell, we hauled our loads through the warm, welcoming hostel door to be greeted by tearful Spoon fans, an ice cold beer and a monumentus feast of all our favourite English treats!

The Boy, obviously touched by this potentially life changing moment, finally broke his silence breathing a long sigh of relief, before sharing his innermost thoughts by exclaiming "Well, thank f*** for that!"

We could not have dreamed of a better finish if we'd tried; drama, suspense and fantastic surprises!

And now, Spoonfollowers, we are giving our red raw babboon-like botties a rest by following the tourist trail for couple of weeks before deciding what to do next, so excuse us if there are a distinct lack of posts. No doubt we'll be mostly horizontal, reading, drinking, eating and generally abusing our newly toned bodies (oh and looking at walls and stuff)!

China, Gansu - The Last Hurdle

2011-10-05T02:17:00.001+02:00

So close to the end of our trip, just a week away from reaching our destination, and China is seriously putting us through our paces.

The week began with another evil mountain of 2600m which took us three days to climb, battling against an ice cold headwind wearing the only gloves we could find (rubber Marigolds layered with socks and every item of clothing we own), covering a soul destroying 40km a day (that's six hours of cycling). Then came the rain and hail just in time for our descent, and then yet another lovely 3000m mountain. This we climbed in record time due to being completely immersed in blinding cloud on a busy motorway with visibility of about 10 feet! Spiralling into the thick white mist for three solid hours was as surreal as exhausting and had us convinced that something terrible had happened and we were in fact on our way to the Pearly Gates! Though, I must say, was a little disappointed to discover I'd have to cycle there - I mean surely sweating it out uphill is no Paradise?!

The following day our glorious downhill turned out to be a slow and slippery ride in and out of literally hundreds of lorries backed up for miles due to the road having transformed into a silky mud river overnight. Luckily for us we could duck and dive our way through the traffic, but our beloved bikes had to pay the price. So clogged were our wheels with thick sticky mud that for the last 20km braking or changing gear were not an option, and imagine how hard it was for us to find a hotel when they are already averse to foreigners, let alone those covered head to toe in splattered mud!

Speaking of hotels, now the weather is so cold and accommodation cheap, we have shunned the tent in favour of hot showers and central heating, but with these come new problems. In China, unless the hotel has been 'trained' to deal with us strange foreigners, they cannot accept us no matter how much sweet talking we do, or cash we promise. So now, after a hard day's cycle, we find ourselves being turned away from hotel after hotel, feeling as homeless as we are for over an hour each day, sometimes even having to cycle on to the next town to find somewhere.

So, you see, China is not giving us the easy ending we'd planned (and don't even get me started on the driving), but it is certainly giving us the challenge we wanted.

Yesterday we arrived in Lanzhou where we need to renew our visas before continuing, only to discover the office was closed, and then a three day wait, but after much persuasion and eyelid batting from The Boy (even ginger bearded Westerners are a hit with the ladies here) managed to get them done within two days.

With this minor hold up this means we now only have six days to cover the remaining 623km in time to meet our Spoon buddies.

So Chaps, the race is on.

Next time we report, all going according to plan, we shall be in Xi'an drinking ourselves silly in the knowledge that "Where there is a will there IS a way"!

Current Location: Lanzhou

Distance to Xian: 623km

China - The Great Wall

2011-09-26T02:09:00.000+02:00

They say all these changes in plan are part of the adventure; experiences that will open our minds, perhaps even enlighten us. Some people have 'found themselves' on this very same trip across the Chinese Desert.

I did not find myself.

Crammed into my filthy half bunk (not designed for a healthy 32inch western leg), the sweet aroma of stale urine rising from my suspiciously damp blanket, accompanied by a cacophony of hocking, sucking, retching, phlegming and spitting filling my prim little ears for 36 long hours (instead of the advertised 32 hours) on the coach from Aksu to Jiayguan, I did not find myself. Nor did I find myself when dropped off in the middle of the open desert and was told to 'toilet' alongside my fellow passengers all scratching in the dirt for substitute toilet roll!

Apparently spitting, well not even that, excavating the entire contents of ones throat, nose and lungs in the noisiest possible manner (a combination of sucking, slurping and even growling) then projecting the greenish treasures across the room on to the floor, be that on a bus, in a restaurant, in the street, is entirely socially acceptable here in China. I have never seen The Boy quite so horrified as when the tiniest little Chinese women smiled is his direction then unashamedly emptied the contents of her mouth at his feet before nipping off, toilet roll in hand, to squat in full view. But this is their culture, and we are the strangers, so we have no choice but to smile and embrace these wonderful differences. So don't be surprised chaps if, after three months here, you invite us over for dinner on our return, and we hock a little greeny on to the table before tucking into Nigellas latest!

Needless to say after having spent 36 hours ducking and diving out of the way of these flying treats, and the proud explosions of flatulence which no amount of dirty looks would stop (I just can't help myself!), we were more than happy to get back on our beloved bikes and into the fresh air!

Not only were we in the fresh air, but in Jiayuguan, the place we've been talking and dreaming about for so many months. Seeing the restored watch towers appear before us in the distance as we pedalled towards them was an amazing feeling, even though it was now the start of our China cycle rather than the end. The fortress or The Pass is totally re-done for the tourist trail and extortionately expensive to get in, but well worth a visit if only to see the stark contrast between the wasteland one side of the wall; China's Wild West and the start of "real China", the Gansu province on the other side. We even had gold medals (totally un-tacky of course!) engraved with our names and the inscription "I Made It To The Great Wall" which The Boy has been wearing ever since and flashing on any occasion someone attempts to talk to him!

After the excitement of Jiayuguan we set off confidently on the next leg of the journey. Finally we were off the motorway pedalling through farming villages on misty mornings, past field upon field of maize rustling in the wind, and piles of golden kernels and bright red chillies drying in the sunshine. Much to our excitement we realised we were in fact following The Wall much more closely than we'd anticipated; we cycled alongside the ancient barrier for miles and miles, and even managed to camp in its shadow, literally within touching distance, a moment we'll no doubt both remember for a long time.

Current location: Wuwei, Gansu, China

Distance to Xian: 890km

China - Desert Blues

2011-09-21T01:04:00.000+02:00

We left Kashgar with heavy loads; not only were our bags filled with all manner of bizarre preserved camping treats, but our bottoms were back to their normal wobbly state after our indulgent few days. Finding ourselves back on the perfectly paved, mainly flat motorway, we were covering distances of 100km per day with ease, the only trouble was the tedium. Day after day of the same scenery, the same speeding lorries racing past, stopping at the same grotty roadside cafes all offering one same dish: noodles and tomato sauce, otherwise known as spaghetti (Fact! Marco Polo apparently stole the recipe from this region and took it back to Italy), and of course the same open mouthed stares at every stop.

The Taklimakan desert is sadly not the Golden landscape glinting in the sunshine with camels marching over the dunes one imagines when dreaming of The Silk Route. It is simply a vast expanse of flat, dirty gravel and wasteland with the odd shrub. To be honest it looks more like a building site, scattered with litter and defecating truckers, than the golden sanded desert in the mind's eye. Trying to find a spot to camp in the vast flatlands was fun though. Sneaking off the motorway hoping not to be spotted as we walked for one or two kilometres in search of a sizeable bush, ditch or dune to hide our canvas house behind, and every day finding the perfectly undisturbed spot (well apart from the noise of those trucks and trains hurrying to their destinations throughout the night).

By the time we reached the first town in five days, not only were we filthy from the dust and exhaust fumes but also, I hate to admit it, quite frankly bored senseless! So filthy we were in fact that we found ourselves refused from four hotels before finding somewhere for the night. It was there, having showered and rested, basking in the luxury of clean, mosquito free surroundings, reflecting on the tedium of the past few days, that we thought about changing our route.

After much debating, fearing we may not be using our time to the best of our ability, we made the difficult decision to skip the rest of the desert (by means of a fate worse than death - a 32 hour coach journey!) in the hope of seeing a bit more of 'real' China.

This means that instead of another month peddling to Jiayuguan, the start of The Great Wall, we'll cycle the 1344km from The Wall's start to Xi'an, home to the famous Terracotta Army, where we shall meet our favourite Spoon fans for a long awaited bike free holiday!

And ... instead of finishing our cycle there, sending the bikes home and donning backpacks to 'find ourselves' for the next six months, we shall cycle through South China and Central Asia ending in Malaysia next year (but at a slightly more leisurely pace). So, whilst we were a little disappointed not to be reaching our initial goal, we have hopefully decided upon a far more interesting and challenging new one.

Countdown to Xian: 1344km

P.S. A huge thank you to all those of you who've been leaving messages for us here; we really do love reading them, but unfortunately China doesn't allow us to access Blogger so we can't respond for another two months I'm afraid. Please do keep them coming though, we really do love hearing from you - it's great to know we're not totally alone out here!

China...At Last!

2011-09-15T12:53:00.001+02:00

Not only is Tajikistan 96 per cent mountains but, as if to torment us further, the pesky fellows decided to put the border crossing right on the top of a 4300m high pass. So on our final day, as the bitterly cold winds blew, we cycled the entire way (no excuses for pushing on our last day!) reaching the tiny border post at 9:30 am. After shouts of "Salom" and knocking on the sole tin portakabin astride the mountain's peak, a bleary-eyed un-uniformed passport control officer appeared, ushering me in as The Boy stood guard over the bikes. Huddling round the wood burning stove whilst his colleagues slept in bunks he pulled out his enormous leather-bound book in which he simply wrote our names, adding them to the long list of tourists passing through, and that was it! No bag checks, no irrelevant questions, just a strongly accented "Goodbye". So off we went, finally racing downhill through the 20km of no man's land before reaching the Kyrgyzstan border, where once again passports were checked briefly and we were waved straight through.

The ice cold wind stopped as suddenly as it had started, and we were greeted by the beautiful Kyrgyzstani countryside: rolling green hills scattered with yurts, livestock and even a glimpse of sunshine. We sped across the ever improving roads to the picturesque village of Sary-Tash where we stayed for one night before heading to the Chinese border and on to Kashgar to finish the final leg of our journey.

The lack of food and flavours in the mountains meant we excelled ourselves by eating everything and anything we saw in the busy metropolis that is Kashgar. We devoured noodles, dumplings, vegetables, fruit, chicken's feet and even a duck head (though, short of chewing on the beak, we weren't quite sure what you're supposed to do with it!). After a disgustingly gluttonous couple of days we now reluctantly wave goodbye to our luxurious Chinese welcome and pedal off into the Taklimakan Desert for another 500km five-day shower-free stint. Oh the glamour!

Tajikistan - Sooo over The Pamirs

2011-09-02T12:16:00.002+02:00

Yes you read it correctly, we actually made it over The Pamirs. 15 cycling days after we crossed the Western border into Tajikistan, approximately 1000kms and six mountain passes later we crossed the Northern border to Kyrgyzstan, thus completing the entire Tajikistani Pamir Highway. How we managed a feat of quite such magnitude (reserved mainly for professionals) I have no idea, but by the grace of someone, somewhere, a few strong tail winds (and some even stronger head winds) we made it through the "extreme cycling" section of our trip.

Slowed by the altitude (well above skiing and even parachute jumping height) we puffed and panted our way through the silent mostly uninhabited scenery stopping at hot springs (nudie none the less, but sadly single sex), crystallised salt marshes, perfectly clear water pools, snow covered mountain peaks, snug goat hair yurts and finally the highest lake in Central Asia.

We camped under the clearest stars, a moon brighter than ever before lighting up the towering mountainside around us as we slept in every item of clothing we owned: sleeping bags, towels and even two silver emergency blankets to try and combat the freezing night time temperatures.

It truly was a unique experience, completely alone in the stunning, sometimes picturesque, and sometimes just plain boring arid mountain-scape, forcing ourselves beyond all physical and mental limits we've ever known - it paled all our previous lifetime achievements (degrees, jobs, interviews, Masters) into insignificance. Neither one of us have ever had to push ourselves almost to breaking point on a daily basis purely to achieve a self-set goal.

Would we do it again? Not bloody likely! In fact, a simple no would probably suffice! It was a fantastic hurdle to have overcome, a once in a lifetime experience, but I challenge anyone to cycle border to border (taking the perilous Northern route from Dushanbe) and come out wanting more. Not only is cycling at 4000 metres on unmade, steep, mountainous roads a struggle, but the lack of supplies, water sources, and even villages make it more a question of survival than just a difficult bike ride!

Never before have we rejoiced and even whooped with excitement at finding two mouldy carrots and two potatoes in a market as we did in Murghab at the promise of some real food for supper. Never before have we smiled at the sight of sand filled river water, hungrily filling our water bags at the idea of a cup of tea, or even a wash for the first time in days.

Having finally got out of the mountains, and in the process becoming Carb and sugar addicts on a diet of mainly Pasta, Porridge, and out of date Snickers bars we cannot wait to hop over the border to China to begin our search for Crispy Duck! Strictly speaking, we are actually supposed to be concentrating on completing our pedal to the Great Wall, but a girl can dream! After those tiny hills we're confident that crossing that Chinese desert will be a breeze – let's just hope our previous Kazakhstan attempt is nothing to go by!

Tajikistan - A Pause for Thought

2011-08-31T08:00:00.002+02:00

We left Kala-i Khum a little worse than we arrived, not only were our bodies showing no signs of recovering from the pain of that mountain pass, but we’d both managed to leave with dodgy stomachs – not ideal when on the old bicycle.

The first day we were greeted with, you’ve guessed it, yet more hills, cycling up and down along the Afgan border peeping into the neighbouring country just a stones throw away. It was at this moment that The Boy, in all his wisdom, decided it would be appropriate to hoist the Union Jack from the back of his bike flashing it proudly at our new neighbours. Personally I thought a target sign attached to his back might be just as appropriate, but he opted for the flag!

We cycled alongside the raging brown river deep between sheer rock faces metres high surrounding us, through little pockets of green where fresh water flowed down from the mountainside, and possibly 20 villagers and their livestock lived. We passed through areas littered with unexploded mines (according to the signs) leaving peeing and camping options somewhat limited! We dodged a real live avalanche. I say dodged, but froze in the line of fire is perhaps a more accurate description! Literally seconds after peddling past the warning sign a tennis ball sized rock narrowly missed my ankle smacking the side of my beloved bike frame. Obviously having heard the clunk I slammed on the breaks only to be overtaken by a screaming Boy shouting ‘peddle it’s an avalanche you moron’ as about twenty stones (only the size of golf balls mind) came flying down cliff face from somewhere up high, at which point we both peddled like never before! Perhaps avalanche was a slight exaggeration on his part – probably just a goat kicking a few stones from above, but we didn’t hang around to find out the cause of the drama.

Unlike Uzbekistan, shops were scarce and getting supplies near on impossible, so no more cold Coke or sugary treats for us, nothing but porridge and Pasta! Sadly though, even with our home cooked diets, our stomachs were not improving, and by the end of the first days cycle The Boy was pushing his bike up the smallest of hills completely exhausted, and having to lie down at the top of each one. He refused to give up though and we managed to cover another 20kms in this crazy fashion that afternoon, until we reached the next village where we passed out on the first bed we were offered.

The next day holding back the bile in our throats, and struggling to eat anything, we pushed on, knowing the next chance of civilisation lay 200kms away in the town of Khorog. It is amazing how far you can push yourself for the promise of running water and Western style facilities. 100kms later, we were over the hills and approaching the flat, but still a days cycle away from Khorog. Both struggling with our stomachs, and our pride we were continuing on despite ourselves when a truck driver stopped and asked if we wanted a lift. Normally we would say no, but on this occasion, with our energy levels at zero, and feeling worse by the second we accepted gratefully. Chucking the bikes in the back we saved ourselves one days cycle, arrived in Khorog that evening, and using the money kindly donated to The Boy for his birthday as a replacement for buying birthday beers by lovely friends and family we have checked in to a western style hotel.

Here we have spent the last three days, how shall I put it, crawling between the bed and the bathroom feeling very sorry for ourselves indeed!

Still, we are here, in a little oasis of luxury, taking as long as needed to recuperate before continuing onto The Highway. I have a sneaky suspicion we may be needing all our strength for the next 500 kms over those even bigger mountain passes!

Tajikistan - Starting the Pamirs

2011-08-23T07:59:00.001+02:00

Whoever dangled the idea of taking on the Pamir Highway in front of our faces aught to be shot! Seriously, what on earth were we thinking! I write this incapacitated, lying on my poor, weak, broken back, my newly bulging thighs a mass of jelly, my mind screaming for the pain to stop, and we haven’t even reached ‘The Highway’ yet!

Completly oblivious to the horror that awaited us we peddled confidently out of Dushanbe, so confidently in fact that we missed the turning for the easy Southern route, and started on the summer only route via Tavildara and the 3252m Sagirdasht Pass to Kala-i Khum. Yes people that is a whole 3252 metres above sea level! The hills started immediatly, and we were slightly suprised at how hard we were finding them after our victorious ride over our first mountain range only two days before. Perhaps trying another after such a short break was a little ambitious, but our room in Dushanbe was so hot and unbareable we were desperate to get on with the adventure at hand. What followed were four of the longest days of either of our lives, and quite honestly the greatest callenge either one of us has had to face.

The first three days we climbed endless hills, waded through water logged roads, cycled along dried up river beds, dodged speeding chinese truckers, passed endless security check points, the odd village, and could only get water from mountain springs.

By the fourth day we were completely exhausted, but had only reached the foot of the dreaded mountain, and still had 2000 metres to climb. With the nearest town (well big village) over that rediculiously high pass our only hope of a rest day was to get over the thing in one fail swoop. We set off at 5am to make the most of the cool weather before the sun raised his burning head, and from the start it was uphill, loose white stones winding up the mountainside that zapped us of all our energy, and had me off my bike on more than one occasion! Cycling on roads like these mean you’re constantly pulling on your handlebars, the wheels skid on the rocks underneath you, and you generally have a very unpleasent time just keeping the weight of the bike upright let alone getting up the hills!

So after six hours of very slow progess we reached a cafe with a German couple (true professionals, on their sixth tour, built like machines, legs made of pure enormous muscle, and cycling for two years) slurped down some more of the only thing on offer – the God awful lard soup with half a potato and a dubious piece of meat swimming somewhere in the luke warm mix, and stealed oursleves for the last push to the top of the pass, only half an hour away (our new companions assured us). So we peddled on up the stupidly steep hillside to the top, only to find it wasn’t the top. Round the corner lay yet another climb to another peak, steeper and longer than the previous, and so this went on four more times, and for three more hours! How we managed it I genuinely have no idea. Even our new friends, the professional Germans struggled (and joined me in pushing on one occasion) to make it to the summit. Our struggle was so obvious to those around, we were in fact offered a lift from trucker, which against every instinct in our bodies, we reluctantly refused.

I am genuinely convinced running a marathon would have been easier! For a start we’d be running for five hours non stop not eight, and at the end there would be a warm shiny blanket, a cheering family, a hot cup of tea, the promise of a night recovering in the comfort of our own home, and even a medal. After all the pain and strife getting up that damn mountainside we thought we more than deserved a medal, but not so much as an ice cream van greated us at the top!

Simply a two hour decent awaited our arrival, through some fantastic scenery (I’ll give it that) to a shared dorm and an outdoor squat loo, but once again on horrific roads leaving The Boy ‘s bike in peices. First his front pannier rack went flying down the hillside before him, and then his break pads dissapeared into thin air leaving us no choice but to replace them mid decent. When we did finally reach well made roads once again, and speed through little villages alongside the stunningly crystal blue river, crowds of children and adults alike chased us, clapping, cheering and high fiving us as. For the first time in hours we smiled, and that mountain seemed like a blip on the landscape, afterall, it’s not how high or how fast we climbed that we’ll remember in years to come, it’s these little unpredctably spontaneous moments that make it all worth while.

They say if everything in life were easy, life would be boring. With that I agree, but right now, lying on the hard floor, aching all over, with the stench of the long drop wafting across the mud courtyard, sticking in the back of my throat, knowing another 800kms of hill cycling await me, I’d give anything for a boring life! Just for one day!

But... the show must go on... onwards and upwards dear friends, onwards and upwards.

Pamirs here we come, albiet very slowly!

Uzbekistan the end - A dash to Dushanbe

2011-08-15T11:47:00.000+02:00

After organising all the essentials for onward travel we waved goodbye to the luxury of other English speaking travellers in Samarkand's Bahodir hostel and hit the road once again heading for Tajikistan. As the closest border was closed we had to take a minor detour through the Hisar Mountains. I say minor, but climbing over a mountain range on a bicycle felt fairly major to me! The Boy, having picked up a nasty bug from all those rabid youth hostellers, had one request for his birthday and that was simply to be somewhere with a Western style toilet. This meant we had five days to travel the 500kms up and over the remote mountains to be back in civilisation before the big day. A bit of a long shot for us with our weighty bags, and penchant for sleeping, eating, taking photos and generally staying out of the sun for a good four hours each day, but none the less good training for those even bigger mountains to come. So with the wind against us (I swear there is no such thing as a tail wind!) and ridiculously steep hills greeting us at every turn we ploughed on, The Boy dashing into the bushes at every opportunity and me (having picked up a cold from said diseased folk) streaming with the snot and sweat as we puffed, panted and gasped our way up the endless hills into some incredible scenery. Through canyons of stunning rock formations, passed mud settlements, wandering shepherds, dodging savage earless guard dogs and taking in the complete silence surrounding us.

We were stopped by truckers on several occasions to be passed fresh melon, bottles of water and even showered with peaches. We slept in road side cafes, tea beds and in a local families mud home.

Struggling to find a secluded camping spot as dusk fell in the mountainside and being watched from every angle by families and shepherds high in the hills surrounding us, we pushed our bikes to house after house asking if we could camp safely on their land. With our limited Russian, or just plain lack of, our mimes were just met with giggles and being sent on our way. Finally though a jolly looking fellow resting the tiniest baby on his ample gut waved us over to his mud hut complete with a shared well and long drop toilet offering us a bed for the night. A rug and bedding were laid outside in our honour and his friends were invited over to chat to us and marvel at all our equipment as we cooked up some much needed garlicky tomato smothered pasta. After our relative feast, which they didn’t seem to keen to join us for, we curled up in front of our audience and slept, out in the open under the watchful eye of our smiling new host, his friends and entire family, until dawn.

After five solid cycling days - some of the longest and hardest we’ve done to date we crossed over the border from Uzbekistan to Tajikistan early in the morning of The Boys birthday hoping to reach the capital by lunchtime. Little did we know that the customs process would take quite so long – filling out form after form in Russian declaring every penny on us, having every single one of our bags searched by the entire team of underage officers, who found much amusement in asking “What’s this?” to anything vaguely naughty – knickers, Tampax, medicines, and finding The Boys attempts at miming their uses hilariously funny. I of course tutted, shook my head, and rolled my eyes at the young rapscallions and their school boy antics which I’m sure really told them and sped up the process no end!

When we did finally peddle out into Tajikistan it was already midday, the sun was at it’s peak, 45 degrees and we still had a good 70kms to cover to get to the capital. They say slow and steady wins the race, so we trundled on at a snails pace taking four painfully long hours to cover the distance to that Western loo. But we made it. Tired, sundrenched and in shock from the recklessness of crazy Tajiki drivers.

Having arrived in time to celebrate his birthday with a beverage or two, The Boy in his excitement started his It’s My Birthday dance - a combination of singing “Ohhh yeah it’s my birthday” whilst flailing his arms in the air, wiggling his hips and flinging sweaty padded cycling clothes across the room. Sadly the party ended rather abruptly as his outstretched hand made contact with the spinning ceiling fan slicing it open, and showering him with blood. Within seconds of seeing the carnage he had turned grey, crashed to the floor and passed out cold. Having attended our first aid course together before coming on this trip, for this very reason (well more bike related injurys perhaps) I naturally sprung into action. With all my St Johns Ambulance knowledge I opted not to check the ABC’s or put him in the recovery position, but fly into a blind panic of shrieking and slapping his lifeless face until he came round, at which point we calmly elevated and bandaged with the aid of SAS survival handbook!

After all the drama we’ve had a couple of days here in Dushanbe relaxing, collecting our GBAO permits to allow us to cycle the Pamirs, replenishing all our supplies, and making the most of the civilisation before heading South East towards Khorog, where we should be able to find internet access before heading to the Afgan border.

Well, that is assuming that the security guard here at the hotel who has been unsuccessfully trying to extract bribes from us, actually returns our bikes currently locked in his store room!

Uzbekistan - Ch..ch..ch..changes

2011-08-08T11:27:00.002+02:00

Being the fickle little fellows we are, and having not overly enjoyed our first whizz through Kazakhstan, the idea of going back there for a whole month to plough on through even more desert has not been filling us with excitement, so we have decided to change our route rather dramatically. Instead of taking our luxuriously flattish road through Kazakhstan to China, we will swap sand dunes for mountain passes and head through the Pamir Highway. This is possibly the most stupid decision to date, given that cycling 7000km to China is probably a satisfactory challenge enough without adding an unnecessary climb through one of the world’s highest mountain ranges known as the ‘Roof top of the world’.

Since making this decision we’ve had to race to the capital, Tashkent, to arrange visas for the three different countries we’ll be passing through, get hold of malaria medication (with the help of lots of miming of mosquito’s and eventually the wonderful British Embassy), and drugs to combat altitude sickness as we’ll be climbing up to 14000 feet.

But we are ready. Or so we think. Just one last day of re-packing, and organising bags for the mammoth trip ahead, and we’ll heading South from Samarkand to cross the border into Tajikistan where the mountains begin. In fact by the time you read this we will probably be puffing and panting our way up those mountains cursing the day we decided to ‘challenge ourselves’!

Uzbekistan – The Golden Journey to Samarkand

2011-08-04T11:24:00.001+02:00

“We travel not for trafficking alone,
By hotter winds our golden hearts are fanned,
For lust of knowing what should not be known,
We make the golden journey to Samarkand” James Elroy Fleker

Uzbekistan is a beautiful semi preserved country with more of its own culture and identity than any other of the ex soviet shadows so far on our route. Finally we’ve been transported to a place so far from our comfortable western world, through both desert plains and lush green farm land, and for the first time we actually feel ‘abroad’.

Having read the above poem and been filled with excitement about this following the Golden road that so many have, we were a little surprised to find ourselves trundling along a motorway from Bukhara to Samarkand. The golden paved road that glinted in the sunshine of our minds was a far cry from the busy, dusty tarmac highway, but the journey was in fact just as promised. Golden.

Taking three days to cross the 300km stretch in the ever increasing heat we were overwhelmed by the kindness of locals. Once again the offers of free tea came pouring in, and huge golden smiles welcomed us at every turn.

On the second day of our three day trip we found ourselves in yet another tea house completely beaten by the sun, tending to our burnt patches and guzzling sugary drinks in an attempt to replace the litres of sweat we had left somewhere on that busy road. As with every country we had an audience, albeit at a distance, but none the less staring unashamedly at these strange red creatures settling in their local tea house. I have to admit we groaned to ourselves and pulled on the habitual false smiles as we saw a little group of them heading our way. We feared more painful conversations in which Russian is shouted louder and louder, as if to help us understand, and we respond with a series of standard words “English”, “Turkey to China”, “Bicycle” and lots of random miming actions to aid the repetitive conversation.

This time, to our surprise there was a little broken English, and within seconds of explaining our trip we were bought pints of beer, watermelon slices and invited to stay with a friendly faced gold toothed man and his three children. Fighting our fatigue, we once again accepted gratefully, to be greeted by a flurry of Russian instructions and lots of mobile phone activity. Exchanging glances we silently decided to embrace the moment and let it unfold (three months in such close proximity means we are officially mind readers!). Next thing we know we are being invited to a wedding. This is one of the very things we set out to achieve on our trip so without jumping from our seats with excitement we once again coolly accepted, as long as they didn’t mind that we didn’t have the appropriate clothes.

Two hours later, after a quick trip ‘home’ for a strip wash in the garden with the help of the children much to my prudish sweaty horror, we arrived at the huge party. Row upon row of tables of 10 were piled high with cakes, fruit, meat, salads, and all manner of alcoholic treats. A live band played traditional music, and a stream of hot food endlessly filled our already overflowing plates, as welcoming locals filled our glasses with Vodka and insisted on toasting to us every fifteen minutes.
Needless to say The Boy loved it, he was up and dancing as soon as the first person took to the floor, even going as far as to win himself a long thick shepherds coat for his much loved, yet bizarre, slightly spasmodic attempts at Uzbeki dancing.

Now the whole evening, in my childish nature, I had found great amusement in the fact that our hosts kept saying a word that sounded like “Penis” to describe the wedding. Thinking perhaps this was a rather unfortunate name for either the bride or groom I thought nothing more of it, except to titter at its every mention, a childish amusement I shared with The Boy judging by his enormous grin. When by 10pm the bride and groom were still nowhere to be seen I started to ask when they’d be arriving and was met by more shouts of what I’m absolutely sure was “Penis”! Stifling my giggles after one too many Vodkas I finally repeated the word I thought they’d said (hoping they weren’t referring to my good self), at which point they clapped their hands in recognition. Finally we had understood them.

Dragging a small boy dressed in a traditional outfit towards us, pointing to his crutch and then making a cutting action, the penny finally dropped and we realised that this wedding, was in fact a penis party – a celebration of the little chap’s circumcision!

Uzbekistan – We’re alive!

2011-07-29T14:25:00.017+02:00

After our merry little jaunt through Kazakhstan’s insanely Wild West, where the highlights were seeing our first camels and drinking milky tea on a daily basis, we were over the border and into Uzbekistan in only a matter of days. And what a fantastic place, for the first time, the western world hasn’t managed to influence this corner of the earth. Donkeys pull rickety wooden cartloads of women dressed in brightly coloured smocks and headscarfs through the lush green farmland. Green tea is served everywhere on raised wooden bed frames lined with colourful mattresses an inch thick and scattered with long cushions on which to prop yourselves up whilst sprawling it’s length, shoeless for hours.

Here food choice is limited, yet plentiful, noodle soup, kebabs, freshly baked Samosas that taste like Cornish pasties, and bread all served with obligatory lumps of animal fat either floating in the mix or toasted on the grill. The people are friendly, welcoming and more curious than ever before stopping us in the street, and rushing over to ask; “Where you from?”, “What your name?”, “Take my photo”. I am convinced they teach only these three phrases as the entirety of the school curriculum, because we have yet to get past the same three questions with any, of the literally hundreds, of people we’ve been accosted by!

Uzbekistan is gloriously flat, so fantastic for cycling, but with the temperatures still in the forties, it’s been a race to beat the heat. So we’ve been up at four to see the sunrise as we start cycling, stopping during the heat of the day in anywhere from derelict buildings, tea houses, our tent, in fact any shady corner in which we can sleep for a couple of hours before continuing our cycle in the late afternoon/evening . We’ve spent nights hidden between sand dunes in our little tent, in the odd hostel/hotel, but mainly, like the locals, out under the stars, out of scorpions and snakes reach, high on the beloved tea beds.

We’ve travelled from West to East, visiting Moynaq the graveyard that was once the Aral Sea, now nothing more than a series of rusting ships aground and stranded in the middle of the desert.

The historic, fantastically preserved town of Khiva who’s blue and green tiles roofs glint in the sunshine, and now out of season is calm, peaceful, and magical – disturbed only very rarely by the umbrella headed crocodile of hardy French and Japanese tourists.

From Khiva we cycled on, eventually reaching Bukhara, yet another spectacularly stunning town steeped in history and beautifully intricate tiled buildings, a little more set up for the old tourist trail, but still worth the visit. Here we will spend a couple of days loosing ourselves in our fantastic surroundings before taking the historical Golden Journey to Samarkand!

N.B. Apologies for scaring any, if not all of you; our Spot locator seems to dislike the heat and is refusing to track us, that combined with the lack of internet access filled our inbox with piles of worried emails. Thank you guys. Not that I saw anyone sending out a search party mind, but it's nice to know people are watching out for us! x

Kazakhstan – Steppelag and Hitchbiking!

2011-07-19T07:11:00.000+02:00

I would like to tell you we haven’t reported our progress sooner because we’ve been stuck at sea on the long awaited cargo ship, but sadly after over a weeks wait and expired visas we had no choice but to fly across the Caspian Sea, for fear of getting locked in an Azeri jail after overstaying our welcome.

There are several ways to follow the famed Silk Route, but cyclists tend to take only two. Either, from Azerbaijan they head South into Iran, or they continue East across the Caspian Sea, jump straight on a train and whiz through the uncycleable Kazakhstani Steppe directly to Uzbekistan and continue their cycle from there. After our long wait off the bikes, and the disappointment of having to fly, boredom had set in. We were hungry for a challenge. An adventure. A real bike ride... so we decided we could, and would cycle the unbeatable Steppe all the way to Uzbekistan!

Steppe, (to any of us Europeans), is basically expanse of flat desert land the size of Scotland inhabited only by camels, horses and the odd tea seller . Cycling this unfriendly landscape is not unheard of, (at least in the winter months) but the conditions are notoriously bad (wind, sand, unmade roads) and it is said to be more than a little monotonous. But we were game . Sure, it would be a challenge – the biggest to date, but we were ready for it, (or so we thought)!

So off we set, loaded with water and supplies, thinking we were in fact the Intrepid Explorers Luxembourg's Ara Radio had professed we were, ready to cross the desert in record time.

We began at 4.30am, the heat was already a balmy 24 degrees! We sweated our way through thick, refreshing coastal fog against a slight head wind until 11.30am, but were nowhere near where we had hoped to be before the sun reached it’s peak – perhaps that wind was stronger than we thought, or perhaps that week off in Baku living the life of luxury really had taken it’s toll!

At midday we were guzzling water and starting to struggle, by 12.30pm we had to pull off the road, make an impromptu shade shelter between the bikes and huddle beneath it away from the 50 degree heat that had appeared from nowhere. After an hour we tried again, 100 meters uphill, and were gasping for water, seeing stars, and almost unable to even push our bikes. With winds whipping all around us, and no shade for miles, making a second shelter was near impossible so we resorted to rolling ourselves in groundsheets and lying on the stoney ground as still as possible to get some solace from the pounding rays. We needed more water, we had to move on, so another half an hour and we tried again, this time the heat was completely debilitating and we had no choice but to drag our quivering bodies off the road and crawl into a dried up drainage pipe where we slept, thirsty, head-achy, and still seeing stars for two hours.

At 4pm the sun was still high in the sky, char-grilling everything in sight, but the fear of dying so glamorously; sweating it out in a spider ridden drain pipe dressed in Lycra of all things, forced us back out on the road. Once again within seconds our bodies crumbled, we were off the bikes, shaking, sweat pouring, struggling to even push them up the slight hill, genuinely believing that we may in fact die in this nondescript landscape somewhere in Kazakhstan!

Finally, a driver, seeing our pain, pulled to a halt and hauled two slightly delirious, red faced English cyclists and their bikes out of the record breaking heat in amongst his onions into the back of his white van. He drove us 30km uphill (I know it’s supposed to be flat!) to the next water stop where he plonked us and all our bits into the shade, handed us a handful of apples, told us to drink, and was on his way before we could even ask his name. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.

There we sat until the sun began to set, drinking our bodies back to normality and realising just how lucky we were to be alive. Never before had we realised quite so profoundly how challenging this trip actually is, and how vulnerable we are to the ever changing elements around us.

The following few days were a blur of early mornings, heavy water filled bags, more raging heat, sand storms, and head winds so strong we were knocked off our bikes.

When finally we arrived at the top of a hill to discover the road disappeared into nothing more than a series of tracks in the sand, and our bikes skidded out from underneath us, we had to admit defeat. Beaten by the unimaginably inhospitable landscape we proudly raised our thumbs and flagged a passing truck, and thus hitch-biking was invented!

Snuggling down into the cabin bunks above the driver, we smiled, happy that it was over but, all the same, triumphant in our defeat.

Grounded in Baku

2011-07-11T10:06:00.000+02:00

Unlike any other Azeri town we’ve come across Azerbaijan’s capital city of Baku is a buzzing mass of glitz, glamour and high rise. In the wake of the recent oil boom, the streets are lined with Prada wearing, high heeled, high glamour ladies, heavily perfumed and inch thick in make up. The men weave through the traffic in immaculate white, oversized 4x4’s wearing suits that actually glint in the sun and hide behind their dark glasses. The shop facades, the fountains and squares are all full of golden sparkles, lights, and faux Italian redevelopment. In fact the city is a mass of redevelopment - scaffolding is almost common place with buildings shooting up as fast as the price of oil.

But turn the corner, off one of these glittering Western streets and you’ll find the ex soviet buildings slowly crumbling, rows of washing littering the skyline, children playing football in the tiniest back allies wearing normal, grubby clothes and whole families of stray cats feasting on leftovers.

This is no Gay Paris, or even Stylish Italy, it’s all a little more gaudy, a little less classy, ever so slightly more showy and dare I say it slightly crass. It’s all about the dollar, having it, spending it, and making damn sure everyone else knows about it! It’s unique to anywhere else in Azerbaijan, and whilst great to be in a buzzing metropolis with options, and comforts definitely not a good representation of Azerbaijan the country as a whole.

Here we’ve been grounded for a whole week. Luckily we’ve been staying with our amazing saviour (I know I think perhaps we’ve overstayed our welcome, but he’s just so friendly, and fun, and normal, and... British. Are we bad people for staying so long?!) who not only has let us have free range of his flat, but has also given us the most amazing insight to this sprawling city.

We’ve been introduced to locals, seen sheep sacrificed in honour of a medicine man, walked up to the memorial flame on Bakus hilltop, climbed the Maidens Tower, wandered through galleries full art from around the world. We've hopped on and off 20p tubes and buses all over the city, watched the sunset from the balcony, walked the length of the boulevard at dusk, dipped in the rainbow waters of the Caspian, drunk Azeri wine, and eaten in lovely restaurants. Finally we've spent an evening at the Philharmonic theatre watching traditional Azeri music and dance, and then had the cooling breeze blow through our hair on a balmy evening as we watched Tamara Gverdtsiteli (A Georgian singer) in concert at Baku's fantastic outdoor Green Theatre.

All this, in-between the chaotic process that is trying to get visas, and boat tickets to Kazakhstan. I would fill you in on the details, but to be quite honest I fear I may actually bore you to death, so just a little round up.
The Kazakhstan Embassy isn’t on the same road as it’s address suggests so it took us three days, two taxi drivers, lots of walking, and help from three different locals calling round to finally find it, by which time it had closed. Only opening for two hours a day, four days a week can be slightly frustrating especially as their system decided to crash the very same day as we finally handed the papers over. With the passports being held there that then made getting hold of our Uzbekistan Visas a challenge.
And the boat...well, the boat is in fact a Cargo ship, so there are no timetables, customer service, and only a ticket office that opens sporadically twice daily for a whole fifteen minutes. So, after a long wait, and finally managing to get hold of a contact number amidst the lung crushing crowds at the ticket booth, it’s simply a case of calling every six hours to be told “Boat no go. Tomorrow, or tonight ...maybe, you call me”.

So here we are, currently grounded in Baku, unable to nip off for a day trip anywhere for fear of missing the once fortnightly boat.
We are told “it’s just the way things work” out here, in fact so common are these little dilemmas, and confusions the locals have a term for it. And we spoon fans have now officially “Been Baku’d”.

Whilst The Boy frets over the lack of information, I’m making the most of this bike free, civilised life. Wearing my (one luxury item) pyjamas for as long as possible, showering on a daily basis, having interesting conversations in real English with someone other than The Boy (not in my jimmys mind!), and drinking tea with chilled milk are my ways of bracing myself for the experience that will be a two day trip across the Caspian on a Cargo ship, no doubt full of male truckers.

There really are worse places in the world we could be waiting, and with the unbelievable kindness of our new host who has not only given us lodgings, shared all his knowledge of Central Asia, but also showered us with tips and supplies for our onward journey I can’t help but enjoy our little delay. In fact I might go as far as saying I’m more distressed that our new found friend will be travelling back to Blighty and leaving us, than I am to be waiting for the delayed Caspian Cruiser!

Some notes for other travellers trying to cross Baku – Aktau by boat.
Getting your Kazak Visa in Baku:Firstly ignore the address in The Lonely Planet and online – we spent three days looking for this Embassy using this address and had no luck. The simplest way to get there is to go to Hotel Europe off Tbilisi Prospekt (street). If you are coming from the centre of town the Embassy is the turning on your right just before the hotel with a big blue sign post, but it looks like part of the pavement. If you’re coming in towards town it’s on your left after the hotel and you won’t be able to see the sign. Your best bet is to get dropped off at Hotel Europe and ask in reception or walk through the car park where there are several Embassies. The Kazak Embassy is open Mon – Fri 9.30 – 12.30pm.
The boat...well the port has now changed. It now leaves from the Ro-ro dock which is 6km further out of town than the dock on the LP map. As far as we are able to tell the ticket office opens around 3pm, and around 12.15pm – these times vary, but someone around there will let you know what time it will next open.

Azerbaijan - The Final Leg

2011-07-04T08:09:00.008+02:00

So after our rather prematurely troublesome week was transformed by a good nights sleep and a flushing toilet we set off towards Baku for the final stretch in Azerbaijan. Excited at the prospect of a tarmacked road for the first time in days and no sunshine to steal our energy, we left early planning to spend two days covering the last 120km leading to the capital. The start was a slow one - an entire hour of climbing uphill through sun baked golden Azeri hills, past the freshly butchered sheep swinging in the wind over their obliviously sunbathing relatives, round yet more winding corners, higher and higher. Finally the downhill's began, and with a sigh of relief we raced through the hillsides, only to be greeted by more climbs, then more downhill's, and so the day went on, battling on up the hills (though I prefer to call them mountains!) just for the buzz of what awaited us the other side.

Before we knew it we’d covered our designated 60km, and it was only lunchtime. We heaved the bikes off the road into a ditch, and set about preparing our corden bleu lunch of instant coffee, bread, and, you’ve guessed it... tinned fish (no idea what type, we couldn’t read the label!). Much to our surprise within seconds of wiping the sweat from our brows and stuffing the fishy goodness into our dust covered mouths, a blacked out Hummer crawled to a halt right in front of our very own picnic spot. In a flash, a camera crew, a women in pink Lycra, and some unknown celeb descended upon our ditch, film rolling, and started demanding questions in broken English.

Where are you going? Why do you want to ride bicycle? You are too poor to buy car? Don’t cycling hurt your legs? And most importantly ... You watch the Eurovision song contest daaaa?

Obviously, we told them we were too poor to afford a car therefore we definitely couldn’t afford a TV to watch such Tripe!
I lie.

We nodded, congratulated the unknown celeb on his recent win (turns out it wasn’t him that won, but he didn’t seem bothered at the time), filmed an entire interview in Azeri with smiles, nods, and lots of Russianesque Da's, posed for a few photos with the presenter, celeb of dubious standing and crew before they packed up and sped off into the distance as fast as they’d arrived, leaving two bewildered cyclists to enjoy their sandwiches in a cloud of dust!

Spurred on by the whirlwind of excitement that came from sharing our ditch on the side of an Azeri motorway with a film crew, we packed up quickly and once again took to the road in the hope of getting a little nearer the big city before setting up camp for the night.

10kms turned into 20kms, to 30, and so the day went on until we could see Baku over the brow of the hill glinting in the distance. Still a good 30kms away we stopped for our daily 60 pence beer, over which we decided to call it a day (after all we’d already covered 90kms) at the next camping spot, and cycle on in to the city early the next morning to avoid the traffic. We pushed on in search of lodgings, but with no cover to set up camp in the barren land that surrounded us as far as the eye could see we had no choice but to keep peddling eventually reaching the city 10 hours after we’d set off (cycling with six fully packed bags is a slow business I tell you!)

We were exhausted, we hit the town at rush hour, cars hurtled from every direction and we quickly realised that traffic lights, road markings and signs are clearly irrelevant here in Baku. Finally after many a wrong turn, a few cross words, various High Vis clothing additions, and an hour passing we reached the centre of the cobbled, walled Old Town.

We collapsed into a heap of bikes and limbs, and began the search for accommodation – everything in the area was around the 200 manat mark – more that three times over our entire daily budget. So without further adieu The Boy was left to fend off would be robbers whilst I pounded the pavement in search of something more reasonable. As I climbed the stone stairs in the direction of a hostel in the old town I heard the familiar lilt of a Scottish accent call out “Can I help you?”. Relieved to have found the first other non-local in this country I poured out our dilemma and within moments Geoff became our saviour. Instead of leading us towards a cheap hostel he simply suggested we(two very sweaty, smelly and dirt covered, complete strangers) stay with him in his ‘bike shed’. Battling with my natural British urge to say “No, no we’re fine” we accepted gratefully, and what a bike shed! We are now staying in a beautiful high ceilinged flat overlooking the Caspian sea, with real toilets, running water, clean sheets, and a professional cyclist/tour guide/expat for company.

It really is luxurious.

Last night as we sat on the balcony sipping wine discussing adventures of past and dreams of the future with our new friend, the nightmare previous week seemed a million miles away, and once again we were reminded of how fortunate we are to have the chance to meet such genuinely kind people and have these amazingly diverse experiences and opportunities.

See, every cloud has a silver lining!

On another unrelated note...

A Big Happy Birthday to Mr Goat, a regular visitor here at Spoontravel blog. Have a lovely day goat boy xxxx

Azerbaijan - Hell Week

2011-06-29T08:00:00.006+02:00

Well, we all knew it would happen. Sooner or later this cycling lark would loose it’s sparkly edge and finally take it’s toll, and this week (only a month and a half in), was ‘the’ week, the week we like to call Hell Week!

The roads were unmade, covered in loose stones that sent our wheels and loads spinning out of control, and with no sign posts we made several wrong turns all of which involved encountering more hills, and the heat became unbearable! My prematurely arthritic knees finally decided we’d crossed one hill to many, and to be honest, this ex-London girl just got damn right fed up with sharing unlockable, filthy, squat loos and showers with twenty plus men in the male dominated £5 a night hostels!

We could have camped, we perhaps should have camped, but after cycling over the carcasses of flattened snakes in all the colours of the rainbow, having flies bite at our legs drawing blood, and seeing vultures merrily chew on rotting animals on the side of the road, the thought of a squat loo in a hotel didn’t seem such a bad prospect after all. It would only be a few hours later when attempting to master the art of using the facilities whilst holding the door, my nose, my precious toilet roll and avoid anything touching the stagnant water that covered the vile smelling floor that vultures the size of small children suddenly became harmless cuddly creatures who I’d be only happy to share my tent with.

Having already been scarred for life by the daily battle with the toilets (which we're told will only get worse the further we go), and being unable to sleep knowing strangers could walk in to our room at any moment, we then weren’t in the mood for the endless staring that is the norm here in Azerbaijan.

I am female. I am aware I have legs. And I am aware I have a chest. The first are a little on the squishy side anyway, and have been covered to mid calf the entire time, and the latter have been firmly strapped down and minimised by the finest sports bra M and S have to offer and hidden under a high neck T-shirt. I do not need to be reminded of it every time we stop! Seriously, every single time we pulled in for tea, passed through a town, or even just asked for directions a small crowd of men gathered around me blatantly, and unashamedly, looking from my chest to my legs, legs to chest, and chest to legs again before deciding which of the two meaty chunks to rest their sparkling little eyes on for the entirety of our stop. Occasionally the braver of the bunch even tried a subtle ‘brush past manover’ to cop a sly feel or stroke of a bit of western flesh!

Some might find this flattering. I, sadly, do not. If I want to be ogled like that I could just totter in to any City Boy’s favourite pub in London in a low cut top, I don’t need to cycle 1500km for the privilege!

Anyway, rant over! I am a foreigner, and we’ve only seen two others so far in this country so we are novel, and probably look very odd in our weird Lycra combinations.

So what transpired was a week of sleepless nights, days of slow cycling progress, endless arguments, and several threats to turn round a go home. Now had the roads been flat, I may well have stuck to my dramatics, but knowing that the only way towards civilisation was onwards, we had no choice but to push on towards Baku.

After Shaki we detoured by 40km down to the main motorway crossing the country in the hope of actually covering some distance rather than swerving and skidding our way through 30km a day! Sadly the motorway was still in the process of being made, but with the help of our new addiction the Snickers bar (totally allowed – sugar for energy, nuts for protein and gooey stuff for just tasting nice) we made it all the way to Samaxi, where we barricaded our hostel room door, shut the curtains at 10am and spent the entire day doing absolutely nothing. Away from wandering eyes, in silence, we watched the two English films stored on our little laptop, for the entire day accompanied by ordinary, comforting cheese sandwiches before having the best nights sleep in weeks.

After our unscheduled stop the following day we sprung out of bed with a new vigour determined to make it the 120km to Baku in the gloriously overcast and unsunny conditions.

Every cloud has a silver lining, and this one, Spoonfans, is enormous, but more about that next week!

Azerbaijan – The Arrival

2011-06-24T10:34:00.001+02:00

To make up for lost cycling time with our Georgian holiday, we packed our bags into the Spoon Folks hire car and whilst they drove, we cycled, bag free, from Tibilisi to the border with Azerbaijan Lagodekhi in a single day. Probably a little over ambitious given that we’d just had 10 days rest, the sun was shining, the distance was 155km over roads of varying quality and climbs over 1000m (I have no idea what this means, The Boy told me to add it, basically it was very hilly!).

None the less we managed it, just, and after waving goodbye to The Spoon Folks we crossed the border early the next morning aching from the previous days marathon. We managed to rebuke offers to smuggle Georgian beer in our panniers, withstand the interrogation from customs who suspected we might have been in Armenia, and freewheel downhill into the remote countryside awaiting us.

Now we thought the Turkish were friendly, but they are nothing compared to the Azeri’s. Every single person we passed, without fail, waved, cheered, flashed their rows of golden teeth and shouted hello, and for a moment we were Brad and Angie, Will and Kate... real live celebrities, though I suspect ever so slightly less glamorous and a little sweatier! We skirted round cows, sheep, farmers, horses and carts, and barely any cars or even dogs through the peaceful, rural, flat scenery.

So far we’ve been met by nothing but kindness, we’ve been stopped on route so many times just for a chat, to be given free tea, and were even stopped and given bags of nuts for energy. Sadly the need to be kind can be a little frustrating when asking for directions we are always given an answer and told to keep going in the same direction, even when the person in question obviously has no idea of where the next town is. These ‘helpful’ directions have led us to spend two whole afternoons retracing the mornings cycle, to get back on the correct road, but we live and learn and from now on we may actually have to read the map!

Yesterday we arrived in Shaki to stay in a real live Karavanseray used by fellow Silk Route travellers of years gone by, and having showered and changed headed to the nearest bar with the (actually pretty useless) Lonely Planet to decide what to do next. On arrival at the bar we were ushered into the back room where eight men, a feast, and copious bottles of Vodka covered a small table. Within seconds we had seats, plates (on which each man piled literally handfuls meat), shots of ice cold Vodka, and were instructed in no uncertain terms to “eat”! Four hours, three plates of meat, six shots of vodka, two attempts at Azerbaijan dancing, multiple photos and videos, and two rounds of Happy Birthday later, we, the guests of honour at a 70th birthday party, staggered back onto Shaki’s cobbled streets into the blazing sunlight, smiling, and wondering where else in the world we’d have experienced that kind of welcome.

Oh and a HUGE thank you, not only to the Spoon Folks for bringing spare tyres and missing bicycle bits out, but also to our number one fan for sending us an amazing care package of Cadburys chocolate and these AMAZING T-shirts ...

We love you Spoonfan No1! x

Farewell Georgia

2011-06-20T19:32:00.003+02:00

Having had the luxury of a hire car for the past week we have now officially seen all that Georgia has to offer. We drove deep into the mountainous region, via unmade roads with potholes big enough to flip cars, to Kazbegi. Here we stayed in home stays enjoying freshly cooked (and possibly killed) meals in between hikes up to remote churches in the mountains, cave dwellings, orange rock formations, and glaciers. We scowered the Kahati wine region for vineyards and tastings, and managed to guzzle our fair share of litres (not a Typo they serve it by the litre), and a few shots of the potent Chacha or fire water as the locals call it, though be warned even the most expensive Georgian wine is only advisable for those with a strong stomach. One glass may taste nice that night, but you’ll pay for it in the morning!

We finished our trip with an outing to the local Sulphur baths in Tbilisi, and whilst the men where gently covered in foam before being massaged into a deep sleep, we women were abused, abused I tell you! Having been to an amazingly relaxing bath in the Turkish mountains I assured Mother Spoon it was an experience not to be missed. So we hopped into our swimmers and opened the bathing room door ready for an hour of hot pools and pampering, only to be greeted by a naked women in her sixties who began rambling in Turkish and tugging at my bikini top. Fearing my only lesbian encounter would be with a sixty year old with breasts round her ankles I made a quick dash for one of the showers where I pretended to enjoy washing my freshly showered self in egg smelling water. Before long, old saggy boobs was back and hauling me to a solid stone bench. With a big smile and a well practiced manoeuvre she whipped off my bikini and began scrubbing me with a scouring mitt. Wincing with the pain, I tried to enjoy this ‘new’ experience whilst listening to Mother Spoon squealing with pain (or perhaps delight?!) somewhere in the distance as she was flung around naked, like a piece of dough by another firm handed Turk. After having been rather unglamorously flipped over and crushed on the torture slab the scrubbing came to and end, we were soaped, hosed down like some sort of farm animals, and then came the massage – God Forbid! Massage?! I think a beating from the Kray Twins might have been more relaxing. Needless to say, after the our torturous treats finally came to a close we made a swift dash for the door, hastily grabbing our discarded clothing, and were dried, dressed and in the nearest bar before the men had even finished lathering up!

What a way to end our time in wonderful Georgia!

I can’t help but think it’s only a matter of time before this picturesque little country becomes a well trodden route on the tourist trail, and all it’s appeal, serenity, and fantastically unmade roads become a thing of the past as the package deals, and coach loads arrive. So, my advice would be to head there now to make sure you climb those mountains alone, stay at a real home stay, find the beautiful sights on offer without queues, fees, or even safety regulations, and hell why not get yourself scrubbed red raw by a naked lady for a fiver!

And now...onwards to Azerbaijan!

The Boys Stats of Georgia:
Travelled: Sarp to Lagodekhi
Distance cycled in Georgia: 525 kms (total distance approx: 1100km – only a seventh!)
Dog Attacks: 8 (no bites)
Police Escorts: 3 (25 Kms)
Cyclists met on route:
1 x German
2 x Americans
2 x Iranians
2 x Swiss
Flat Tyres: 5 (3 spoon / 2 The Boy)
Random Kindness: 2 x Camping in strangers gardens (with dinner/breakfast provided)

Georgia - The Route

2011-06-16T17:40:00.002+02:00

Apologies Chaps, I get side tracked! It appears in my last post I forgot to mention that we’re actually cycling!

So, here’s a whistle stop tour of our time in Georgia to date. We crossed the border at Sarpi, cycled to Batumi where we spent a couple of days. After much debauchery and nudie dipping (does underwear count as nudie?!) we peddled on up the coastal motorway turning off, and inland just after Ureki then spent five consecutive days cycling and camping all the way to the capital Tbilisi. These five days involved one and half, yes that was one and a half full days, of going up actual mountains (1000m plus) in the scorching heat. Okay so the scenery was truly breathtaking, but we did wonder at moments if perhaps seeing it from a car window, like any normal person, might have been a better option, rather then sweating, heaving, pushing and peddling our way up some of the steepest slopes we’ve come across! With all the potholes and unmade roads under the weight of our load I managed to burst my super strong Schwalbe Marathon back tyre, so we’re already using our one and only spare, and The Boy managed to puncture his own tyre once again with his heavy handed pumping (don’t be disgusting!) pulling the entire valve off in one fell swoop!

But for all the mishaps there were plenty of highlights, the first being afterdays of climbing, the elation of reaching the top of the mountain pass followed by the longest downhill run ever. Amongst which there was a good 2.2km without a peddle according to The Boy, who was very proud of himself for clocking 75km/h, through the most stunning countryside!

The second was being caught right in the middle of a slightly terrifying thunder storm for two whole hours with lighting cracking all around us as the torrential rain soaked us to the core on an uphill stretch of a busy motorway. When we finally reached the brow of the hill, exhausted, cold, and drenched, the rain died down and a huge rainbow appeared across the horizon, leaving us no option but to smile at our fortune as The Boy exclaimed "Well you don't see that in an office"!

We met other cyclists, one of whom (Herbet Born – see the ‘people we’ve met’ page) we chased all the way to Tbilisi, and he even went as far as escorting us through the sprawling city to a clean mouse free hostel, where we’ve spent a fun few days together sharing beers, and learning tips from a proven expert.

We were also escorted by Police out of town – who knows what we’d done, but when I informed The Boy we had a tail, we were suddenly transported into a Bond film, I was being instructed to “take cover” and “move, move, move” peddling for our lives, against all odds (once again in the rain), and despite pushing ourselves harder than ever, we could not lose the slowly crawling police car behind. The film ended rather suddenly when after a couple of hours of trying to escape we reached a rather steep, yet tiny hill, at which point my quaking legs froze mid-mount forcing me to hop off and start pushing frantically before the Police could catch up with me. The car screeched to a halt at my side, the door flung open, and out stepped stern looking Policeman number one. I pushed on pretending I hadn’t noticed. I felt the bike being wrestled from my shaking hands whilst authoritive sounding Georgian words were thrown in my direction. I panicked, I gave in, I let him take my beloved Sherpy and.... and...push it up the hill for me. Seeing a damsel (we can all dream) in distress, old PC Plod had hopped out of his car to push my beloved bike all the way up the hill. Given the puffing and panting though, I don’t think he’d realised quite how heavy the my bags were, but what a lovely gesture, and one that led to them quickly turning round at the approach of the next hill, leaving us to peddle off into the distance (the distance being out of view around the next corner where we collapsed after our over exertion).

And those, are the events to date.

Here in Georgia we’ve been travelling about 75 – 100km per day, not starting until about 9am which means longer lie-ins, but sadly less breakfasts. In fact, despite the hills, the human eating cow beasts that lick their carnivorous lips us as we pass, and the temperamental weather, we’re a good week ahead of schedule, so whilst waiting for our Azerbaijan visas to arrive are having ourselves a little bike free holiday with The Spoon Folks exploring the famed Military Highway and Caucasus Mountains, before completing the final leg of Georgia and on into Azerbaijan.

Georgia - Batumi and Beyond

2011-06-07T09:38:00.008+02:00

After two glorious days in rest in Batumi watching entire pods of dolphins leap out of the sea at dusk, strolling the well trodden promenade, drinking beer, eating all the local lardy cheese filled staples and making the most of our last chance to dip in the Black Sea Coast before heading inland for six months we planned to set off for the Georgian countryside before the traffic, at dawn on Wednesday morning.

But, after The Boy being “just too freaked out to sleep” as a mouse dashed across our room, we didn’t manage to get on the road until about 9am. We needn’t have worried about avoiding the traffic though as nothing in Georgia starts before 10am – it’s must be all that cheap beer and firewater vodka!

Weaving around the winding roads, away from the port town of Batumi into the beautiful Georgian landscape we peddled on in the hope of meeting these wonderfully friendly Georgians we’d heard so much about. The roads narrowed, the hills increased and the horns began honking incessantly, having heard about this mild mannered nation I was somewhat surprised to find locals leaning our of cars and buses yelling practically in my ear. I like to think they were simply shouting “How do you do old chap, do keep on peddling up that hill” but their thrusting fists and bulging eyes seemed to suggest otherwise. Cars sped past at a rate of knots over taking on blind corners three a breast, and all manner of livestock kept popping up in every direction. Suddenly we seemed to be surrounded by dangers, and the thought of camping in this wild, unknown landscape seemed a horrendous idea, so once again we just kept on peddling. Past the Lonely Planets recommend ‘sandy beach town’ of Ureki which turned out to be a filthy stretch of black sand with derelict hotels and rotting dolphins carcases, past endless scowling faces, vicious dogs, and stopped as dusk fell in a field of cows behind a bush in Nigvziani to brave our first night of camping in Georgia. Armed with a bottle of beer each for a good old dose of dutch courage we erected the tent with only our wooden spoon for protection, and damn good protection it was too when one rather frisky little cow decided he fancied a taste of our freshly cooked spaghetti bol!

As the dawn arose on a new day, and we set off peddling once again, into the incredible scenery that Georgia offers we realised perhaps that we had misjudged this nation, perhaps our own fear had make everything slightly darker.

We stopped for water, and the man staring at me, offered me a handful of freshly picked strawberries, I smiled, accepted, grateful for the gesture, and he beamed, and that was it. All we had to do was smile, so from then on we cycled along grinning like cheshire cats at all the scowling faces which transformed into huge toothless grins, and waves of encouragement. When we struggled searching for a camping spot we were offered a corner a locals garden, who not only helped us erect the tent but then set about providing us a feast fit for a king – fresh cheese, bread, homemade wine, salads, eggs, the pizza like khachapuri, refusing to accept any money and simply inviting neighbours to look at th foreigners in the garden, and taking pleasure in our attempts to communicate via mime.

The next night when camping by a river a the figure of a giant appeared at dawn outside the tent with a large knife and a bucket. Seeing his shadow from inside I roused The sleeping Boy and thrust him, half awake outside as I scrabbled around to find the trusty wooden spoon and took up position ready to jump out from my canvas hiding place. Within seconds of his exit The Boy started shrieking. I leapt into action, kamikaze rolling from the tent, frantically waving my 3 foot spoon ready to take on the potential attacker. The scene that greeted me was a bleary eyed pyjama clad Boy, hopping on tip toes as the grinning toothless man flung live fish at his feet, I kid you not. With a bemused smile our new companion quickly gutted the dazed fish, popped them in our saucepan, and left us to our fresh breakfast.

As I hauled my aged bones from their crumpled heap on the floor and dusted the dried cowpat from my hair, I realised that we really aught to learn a lesson from this wonderfully kind, generous nation, and start having a little faith in our new, albeit temporary, home.

Crossing the border to Georgia

2011-06-01T13:19:00.003+02:00

After three weeks making the most of the wonderful Turkish kebabs and kindness the time has come to cross our first border – eek!

For some reason the two of us were slightly petrified about the prospect of crossing into a new country by bicycle, and spent the night before repacking all our panniers to hide the rather suspect looking bags of white powered energy drink and dried milk, fearing a lifetime in a Georgian jail with no language skills to explain away the large quantities of white powder! In our packing panic we hadn’t even thought about the cycle from Ardesen in Turkey to Batumi in Georgia, which turned out to be a rather sizey 100km.

The journey to the border town was pretty straight forward with, much to my relief, only two short tunnels. Little did I know that from the border town to the actual border itself we’d be racing past stationary lorries backed up the entire way through tunnel after tunnel, after tunnel, mile after mile, frantically ringing our bells in the hope that we’d be noticed by drivers swinging open cab doors at head height. Needless to say we arrived at the crossing shaking (even The Boy in all his manliness was a pale shade of grey after the ordeal), sweaty, and slightly on edge – probably looking like the drug smugglers we’d already convinced ourselves they would think we were! Still in the queue with all the traffic nudging us forward we had to act fast, hopping off the bikes to go through passport control where the first guy tried to charge us £20 each for visas which we knew we didn’t need. So sticking to our guns we hopped back on the bikes and straight to the police control who promptly welcomed us, stamped our passports and waved us on through, not a penny mentioned.

And that, spoonfans, was it!

No bag searches, no questioning, in fact not even any scary looking policemen carrying enough guns to take out a small neighbourhood. Just a couple of friendly, smiling, uniformed chaps welcoming us to their country and trying to teach us the Georgian for Hello and Thank you. What a relief. In my head, I was already ten years into my prison sentence with Bagwell from Prison Break insisting I hold the corner of his pocket whilst walking in the yard!

Once through customs and on Georgian soil, the change was immediate. Gone was the four lane motorway, instead a two lane unmade road wound around the mountainside into the distance. The towns we passed were small, cows grazed on the grassy verges staring as we cycled past, and as we turned slightly inland the muggy heat made such a welcome change from the cloudy chill of the coastline we’ve become so accustomed to. At exactly midday, and almost at our destination, after an already full days cycle we stopped at the first opportunity for the first real taste of Georgia. The famous Khinkali dumplings with an ice cold 75 pence beer.

In that sweaty moment, sipping the ice cold goodness and slurping on sloppy dumplings, in the words of Annie I thought “I think I’m gonna like it here”!

Turkey - The End...already!

2011-05-31T12:46:00.012+02:00

After a mere nine days whizzing along the Turkish coast our time here is already over. From Giresun we stuck to the same coastal highway all the way to the Georgian boarder Sarpi, popping inland for trips to the picturesque Sumela Monastery and a couple of days wild camping in the beautiful tea picking region of the Kackar Mountain national park.

With the main road being so busy, our days usually consisted of a 4.30am wake up, first breakfast of a banana and a handful of hazelnuts and on the road by five at the latest to have it to ourselves for a couple of hours before the Turkish truckers awoke! After two hours cycling, it was time for the first stop, and second breakfast (oh yes there are THREE breakfasts when cycle touring – whoop whoop!) which was usually some form of fresh bread or cake accompanied by at least two cups of Turkish tea on the side of the road, and then an hour later third breakfast – always something involving peanut butter or sardines. Most days we managed to be off the road by about 10am or 11am depending on how many stops we made and then it was nap time followed by lunch, sightseeing, and an early night for an early start the following day.

The road we’ve been cycling, has been great in terms of it’s condition, and the fact we have had our very own cycle lane in the form of the hard shoulder for the most part. The only slightly scary moments have been cycling through 2000m tunnels in the dark with our tiny flashing lights dwarfed by the speeding coaches and lorries sucking us towards them, seeing and smelling road kill close up first thing in the morning, and having to avoid the crazy dolmus minibus drivers at early morning rush our.

As you can see we’re no lentil eating health freaks – this trip is all about enjoying ourselves, trying everything, tasting everything, and seeing the world from a slightly different angle, and so far it’s been fantastic. Not only do we get to see the sun come up every morning on a different landscape, and have the wind rushing through our unwashed hair as we hurtle on to the next unknown, but we get to avoid the tourist trail, and see a completely different side to these countries.

Had we not been cycle touring I don’t think we’d have known how unbelievably kind the Turkish are. Every single day that we cycled we were plied with free tea, cakes, and bread by complete strangers insisting we accept their gift. Within moments of me puncturing my tyre we had four people assisting the fitting of the new inner tube (that didn’t prevent The Boy from bursting it with his heavy handed use of spanner on insertion, but they’re not miracle workers are they?!), and offering to drive us to a garage. On arrival in each town, if we asked for directions, more often that not we were escorted to our desired location even if it was a ten minute walk away, and The Boy was even given a free wash and blow dry by an English football fan who insisted he looked like David Beckham (don’t get excited ladies, unless old Becks is sporting in pre-pubescent ginger beard these days The Boy is a long way off).

Whilst we’ve met loads of locals, all of whom have been so welcoming, kind and generous, we have met very few other international tourists, in fact the only ones we’ve met were a lovely French couple touring the whole of Turkey in their van.

We’d been cycling since five, and were in the Kackar National park struggling with a 20km uphill stretch. Despite the sweat dripping down our unwashed faces and five hours of cycling behind us that morning they invited us into their beautifully clean and cosy campervan (ensuring to open all the windows on our arrival) for our first proper cup of milky filter coffee since arriving here, accompanied by lots of delicious Turkish delight, and wonderful French conversation which, after two years on Belgian shores (rather worryingly perhaps) felt like home.

We have been so humbled by people’s selfless generosity we have decided to dedicate a page on here especially to them, to all those people that have already played a huge part in making this trip so much fun. So here they all are photographed with our very own Travelling Express Spoon.

The Boys Turkey Stats:
Distance Cycled - 518kms, Dog Attacks - 2, Cups of Tea - 51, Kebabs Consumed - 20, Random Acts of Kindness - 11, Injuries - 3 (bruised bottoms, pins and needles in hands, chronic knee pains), Spares and Repairs - 3 (2 puntures, ooopps 1 self inflicted and 1 rack dislodgement.

Turkey - Unye to Giresun

2011-05-21T09:56:00.015+02:00

Being dropped off on the side of a four lane motorway at 3am with two bikes in pieces and our lights somewhere in the depths of one of the ten bags scattered around us, after a mere three hours sleep on an over heated coach was not quite the start we had envisaged for our cycling marathon. None the less, this was the start.

We had planned to arrive at the Black Sea Coast by night bus, after a good nights sleep. I know – a good nights sleep on night bus seems neigh on impossible, but these Turkish coaches are a far cry from the £1 Megabus. Internet, films, reclining seats, tea, coffee, even chocolate biscuits come as standard and there is even an air freshener wielding hostess on hand to unceremoniously blast the area around any poor victim who dares to remove their shoes at any point during the journey.

So in theory a full nights sleep was a possibility, arriving at a respectable 7am, at which time we were planning to find a quiet spot to fine tune our bikes over yet another cup of Chai, before embarking on a 22km cycle to the next town to ease ourselves in to the swing of things. Little did we know that when the ticket tout informed us we’d be arriving at 7am, he actually meant 3am, and when he said “Complete bikes, no problem” he actually meant after half an hour of arguing with the driver, refusing to leave, reluctantly slipping said driver a tenner or two (suggested by his “helpful” colleague) and dismantling our bikes we would finally be allowed on the coach we’d already overpaid for. Lost in translation, or sitting ducks?!

Still, we arrived in Unye before dawn. Whilst I unpacked everything to find the bike lights, The Boy frantically reattached wheels and racks before we kitted ourselves in neon attire and started peddling down the four lane motorway. To say it was terrifying would be an understatement, then as dawn broke and a savage dog came bounding out of the hard shoulder snapping our our ankles driving us into the hurtling lorries I thought this would perhaps be the shortest trip to China ever!

The Boy on the other hand, didn’t see any danger, and spent the entire ride literally whooping with excitement and singing “We’re all cycling to China” to the tune of “She’ll be coming round the mountain” in between filming, and professing to be able to "take any dog on" (though I distinctly remember him screaming like a girl and peddling off into the distance leaving me to fight the frothing beast single-handedly). With his beautiful (or interesting) singing cheering us on we were at the town we’d been aiming for within an hour but with nothing open, and into a nice rhythm we were keen to make the most of the relatively quite motorway before 8am, so like Forest Gump we just kept on peddling, and before long the horrific motorway lanes, turned into beautiful, mountainous lanes overlooking the Black Sea, and suddenly the cycle didn’t seem such a bad idea after all!

We veered off the motorway at the first opportunity and took the old coastal highway between Fatsa and Ordu climbing winding roads, free wheeling through little fishing villages, stopping for tea with locals and sardines on the side of the road (we had limited supplies), then climbed hill after hill, again and again with fantastic views across the Ocean below us until reaching the small fishing town of Persembe just in time for breakfast, at 10am, completely exhausted! The Boy, with his rather handy negotiatation skills, managed to sweet talk the owner of the only hotel for miles to give us a room at half the listed price to accommodate our already spiralling budget, and there we slept until dawn, only waking to eat!

Not quite the calm start we imagined, but perhaps the best, as not only did we survive the motorway, the attempted dog attacks, and the endless hills, but we actually enjoyed the cycle, even with our 40kg load. Now all our fears have been faced in one fail swoop, and with our recent purchase of pepper spray and self fashioned water bottle/guns to deter all manner of rabid beasts the road ahead looks feasible, and dare I say, enjoyable.

I won’t bore you with too many details, but basically we’ve been cycling lots, sleeping lots, and stocking up on those all important, (and thoroughly nutritious) Kebabs at every opportunity. We’ve made it to Giresun in time for the International Aksu Festival this weekend, so whilst resting our weary legs and tender buttocks, we’re hoping to join in the local celebrations of “throwing stones into a river” and munching on copious amounts of locally grown Hazelnuts.

Next week Trazbon and possibly even onto Georgia.

N.B. Apologies for any typos/mistakes the internet keeps vanishing - arrgh!

Turkey - The calm before the storm

2011-05-17T11:43:00.006+02:00

We arrived in Istanbul with two boxed bikes, more luggage than we could possibly carry and the all essential Turkey guide book buried deep in the mix. Knowing only that our hotel was near the centre of town, we dragged our extensive load onto the local bus and hoped by some miracle we’d arrive at our pre-booked hostel. An hour long bus ride, a taxi journey in circles, and a two hour wait on a street corner fending off interest in our packages, and we finally found our seedy little bedsit in the middle of Istanbul's Soho, much to The Boys delight and my dismay! We heaved, we tugged, we dragged the godforsaken boxes all the way through the beer soaked streets sweating, cursing, and giggling at the spectacle, only to be shown to our room...on the ninth floor! So nine flights of stairs and two near cardiac arrests later we and our not-so-beloved bikes had arrived safe and sound in our room in Turkey!

And that is our journey thus far.

Spoontravellers at The famous Blue Mosque

We spent four days making the most of Istanbul's civilisation, night life, and monuments, then caught the bus to the magical Cappadocia to look at fairy houses, phallic rock formations, and unbelievable underground cities.

We’ve seen the sun rise, and set, been called to prayer more times than I remember, drunk so much tea even I (a tea obsessed Brit) am struggling, gorged ourselves on kebabs, and sucked water water pipes until the early hours.

In fact we’ve been enjoying ourselves so much so without bikes, that the thought of having to actually cycle the things seems a ridiculous idea! But, tomorrow is the day of reckoning, the day we’ve been planning for for all this time. Tomorrow at 7am, after a night bus back to the North Coast we will don the padded shorts, attach the over packed bags and see if our steadily jellying legs will carry us to, well...the next town, and then we'll have a think about the whole China plan!

1 Week to go...

2011-05-07T15:30:00.002+02:00

...well it was on Monday!

Gulp!

Well that's it folks! Finally it is time to put all this talk to the test. Thank God! We're as bored of talking about it as you are of hearing about it!

In our final week, we've been checking, packing, re-packing and saying endless goodbyes.

I can't wait for these tearful Goodbyes to start becoming smiley Hellos as we peddle in to new lands.

Everyone keeps asking if we're scared, and the answer is yes, between bouts of excitement, we're both a little, well, petrified to be frank!

Petrified that we haven't packed the right things, that we might not like it, that our bikes will fail, that our bodies will fail, that we'll want to go home after one day (not that we have a home), that we'll get mugged, that wild dogs will see our juicy ankles as dinner, that we won't be able to wash for a year, that we'll never make it back again, that, that...that all these horror stories of warning donated to us by well meaning friends and family might actually happen. But, we're even more petrified of getting stuck in stale, unremarkable lives, so there is no choice but to put any worries to one side, smile and get on with the adventure!

Eek! We cannot wait! It's been a long road getting here, and there's an even longer one to come, but finally we're off!

So Chaps this is Au Revior from us, for now.

Thank you so much for reading, for buying all our stuff, for sending us the lovely emails of encouragement, and for generally being a lovely bunch of Spoon Travel followers! We'll update you as and when we can, and we've added a tracking page to the top menu bar entitled "Where are we now?", surprisingly enough, so you can see where we are at any given moment.

Please feel free to leave us messages at the bottom of each post (we look here much more than our Facebook page) as we'll be desperate to know it's not just the two of us out there in the wilderness!

See you in Turkey!

2 Weeks to go...

2011-05-01T15:29:00.001+02:00

It's all starting to get a little close, but, instead of panicking, I have decided to relax by doing very little indeed. My days consist mostly of looking at fabric and tiles for Mother Spoons house, playing on the internet, keeping Ebay in business with my constant buying and selling of all our "essential" gear, whilst nursing the rather nasty side effects of various vaccines.

The Boy has spent the entire week cleaning and scrubbing our Belgian flat in a bid to get back our two month deposit from our unexpectedly scheming landlord. A rather bitter note on which to end to our time in Belgium really, being forced to pay our landlords fantastical, and ridiculously unfair extra charges designed to make a few bucks out of the second rate citizens that we "foreigners" in Belgium are! It's a long story, but basically we told him four months in advance we'd be leaving in the middle of May, and in the contract we are supposed to give him three months notice, despite it being earlier than requested and uncontested at the time, we have suddenly been presented with a rather large bill due to "not sticking to the terms of the contract" - ridiculous I know, but what can we do when he's holding our deposit? Never mind, what will be, will be, perhaps he needs the money more than we do, so we shall rise above it, and walk away happy in the knowledge that Belgium is now firmly in the past!

On a lighter note, The Boy has finally finished work, not for six months, or even a year, but for good, and is officially completely unemployed for the first time in ten years. Suddenly the concept of no income, no house, no possessions, seems a daft and slightly petrifying idea!
Not only is he unemployed, but much to his colleagues surprise he spent his last week at work making his own little fashion statement. With no washing machine, and no idea of the concept of hand washing, he ran out of boxers, and was reduced to wearing my (stolen) smalls - or not so smalls as the case may be! A little worrying/disturbing/vomit inducing (delete as appropriate) when the first you know of it, is the lace of your own knickers peeping over the top of your blokes low slung jeans!

Cycling wise we have done nothing, well we've had a Royal wedding to prepare for after all!
Anyway we've have decided we'll start slowly with training in Turkey. After a slow first month of kebabs and the odd pedal, our newly bulging thighs will be powering us on through the Stans in no time, so no need to train too hard just yet - don't want us to be bored of cycling after all!

Finally I said my final farewell to the girls on the historical day that was the Royal Wedding. Tears were shed, Pimms drunk, National Anthem sung and lots of Tea slurped. A momentous occasion on which to say goodbyes, in a thoroughly British way at a thoroughly British moment in history!

3 weeks to go...

2011-04-24T15:29:00.003+02:00

Complete meltdown!

There have been tears, tantrums, break ups, and breakdowns.

Monday - everything was fine, both training well - I cycled to the pub with one of my oldest buddys whilst The Boy powered across the Belgian countryside smugly admiring his newly bulging package! Only to return with a very sore bottom and discover he had been wearing his padded cycling shorts back to front. We were both sad to see "the package" was an illusion!
I was slightly worried about the financial situation after all these injections, costs etc, given the Belgian bank have taken over three weeks to transfer funds to our UK account, but otherwise everything was plain sailing.

Tuesday - The Boy understandably feels left out of the planning whilst working, so insists on an hour long conversation re-capping every move I've made (much to my short tempered annoyance) despite the fact I have been emailing progress as and when it happens. We end the call on bitter terms.

Wednesday - Frustrated by the lack of medical assistance/advice with the injections in Belgium The Boy decides he won't be having the vaccines needed for the trip! Cue - enormous stress inducing, argument about the dangers ahead.
Can't sleep due to rage and general overwhelmed-ness of the trip, finally fall asleep around 1am.
3am wake up call from a drunken Boy. Steam appears from my ears whilst The Boy sleeps it off in the boot of his car! Truly Furious!

Thursday - Trip is cancelled (I told you I was furious). Tears, tantrums, endless emails of hatred are passed from one would be cyclist to another. All joint engagements are cancelled. Flight nearly cancelled, only halted by Mother Spoon!

Friday - More tears, more cross words. Trip is finally over, and a sense of relief and calm passes between us. We're both sad, but the pressure is off, and we relax for the first time in months. What a lovely feeling!
11pm an unexpected Boy arrives in the UK to a rather frosty welcome!

Saturday - Head to the beach for a frank chat. Three hours of arguing, a few tears (from me of course), a bottle of wine, three packets of crisps, one game of Scrabble later the adventure and we are over.
One hour of silence.
One more game of Scrabble (I win), the odd chuckle, and the trip, to Istanbul at least, is tentatively back on.
Two apologies.
Gradually maps and guide books appear - soon the floor of the beach hut is covered.
We have our first ever planning session with all the books and one another in the same country.
We smile.
We admit we are both petrified.
We admit we both feel completely out of our depth.
We admit we don't want our fear to make us do something we regret.
The trip is back on - ish!

Sunday - We sleep off all the arguing, and head off for an early canoe. We've forgotten to put the bungs in the kayak, we laugh, panic mildly, and canoe on in search of real coffee. Normality is restored. The cycle is back on.

Finally the week is over, and the moral of the story is...never leave your man working abroad or your lady alone to with a bunch of maps. She will crack under the pressure, accuse you of having an affair with work colleagues in Budapest, and cancel your two year long travel plans!
Women are fickle! Possibly even weak! Well, this one is anyway!

I hate to admit it, but it turns out that selling your possessions, leaving your home, moving back to your parents, trying to organise a six month trip into the relative unknown, buying bicycles, mending bicycles, training, getting visas, injections, buying 'gear' you know nothing about, answering local reporters questions, trying to hold down a long distance relationship, working long hours (in his case), and trying to deal with Belgian landlords trying to cheat you out of 400 euros at the last moment, is actually a little bit stressful.

It may seem odd to share these details with you, perhaps I'm too honest for my own good, but this is what these trips are all about - the rough and the smooth, the ups and the downs, the glory and the defeat. They say; Dreams come true, not free, and I think they might just be right!

So excuse my deranged behaviour this week, I take full responsibility, and plea temporary insanity, at least...

...I hope it's temporary!

4 Weeks to go...

2011-04-17T15:29:00.002+02:00

Maps, books, guides, scraps of paper, visas, injections, lists, lists, training and more incomplete lists!

This is week four!

As The Boy snuggles down on his camping chair alone in Belgium. I am back on British shores sat on the floor day after day, surrounded by a carpet of maps trying to plan the flattest route to China, not helped by the fact a huge proportion of the route will be through the Caucasus Mountains, possibly some of the highest in Europe.

This week was supposed to see me knuckling down, but the draw of English TV, fish and chips and tea with fresh milk have proved welcome distractions, it turns out I am RUBBISH at planning!
Oh dear I fear we may actually die out there is the desert due to my lack of self discipline in the planning stakes. To me it just seems so dull to plan it, it's supposed to be a genuine adventure! After all we made the decision to move to Belgium two months before leaving and never even visited the country until the day we arrived, car laden with our worldly possessions and survived,
how much harder can it be on a bike...

...in Kazakhstan...

...in the desert...?

Yeah, okay I know I need to get on with it...next week, I promise!

Perhaps my lackadaisical manner is due to recently becoming a pin cushion.
Who'd have thought a little bike ride would mean having offer yourself up as a human sacrifice on a weekly basis and paying for the privilege. Apparently cycling and camping are considered 'high risk' activities in which (the NHS very kindly informed me) we're likely to get bitten by anything from diseased tic's to rabid dogs, and therefore need practically every vaccine ever under the sun. It's a wonder we both still have two arms after being punctured by needle wielding nurses on a daily basis, or cash left at the extortionate price of these arm aching occasions!

Perhaps it is these regular stabbings that are poisoning me into my current semi-conscious state - nothing to do with my own laziness!

My beloved bike has finally been mended, though I'm slightly disturbed by the fact it still makes funny noises - lets just hope the guys in the bike shop know what they're doing or else this trip to China could end in Turkey!

And...I have been training! Yes, you heard it correctly training! On the bike, on my todd! I say training, but as Hampshire has no hills what-so-ever it's more like freewheeling with the odd pedal here and there, which is a welcome change from Belgium's hills.

Adieu Belgique

2011-04-12T20:24:00.001+02:00

So Ladies and Gentleman, that was Belgium!
Thank you, and Goodnight!

Having spent two years muddling our way through life abroad barely speaking the language, with only one another for support, entertainment, sanity... everything really, the time has finally come to up sticks and move on to the next challenge.

How would I describe our time in Belgium? A wonderful opportunity, which I believe we've managed to squeeze all the juice out of, but also one of the most challenging events of both of our lives. We've both travelled before, for extended amounts of time, even lived abroad short term, but moving your life to a country you've never visited (and in my case didn't even know where it was on the map!) with only basic GCSE level French is one hell of a challenge. A challenge that I hope we've embraced to the best of our ability, and despite the odd tear, struggle, and whinge we've finished smiling and possibly even, dare I say it, a little better at French!

Our last day in Belgium was one of brilliant sunshine reminding us how lucky we have been to live in Brussels and then in the heart of the glorious Ardennes. Summer times have been amazing, the location to all the bordering countries a dream, but the winter almost unbearable for these shivering Brits!

Will we miss it? Of course. I'll miss the incredible children I've had the pleasure of working with, the people we've met who've welcomed us into their lives, the daily challenges of simply buying bread or phoning the gas man. The very same things that have driven us to leave will be the very quirkiness we remember with fondness in years to come.
We will miss being the foreigners!
And whilst a fair few tears have been shed saying goodbyes I know we've made the right choice - sanity dictates we must move on.

So through blurry eyes we leave smiling, blessed (by someone, somewhere), and happy to have had all these brilliant opportunities, experiences, adventures, moments of stardom and shiny medals (well one anyway)!

As I write this final post on Belgian shores I have just been sent an invitation to a "Chasse aux Crottes" loosely translated as a "Dog Poo Hunt".

I think perhaps now, is indeed, the right time to leave!

So Adieu...frites, adieu moules, adieu mayonnaise covered everything, adieu uninhibited staring, adieu 10% beers, adieu strange politics...

...Adieu Belgium!

In the words of Dr Seuss "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened"

5 Weeks to go ...

2011-04-10T15:08:00.002+02:00

The few boxes of clothes (a girl needs shoes) and keepsakes being saved were sent home last weekend, so the flat is now totally naked.

Said our final goodbyes to lots of lovely people, which was actually far sadder then either of us had imagined!

Training wise, ahem, well, we have done very little indeed, I am bike-less and The Boy's work are cracking the whip keeping him there at all hours!

There just don't seem to be enough hours in the day!

Sadly there seem to be far too many hours in the night - sleeping has become nearly impossible with the enormity of the task ahead fast becoming a reality.

The combination of having to defrost the freezer to sell and refusing to spend any money means the carb/junk intake has tripled. I am now nursing a rather lovely little pot belly - just what every cyclist needs!

And finally I have left Belgium, landing on British soil this morning ready to get this route seriously sorted. The Boy on the other hand is stuck overseas working his last few weeks in solitary confinement with only a camping chair and a sleeping bag for company - now that is real training!

Arlon Carnival...Carnaval...

2011-04-09T10:08:00.001+02:00

Five months of snow, ice and bitterly cold temperatures make these little towns in Southern Belgium seriously dark and miserable places. So in a bid to combat the nations depression, Belgium like most European countries invented 'Carnaval' (the French version of Carnival!) to wash away those winter blues and kick start the festival season with a party of colossal proportions! Our tiny little town of Arlon is no exception to rule, and this weekend amidst the training (ahem), the packing and selling we found ourselves wandering the streets dressed as a what we thought were rather amazing British giraffes, but locals thought were dubious leopards with hats on!

The festivities started on Thursday night with dressing up the town's famous statue of a stag in what appeared to be a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, not entirely sure why, but tradition is tradition I assume.

Whilst Carnival officially starts Thursday, the real party starts late Friday night with a fancy dress competition in a specially erected marquee. Sadly being a little distracted with this bike ride at present I didn't do my research well enough, so despite having costumes at the ready, we managed miss this final chance to strut our stuff in a bid scoop one last Belgian prize, and were instead tucked up at home pouring over rather daunting looking maps.

We did however head down (after a four hour training session - ohh get us!) on Saturday, thankfully uncostumed, only to find this is the day for children and there is nothing happening in the town what-so-ever despite posters professing otherwise. Fortunately we bumped into a couple of friends nursing the effects of the previous nights festivities, who assured us that Carnival was in full swing, we just needed to start later.

So, on their advice we headed home to ready ourselves for the evenings celebrations kicking off at 10pm at which time we were to arrive at the grand chapiteau for the amazing evenings entertainment. It was only after paying our five euros to enter the heaving smoke filled marquee we realised that we were perhaps a little too late, by about twenty years to be precise!
The place was full of scantily clad teenagers necking drinks and one another, so after a couple of painful beers we excused ourselves, collected our Zimmer frames and headed home to a warm welcome from Mrs Pyjamas, Mr Sofa, and a glass of red!
On the third day of this so called Carnival that up until now had been nothing more than a statue in fancy dress and a few snogging teenagers we were adamant to find the real thing - the costumes, the dancing, the spectacle!

We had read that it is tradition for everyone to be in fancy dress, not only those in the parade, but also those lining the streets waiting to throw handfuls of confetti at the procession.
So not wanting to miss an opportunity we hopped into our ready and waiting giraffe/tiger outfits teamed with novelty British bowler hats (with perfectly handcrafted giraffe ears, I might add) and cautiously headed onto the streets hoping and praying that it was finally the right day for our costumed-selves to walk proudly amongst the others.

Horns were honking, children squealing, and the roads were rammed with party goers (fortunately in all manner of costumes). As we bustled our way to the front with a bag of confetti big enough to shower ten newlywedded couples, the procession began. Groups from all over the world come to participate in the five hour long walk through the town playing music, dancing, acting, smothering the crowds in confetti and even handing out free beers!
Every group has a float, every float a theme and every theme changes on a yearly basis, making for a surprisingly innovative and colourful event!

Finally we'd found the Carnival we'd heard so much about, sipping beers in the sunshine watching the colours, smiles and festivities pass us by was definitely worth the wait.

If you happen to be in the area, and want to see the Belgian locals at their best then I would most certainly recommend this event. Just ensure you go on the Sunday though when the parade takes place, watch the procession, guzzle beer, munch sausages and be prepared for randoms to stick handfuls of confetti well inside your shirt - ladies bras are advisable (or I suppose optional, depending what you're into)!

Carnivals take place all over Belgium from March onwards, for more information on this one, click here .

6 Weeks to go...

2011-04-01T14:50:00.006+02:00

My bike and I have fallen out! It's not been pretty. Basically he thinks it is amusing to jump gears on any stretch of uphill which I find decidedly unfunny to say the least, so I have sent him back ahead of me to the UK in disgrace. The Boy's bike on the other hand is working far too well, he has started overtaking me on the climbs which is normally unheard of! I shall refrain from sulking until after he has those heavy panniers attached!

The Spoon folks turned up in force to help with the final sales push at the Arlon brocante (car boot sale to you and I).

For the past year, once a month our cobbled little street has been taken over by antique and junk collectors from across Europe selling their stash to a steady stream of punters. Whilst novel, it can be a little tedious on a Sunday morning being woken up at 5am by the clank of junk being unloaded below the windows. Still, it is part of Arlon life, and at the heart of the community with every shop and cafe getting involved. So there was simply no way we could leave our lovely little town without having taken part in this locally renowned sale.

Six hours of hard selling between predictably Belgian rain showers and we managed to make the grand total of 279 Euros - just enough to buy some new spokey dokeys for the great ride (well maybe a pannier rack or two)!

Top prize goes to Mother Spoon for her attempts to sell a brand new, boxed pair of nipple tassels (of dubious, yet surprisingly unquestioned decent) to the poor unsuspecting Arlon public!

Training wise, after the gears decided to give up on me, we did little more than one rather sweaty six hour walk through Luxembourg's little Switzerland. That was the grand total of exercise for the whole week!

And finally we made a massive donation to the local Oxfam shop, where I've worked for the last two years, who were more than happy to receive loads of fabulous British junk!

Countdown Training

2011-03-26T16:07:00.000+01:00

After two years of saving, two months of research and asking for advice all over the internet, the countdown has begun! Gulp!

Oh to be back at the pub nursing that beer dreaming about the great escape rather than actually doing it...!

Anyway here is how the so called training has been panning out:

Ten weeks to go....

Made a rather large chocolate cake, of which 90% was consumed by my good self
Nearly died doing 10k on the cross trainer in 30 mins
Drank lots of lovely wine (they may not have it in Turkey!)
Managed to sell all my beloved pets and most of the furniture - perhaps a little prematurely as we're now living out of boxes!
Managed to avoid any route planning, but did purchase two bikes off Ebay!

Nine weeks to go...

Picked up beloved Ebay bikes, and after a few adjustments they work - whoop whoop!
Bought half the contents of Stanfords map shop and are now the proud owners of maps of just about every country on the Silk Route.
Obviously as we went to the UK to collect the bikes, we had to spend a small fortune on thoroughly British food all of which I have munched my way through.
Training wise I cycled round the block to test my new gears and managed to fall off whilst trying to smoothly hop off on a Zebra crossing, forgetting I now have a mens bike. Sadly I ended up landing in a heap, flailing on the ground under said bike whilst traffic waited for me to find my feet. Of course I scampered up in no time working my cool 'I'm a professional cyclist don't you know' cycling demeanour, trying desperately to hide my newly acquired limp! Things are not looking quite as positive as before!

Eight weeks to go...

Booked the flights to Turkey, our starting point, with bargainous Easyjet - Yikes! That's it! We're actually going!
More furniture has been sold - now we are sat on camping chairs in the middle of an empty lounge, sleeping on a lopsided sofa bed, and boiling water in a saucepan as I sold the kettle!

Training wise (apart from The Boy cycling round the empty flat in his pyjamas) we went on our first real cycle with the new wheels, as per usual, I left The Boy in charge of directions for a quick 30km before heading out with friends for the afternoon (dangerous, I know, but he had the Garmin satnav thingy), and once again we returned home four hours later having been cycling round in circles! Getting to China could be interesting!

Seven weeks to go...Obviously we became radio stars, other than that though I finally got to shop, even though it was only for spandex cycling gear it was still shopping! Now I officially have "all the gear and no idea!"
We bought our tiny little sleeping bags - they really are tiny, but The Boy insists after his test night on the floor they're "super comfy". I'll take his word for it!
We've finally come to terms with the fact that we will have to leave what little fashion sense we have behind, and will have no choice, but to look like numpties for six months of our lives! So in a bid to embrace this change we have been following the footsteps of vegans, hippies, and gap year students the world over trying on all sorts of hideous Teva-esque sandals! Matched with a nice pair of ankle length white socks we might even pass as American tourists!

Anyway, we're off for another training cycle this morning (lets hope it's a little more successful than the previous attempts) before donning giraffe outfits and getting involved in the local Arlonaise Carnaval celebrations, and I think that maybe where the training ends for this week!

Well... just one more cup of tea then we're off!

Video Killed The Radio Star...

2011-03-25T06:35:00.015+01:00

...or did it?
Apparently not, after last night's stunning performance on Luxembourg's one and only English radio station by our good spoonselves. Yes you heard it here first Spoonfans, The Boy and the Spoon are steadily rising to international fame! First a TV appearance on Russian TV for the Bathtub Race, followed swiftly by a cameo, albeit drunken, on Belgium's local news supping soup in the La Roche festival, then a quick flash of our almighty capes in ESPN's coverage of The Santa Competition 2010, and now radio stars!

Last night we were invited on none other than Luxembourg's Radio Ara, as 'special' guests, to talk about our forthcoming cycling trip. Not for five minutes, not even for ten, but for a whole hour and a half of real live air time (check me out I'm down with the lingo). And what did we talk about, well that I cannot remember! Quite frankly it was all a bit of a blur!

Radio is a sneaky medium, one minute your having a candid chat to two lovely ladies, and the next minute the little red light is blinking and the world is listening in to your conversation. Sneaky I tell you.

It was great though, one to be on a radio show in Luxembourg and two to talk about all things Spoontravel, (the website was plugged so much I had to change the design to cater for the hoards of new fans, well I think the grand total was one, but hey ho) it was fantastic! It turns out The Boy is actually rather eloquent, and manages to answer questions, where as I, tend to witter very quietly making little, if any sense!

I must say, I'm not quite sure we deserved our introduction on the show as the Two Intrepid Explorers but as expected The Boy has decided to fully embrace his new title by using it at every possible occasion.
The Boy: "I'm off"
Spoon: "Where"
The Boy: "I'm an Explorer"
Spoon: "Yes but where are you going"
The Boy: "Exploring"
a few minutes later I hear a chain flush and the explorer returns!

So that was our 30 seconds of fame, tucked away in a tiny studio above the bustling English pub in Luxembourg's city centre sharing our shaky plans live on the air with the Expat community. Thus ensuring that now there is no turning back, and this daft conversation is actually becoming a rather scary reality.

A huge Thank You to Debs and Wendy on The Corner Cafe at Radio Ara for having us on their show!

STOP PRESS!

2011-03-23T20:13:00.006+01:00

We (Spoon and The Boy) will be starring on Luxembourg's Ara radio tomorrow night at 5.30pm (UK time) talking about the grand cycling adventure.

Listen to our lovely voices here: www.ara.lu

A more exciting detailed post to follow I promise, I'm currently sat in the empty flat typing on a camping chair - sad times!

The advert to listeners:

"Two people, two bikes, two years of planning....and they’re off to take the road from Turkey to China. And write about it.

Why?? As Spoon Travel states on her very amusing blog, spoontravel.blogspot.com: “Because we can.”

Join these local adventures who have sold everything they own for one more item on the “30 Things to do Before Marrying” List.

Interesting conversation on tonight’s Corner Cafe, on Radio ARA, 103.3 & 105.2 FM or catch the live feed on www.ara.lu

The Corner Cafe is every Thursday from 1830-2000h.

Thanks for listening!"

Baby Steps

2011-03-04T15:49:00.018+01:00

It has been brought to my attention that my last posts about Cuba, we're not up to my usual Spoon standard and quite frankly somewhat dull! And for that Spoonfans, I apologise.

I must confess Spoonworld is in turmoil!
Turmoil I tell you!

After two years on these rainy shores The Boy and I have finally decided there are only so many pots of moules, half pints of potent beer, and rich chocolates one can munch before realising enough is enough, the world awaits.
At this point some people might think, "oh I know, why don't we have a lovely long relaxing holiday before heading back to the UK to start our lives over for the third time in two years", but no, not us. Instead for some unexplainable reason we have decided to cycle (yes, that is on a bicycle) from Turkey to China for ... wait for it....fun! I know! Why on earth would two people who love food, booze, home comforts and more importantly sofa time, choose to trade all that in for the open road and a tent?

The answer is simply because we can.
We have no commitments, no ties, no babies, no houses, no bills, just us and (at this stage) a dream to do something a bit different. That and a sneaky little suspicion that perhaps we haven't yet fully made the most of this life we've been given. Haven't pushed ourselves to our limits, haven't done something that can make a difference, and haven't ever jumped fully out of our comfort zone and taken a real, genuine risk.

So that is it. That is 'the' news, my excuse for poor posting, and this site will now become very quickly obsessed with the challenge ahead.

Are we ready? Not in the slightest! But there comes a point when you just have to set a date and do it, so The Boy and I finally decided to take the plunge last week by handing in our notice, starting to sell all our worldly goods, and stepping up the training ten fold. Well in truth, since Cuba the training has amounted to one set of press ups by The Boy! As he sweats it out on the floor I am in charge of selling everything we own in order to buy spangly new steel framed, 26" wheeled (blah, blah boring I know) bikes, and have so far managed to make the prizley sum of €395, whoop the loop! We currently have nowhere to put our clothes, but still, we almost have enough for a whole bike!

The Boy is practically uncontrollable he's so excited planning routes, researching gear, hopping from one idea to the next. I on the other hand, flit between excitement, fear, loathing, and
excessive eating - well if I'm cycling all that way I'll need lots of extra padding!

There is still a very long way to go, but it's out there now, it's official, there's no going back! So watch this space for all the details of our route and plan - I may even let The Boy have a say one of these days!*

Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step. -Martin Luther King Jr.

*after having written that The Boy read through it to check the spelling and gave me so much "constructive criticism" that I suggested he write his own perfect blog as he is no longer invited on mine!

A Taste of Cuba

2011-02-24T16:59:00.024+01:00

...from a Spoons perspective...

Ah Cuba. The land that time forgot, beautiful colonial buildings, purring classic American cars of the 50's at every turn, cigar sucking men playing Salsa tunes and defining the word 'cool'. There is no doubt that on arrival Cuba is stunning. You feel like you've just walked back in time, onto a Hollywood movie set and expect Marilyn to swish past at any moment. The only difference is, not only has time forgotten Cuba, but the Cubans have too - the buildings that first seem spectacular, are all in various states of decay, the cars that at first glance look so impressive, on closer inspection are three inches thick with paint, taped, patched, and have been revamped ten times over. The film set turns into a museum of lost beauty.

Outside the towns, the countryside is sprawling, and stunning, especially at dawn when as the mist rises around you you're accompanied on the long open roads by farmers travelling on horse back, by cow pulled cart, or horse and trap. Here the houses are small, wooden and all with the obligatory chairs rocking on the porch.

The beaches are picture perfect (for the most part), pure white sands with clear blue sea, which I'm told are great for scuba diving, though after watching Jaws one too many times as a child, I prefer to swim above the fish rather than amongst them.

Our favorite beaches were Playa Ancon, famed for it's clear blue waters and fresh seafood, but it is very popular with the tourists, and whilst its not packed you will certainly find yourself next to a group of young soul searchers soaking up the rays until dusk. Cycling here from Trinidad takes about 20mins and gives you the freedom to stop off at one of the more secluded beaches on the way, where you are literally only accompanied by two other people. Sadly for us, our two were a rather rotund American man sat in the shade taking photos of his perfectly formed and extremely flexible Asian lady friend rolling in the sand topless, in all manner of mind boggling poses. I did wonder why The Boy hadn't commented my lovely new bikini and instead spent so much time looking at the view over my shoulder!

Our personal favorite though was Rancho Luna - a fantastic beach of equal quality to Ancon frequented by a small local tourist crowd, and with only a handful of Casa's, each of which are right on the beach front. Our particular Casa offered a supper of freshly caught seafood, which we gladly accepted me opting for the Lobster (it's so cheap you have too!), and after much miming and explanation in Spanish, The Boy opting for the 'special' which we presumed to be a type of fish. The gray, boneless, slightly chewy meat that was presented to him was actually quite tasty and disappeared in no time, so when we again asked the type fish we were a little shocked, to say the least, when presented with a wall mounted Turtles head. That, and the description of it being harpooned by our well meaning host left us fighting to use the bathroom first!

The other beach that we went to was the fantastic Cayo Lavisa.

This is a tiny uninhabited island off the north coast that has a handful of beach huts leading directly onto pure white sands. If you want to get away from it all for a few days, and live in relative luxury (in Cuba this means a clean flushing toilet, and a hot shower), this is the place to go. There is absolutely nothing to do but laze around on the beach, read, eat, get served drinks, massages, and walk round the island head before dawn and watch the sunrise across your own private stretch of sand.

Personally we found that cycling in Cuba gave us the chance to get away ever so slightly from the very well worn tourist route. It's a small island with huge amounts of tourists being flown in on a daily basis, so everywhere you go you'll find them, still, it is always possible to avoid the tour buses and do most of it yourself. Our first stop after Cayo Lavisa was Vinales. The quiet streets were scattered with figures rocking in the shade of front porches, and every other house has a room to offer. We stayed in a very welcoming Casa (just opposite the very outdated Lonely Planets recommendation) Miguel and Rosa in the street Rafael Trejo. Here you will be spoilt with the most enormous evening meals, a really friendly host, and your own private dining room, fridge and porch, complete with chairs to rock away the very quite Vinales evenings with a Cuba Libra.

There are all of three sights to see here - the painted wall (Mural de la Prehistoria) and the two caves (Cueve de San Miguel and del Indio). We set off early with the plan to spend the day cycling between the famous landmarks, taking in the tobacco and coffee plantations, which we managed in no time and were finished by midday. These places are tiny, mildly spectacular, and heaving with literally bus loads of people. Fortunately for us, being keenos, we were the first customers of the day, so had each cave to ourselves and sat back smugly sipping Coke across the road as the streams of people arrived. We did a fair bit of cycling round this area, but be warned it's quite hilly, in fact there wasn't so much cycling on my part, rather bike pushing!

Tobacco drying

Next stop was Pinar Del Rio, whilst is was a lovely, easy ride from Vinales, there is really nothing there worth seeing, avoid it like the plague. It was in fact the only place we felt slightly uncomfortable in Cuba as we found ourselves in cafe watching drug deals take place around us, so that was nice! We dismantled the bikes and got the first bus the next morning to Trinidad!

Trinidad is a definitely worth a visit, yes everyone goes there, but it's such a picture perfect, well preserved little town it really is worth it. Battle through the crowds of people trying to persuade you to go to their Casa and head to the clean, comfortable, hot watered, toilet flushing (these things soon become dreams and obsessions in Cuba!), fluffy toweled, Casa Yahima y Ariel (Lino Perez No 210 e/Frank Pais y Miguel Calzada, Trinidad. Tel:53(41)993069). This really friendly, young couple have an amazing, and huge house with all the mod cons, and having previously cooked for a hotel they serve the best food we ate all holiday, including the most enormous lobster I have ever seen in my life!

Whilst in Trinidad it would be a real shame not to hike up to the waterfalls in Topes de Collantes - again very easy to do without the tourist bus, and it means you'll have the falls to yourself when you finally reach them. Go to the main square hail a taxi, negotiate a price including two or three hours waiting time. We paid 25cuc for the trip in a Lada with the serious looking guy in the Cowboy hat - to my shame, I can't remember his name but he is known the town over, and is great!

Topes de Collantes

After Trinidad we headed to the coast which I mentioned previously, up to Cienfuegos from where we caught the bus back to Havana just in time to catch one of the famous baseball games before heading home. At only 3cuc (tourist prices) a ticket, this is one of the cheapest ways to get really involved in Cuban life as you join the crowds cheering on their favorite teams and munching on peso popcorn.

The thing that I didn't realise about Cuba was how behind the times it is in terms of toilets and showers, I mean when we went to Vietnam, we knew it was a developing country, and went with open minds. But, Cuba? A place where despite the lack of imported clothes fashion is important, every city dweller is blinged up to the nines - they'd put the residents of North London's Wood Green high street to shame. A place where cars are symbols of status, houses plentiful, and yet the most fundamental amenities have yet to be installed. Public toilets consist of urine covered bowls almost overflowing with no flush and no locking door, in some cases no doors at all (yes for the women too), and certainly no water for washing hands. Not a problem for those of us armed with tissues and hand sanitiser (apart from the door situation for those adverse to public displays), it's only when you see the cook and the waitress returning from the stinking holes on the way to serve you that you it becomes a concern. Call me a British prude, but it just seems such a contradiction, these wonderful buildings, cars, the classics, the era... the 50's preserved.
Were the 50's really like modern day Cuba?
Did Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe really hitch their skirts, ankle deep in urine hover over overflowing bowls, drip dry and not wash their hands afterwards?
It makes you wonder.

Whist on the subject of the bad bits of Cuba I would advise not spending any time in Havana's China Town where you're likely to get ripped by bar tenders short changing you, and the Lonely Planets recommended restaurant will leave you in bed for at least day! Still despite my negativity Cuba does have a lot more to offer, and is well worth a visit. If nothing else, go just to drink Rum, listen to the live Cuban rhythms, and meet the locals who are welcoming, friendly and full of spirit.

Dairy entry on our last day:
We will leave Cuba, pockets considerably lighter (it's not a cheap place), bottoms exceedingly larger (if it's not deep fat fried and served with at least two carbs it's not Cuban!), and our quaking thighs longing to be able to once again sit on a toilet, but with fond memories of peddling through the silent mornings past bull drawn carts on seemingly endless dusty roads on our way to the beautifully decayed cities of years gone by.

Read more about what cycle touring in Cuba is like here.

A day in the life of a novice Cuban cyclist!

2011-02-23T17:28:00.019+01:00

As these supposedly beautiful Belgian Ardennes have been buried in snow and ice for three months now, we headed off to Cuba for some long awaited sun worshipping cunningly disguised as 'training' for a grand cycling adventure later this year (and as a final and very generous gift from The Boy for the grand 3-0). After some deliberation we finally decided to take our own garage sale bought bikes, along with one pair of panniers for all our stuff.

We arrived in Havana looking like asylum seekers with two bundles of clothes wrapped in shopping bags and masking tape (ready to be decanted), and two enormous black bags clanking with pieces of bike, hoping and praying that we'd managed to remember all those little bits of metal that we're littering the lounge floor previous to our escape. After a day drunk with jet lag spent traipsing round Havana city centre, rebuffing endless offers of cheap cigars and rum at every turn, we fell back to our Casa (Cuban bed and breakfast) with a bag of beers and set off on what promised to be a long evening of bike building. I'd like to say we had them up and running within a matter of minutes, but the truth is whilst I was amazing at cracking open the beverages, munching on delightful garlic flavoured crisps and commenting on the progress with helpful hints such as "I don't think you're doing that right", I achieved little bike construction. That task was left soley to The rather sweaty, oil covered, Boy who gallantly battled away until dusk with uncooperative bits of metal that had never before been separated from one another.
The next morning, after checking our new panniers actually fitted the rack (I picked up from Sports direct on the way to the airport!) we were off before the sun rose, with me weaving uncontrollably across Havanas empty main roads as I came to terms with carrying two peoples luggage for two weeks on the back of my beloved 'Doris' Dawes bike. One might ask why The Boy, in all his newfound bike prowess wasn't carrying the bags for his dainty and delicate lady, his excuse was that his mountain bike couldn't carry panniers, yeah right, that and the fact I'm faster than him on hills and he wanted to slow me down! Anyway we managed a good mile before I wiggled round the corner at a snails pace to find him, once again covered in oil "fine tuning"or rather turning the wheel that had been attached backwards, and adding the brakes that had been forgotten! This was just the start of a very long day!
The flat 30k warm up cycle I'd been promised, turned into 80k, uphill in 30°C heat. A minor miscalculation, and six hours later we find ourselves burnt, exhausted, out of water, and collapsed under the smallest of bushes in the hope of an inch of shade. A few choice words later it was decided that the remaining 25k that had appeared on the last road sign, would be traveled by bus, car, lorry, horse and cart, whatever we could hail to get us to the next town before nightfall.
After 20 minutes of cursing and pushing the godforsaken bikes we came across a farmer about to start his milk delivery, and hauled our dust covered, sweaty, sunburnt and weary limbs onto the back of his lorry before he could even think about disagreeing. At times I did think we might have been safer dying of heat exhaustion, rather than being flung with metal casks of milk from the back of an industrial sized truck hurtling round the narrow unmade roads at some ungodly speed.

My worry was once again in vain as we arrived in Bahia Honda just in time to find a Casa (run, much to The Boy's delight by a mustachio'd lady), shower, eat enough potatoes and rice to feed a family of four and be in bed by eight.

Good job too, as we had to be back on the road again before sunrise the following morning to catch the 10.30am boat from Palma Rubia a short 40km (25 miles) away. After our early night we were fully recovered and managed to get to the boat with an hour to spare, in which time we decided to try out the famous Cuban Mojitos!

On the boat to the white sands of Cayo Lavisa

Learning to cook chez Raymond Blanc

2011-01-21T09:05:00.005+01:00

Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons et moi.

As most of will know I'm not adverse to marriage, in fact I quite like the idea of making a public commitment to a loved one, it's just that, for me, right now, there are so many more interesting things to be done! So many better ways I could spend all those thousands of pounds. To combat the inevitable pressure to conform The Boy and I created the Thirty Things To Do Before Marrying list.

So, as one last surprise for my grand aging that took place at the end of last year, the Spoon Siblings whisked me off to the Oxfordshire Countryside to complete number 27, and be taught to cook by a professional (Michelin starred) Chef. These Spoons, it turns out, have a bit of class, so I was sent to none other than the Raymond Blanc's Oh-la-la-Posho School for a crash course in how to create a mouth watering, (possibly heart attack inducing) Christmas Dinner. Seeing as I have been in charge of the Christmas cooking for the past three years I did wonder if perhaps it was a present more for them more than myself, but still, what a treat.

Tucked away in the British countryside and brimming with England’s upper class I, for a day, learnt what it was like to be one of the elite! Ushered in by the bowing Bellboy with muttering of Madame, M’Lady and other such nicities, I decided to embrace the moment by requesting to take Tea by the fire in the Lounge whilst I waited! Accompanied by freshly hand baked biscuits courtesy of Raymond's minions, I started to make the most of this rare opportunity by quickly and subtly scoffing a single plateful of the bite sized delights before the other chefs-to-be arrived and insisted on sharing!

Europeans may not know this, but snow brings us Brits to a standstill, so in light of the seasonal splattering only three other people arrived to participate in the course, which normally caters for 10. Whoop the loop! Having had a little pre-taste of the things we were about to cook the less people I had to share with the better!

A little aside here, whilst I am not the size of a small elephant, I probably should be, I do love food, in a kind of unnatural way, and have an obsession with trying everything once so forgive me if I mention eating a little too frequently.

So anyway, back to number 27! The day started in front of the fire sipping tea whilst the course tutor welcomed us and sized us up for our real Chef’s aprons - yes you heard it right, within a day I was going to become a real live Chef cooking in Le (Michelin starred) Manior After our welcome, we trotted off through the whole hotel, in single file proudly sporting our new attire. I must say, I was a little disappointed not to have the hat though. Apparently these are reserved only for children, who couldn’t possibly have “worked” the real Chef look like my good self, but nevermind!

Once in the kitchen we were shown to our cooking areas, fully equipped with all the gadgets and shiny knives you could possibly wish for, and best of all, after you'd used something it was cleaned and replaced immediately by the magic kitchen elves - true domestic bliss!

Lovely kitchen with everything ready for my genius.

The Christmas Dinner Party course involved cooking everything from Pâté, to Turkey, to the much celebrated English Christmas Pudding. A truly traditional affair, with ever so slightly more pounds of butter. Seriously the food is/was amazing, but the amount of butter was just incredible, it's a wonder all these Chefs are still alive!
The day was basically split into sections: cooking, watching and eating all of which we did in excess. The recipes we actually made ourselves were Seared Tuna Sushi with Rocket and Fennel, of which I ate two portions thinking the demo portion was lunch! Well, at least I can say I squeezed everything out of the day (and into my jeans!). We also made a truly amazing Galette du Rois, which I've since had here in Belgium for Epiphany and can confirm Mr Blanc’s recipe is officially better! Possibly something to do with the two packets, oh yes two whole packets of the beloved butter that went into it! We also cooked a Christmas Pud, I say cooked, I actually poured the pre-measured ingredients from the small bowls into a big bowl and mixed it. Much like cooking at primary school when you brought in little sandwich bags of ready weighed ingredients to mix as a group. That is of course, unless you had a Spoon for a mother who, much to the disgust of the teachers, sent you with the ingredients and a pair of scales so you could 'learn yourself'!

When not cooking we were bought cups of Tea and more mouth watering biscuits, which once again I managed to inhale in record time. During these nibbles we watched the chef at work, teaching us how to make Roast Turkey and Jus, Chestnut, Walnut and Fig Stuffing, Fresh Cranberry Compote, Meat Stew (of course it had a posher name, Braised beef blah blah blah, but it was basically stew), Parfait of Chicken Livers (ignore their crazy words – it was just Pâté), Potee of Winter Root Vegetables (veg in the oven!), Braised Cabbage and three desserts. All of which arrived for lunch!

The start (round one) of the Christmas feast!

Now, after my somewhat indulgent morning (two portions of biscuits, two portions of Tuna, remember, oh and the Pâté with freshly baked bread I forgot to mention) I really struggled tasting all these truly delicious treats. You'll be pleased to know though, I was not defeated! I simply undid my top button (under the apron remember) and set to work on the challenge facing me, polishing off a everything including the desserts plural! I did, however, politely decline the late afternoon Lemon Drizzle Cake that accompanied yet more good old British Tea, as despite my best efforts I couldn’t physically get anymore in!

It's strange - we never really get taught to cook, yet it's one of the skills we use on a daily basis, so to be taught by a real live pro was a fantastic experience. Not only did he talk about the dishes we made on the day but all those general things you’re supposed to know like which oils to use, which knives, and which part of the recipes are important and which can be open to interpretation.

As it turns out I am not quite the aspiring chef I used to believe was. After plating up my Seared Tuna dish with what I thought was award winning design it was quickly evident who was accustomed to Nouveau Cuisine and who was more used to the presentation of a Big Mac and Chips even with my artistically drizzled dressing!

Cordon Bleu?!

Still as they say 'the proof is in the pudding' and my Galette du Rois and Christmas Pudding, which we were allowed to take home, were gobbled down at lightning speed by all in the Spoon nest this Christmas.

If you are planning to do a cooking course, I couldn't recommend this one highly enough - you both learn and eat more than you could think possible in a very full eight hours. Though given it was a gift I haven't checked the prices and I can only imagine you get what you pay for, so wait for your thirtieth's people then you too can have a Michelin Star to your name (well a certificate saying you attended the course) and apron to confirm you are in fact an accredited Chef.

I wonder if I can add a little gold star to the old CV now...?

Berlin New Year's Eve Run

2011-01-03T22:09:00.006+01:00

What better way is there to spend new years eve than running through the beautiful snow covered German countryside dressed as a rather well fed, chubby super Santa. Having failed to win a prize at the Santa World Championships earlier this year The Boy and I decided to take our hand stitched lycra creation to Berlin to compete in the annual new years eve run in an attempt to start the new year in a more memorable way than the standard drinking till dawn. We arrived bright eyed and bushy tailed only to find Berlin two-foot deep in snow and completely freezing. Not ones to let the weather get the better of our competitiveness we once again donned numerous layers both under and over the irreplaceable super Santa outfits and headed down to the U-Bahn tube system. Having heard nothing after paying our minimal entry fee in German via the Internet sometime ago we had no idea if we'd be expected. Fortunately we managed to find ourselves a friendly English speaker who led us to a pile of race numbers individually named including our own. Suddenly the idea of a fun run dressed as Santa seemed a very serious and daft way to be spending the last day of 2010.
Still, we couldn't back out there were prizes to be won! So, despite feeling like prize plonkers, we peeled off our jeans in the changing rooms, which were swarming with stick like runners kitted out in all the gear, and smiling gently in our direction as if feeling sorry for our portly Christmas tummies bulging out of our Lycra, and our heavy choice of walking boots as running footwear. These were professionals.
But, we were British.
Proud.
...And dressed as superheroes for goodness sake, so a few pitying looks weren't going to stop us competing!
No!
We simply breathed in as best we could and proudly marched our way through the sniggering crowd to the start line, just in time to be entered in to the fancy dress competition. Snowmen, Smurfs, witches, and a huge amount of cross dressers greeted our arrival, and for split second we thought Super Santa may be lost in the midst of translation. Luckily though after a few photos we were crowned winners - at last recognition for the sweat a tears put into our amazing costumes!

Amazing costumes I think

I say winners; we were actually given second place pipped to the post only by some well deserving bumblebees. It was amazing though, not only for the first time in our lives did we get to stand on the podium in front of flashing cameras and smiling locals, but we also received a magnum of champagne and got interviewed by a local paper, so all in all it was a fantastic start.

First prize for the Bumblebees

Now all we had was the small problem of the race to run! Having been surgically removed from the sofa just in time for Christmas to say neither of us was at the peak of fitness would be the biggest understatement of the year! The truth is we've both cultivated rather sizable pregnant looking midriffs and the thought of exercise is a distant memory! In light of our costume glory we did consider dashing back to the hostel and calling it a day, after all we already had a photo of us on the podium, but that damn competitive streak rose it's annoying little head and off we shot into the depths of the forest as soon as the starting gun was fired.
It wasn't really a race as such as most of the course was a single track due to the depth of the snow so everyone politely followed one another at a steady slip free pace.

By some miracle we managed to make it the whole way round without any long term damage, in a respectable time and before the award winning bumble bees! And, even more excitingly as we crossed the finish line we were handed a big sugary jam filled doughnut - now that is my kind of exercise, in fact had I known that lard was awaiting my arrival at the finish line my running time may well have been halved!

After a fantastic end to a fantastically full year of random competitions and adventures we headed off to welcome in 2011 with the crowd crushing mass of Berliners watching the fireworks burst over Brandenburg gate. We escaped with our lives, which given the sheer amount of fireworks being let off all around us into the crowd at head height, is, I like to think, a sign of another great year ahead.

We stayed in Hotel Adam in the Charlottenburg area of Berlin - easy to get to and from, cheap, clean, comfortable and a buffet breakfast is included which is always a bonus!

The Big One

2010-12-28T09:28:00.011+01:00

Spoon fans will have noticed I have a somewhat minor obsession with turning 30. It's been the impending doom lurking in the background, and driving me to shamelessly try and cling onto my youth at all costs. In the final year of my twenties I started getting my legs out - a fate worse than death to my previously young spoon self. I started driving on motorways (seriously scary), I joined a gym for the first time ever, I started making goals and actually sticking to them, and I even started using fabric softener and considered using an iron (I'm still considering that one). But as the evil number approached I started to panic I'd have to actually celebrate this horrific milestone. Or, worse still, my well meaning family and friends would think a surprise party in a local Weatherspoons bar with people I haven't seen in years munching sausage rolls and necking shots of tequila before singing happy birthday as I was ceremoniously presented with one of those hideously tacky photo printed birthday cakes, favoured by Chavs the world over, would be the best way to celebrate my coming of age!
Little did I know that both The Boy and The Spoon Family would excel themselves. The Boy not only arranged a cycling adventure for later this year, but also managed to organise (with help from Mother Spoon) a surprise bake off between close friends and family resulting in thirty birthday cakes, all of which of course I had to taste! After such effort from so many people
I think they deserve their creations immortalised on this here website.

So, Spoon followers, prepare yourselves for a virtual taste sensation to keep you on track with those January diets!

Savory sweet cupcake mix

A sausage/toad in the hole cake!

Ricotta and Spinach Roulade

Vanilla Cheesecake

A Chocolate Pavlova

It wouldn't be a party without a pair of copulating turtles!

Champagne ice cream and chocolate bomb

The Boys birthday Spoon!

Mulled Wine and Merriment

2010-12-17T18:43:00.002+01:00

Avid followers will know how much The Boy and I love two things - travelling and a glass of the good stuff! So, being on the boarder with so many snow covered countries we decided to check out all, yes that is ALL, of the Christmas markets surrounding us; Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany and France. As a result we are now Mulled Wine and Junk fooded out just in time for the festive season in the UK where no doubt we'll be munching mince pies and gulping hot wine with family for another week! Still, it's Christmas, and overindulging is what it's all about (well that and some little chap called Jesus)!

So here is a little, tiny in fact, run down of what we thought.

Metz Christmas Market, France:
This is not one of the finest when it comes to size, there are literally about 10 stalls, huddled together in a rather un-picturesque area of the town. On a positive note there are no 'tat' stalls so you won't have to trail round the market behind an over excited Boy and a Spoon sister proudly sporting their newly purchased (and extortionately priced) reindeer hats! Being France, Metz, probably does have the most gourmet and interesting food on offer. On this occasion we steared clear of the hot frogs legs and snails in lashings of garlic butter and opted for the gloriously lardy cheese, cream and potato Tartiflette all washed down with a glass chilled white. So if you are partial to a nibble on a reptiles thigh outside a scattering of wooden huts, but aren't really after that Christmas feeling then this is probably the one for you.

Luxembourg Christmas Market:
This, again is on the small size, but it's full of atmosphere, and even has a choir singing English Christmas carols in hilarious accents. The closely packed stalls in Place d'Armes offer the all standard sausages, potato cakes, fondue, raclette, goulash and endless stalls of mulled wine served in rather fetching boot shaped mugs. You'll also be pleased to hear, there are tat stalls aplenty for those last minute stocking fillers. Actually, having said that there are a few rather nice leather stalls and wooden toy stalls hidden in amongst the reindeer hats and miniature steaming aromatherapy contraptions which no home should be without.

Trier Christmas Market, Germany:
Now this is a Christmas market! The streets were teeming with people, wrestling to get their boots refilled with the sickly sweet, but slightly addictive Glühwein, and oversized sausages spilling from their undersized buns! The stalls take over the two main squares of the town and offer everything from jewelry, to spirits, to furs if you like that sort of thing! This market is the one we spent the most time at, ate far too many fried treats, drank far too many boots and consequently came home with literally sackfuls of highly essential souvenirs!

And that, my Spoonfans, is it! We are currently halfway between snowlogged Arlon and the Eurotunnel "driving home for Christmas" singing along to classic Christmas tunes and and dreaming of England.

So here is wishing you a very, very Happy Christmas and a really fantastic start to 2011 (but I'll be back before then!).

A huge thank you to you for following us during 2010 and giving us a reason to keep writing, exploring and making the most of our time here.

Next time I write two monumental things will have happened - firstly my twenties will have left me, and secondly we'll have won an enormous pancake in the Berlin New Year Run for our amazing Super Santa Returns effort, so watch this space!

Santa Claus World Championships 2010

2010-11-29T11:08:00.029+01:00

Pants our Grandfathers would have been proud of!

"If you go up to the mountains today you'll sure have a big surprise. If you go up to the mountains to day you'd better go in disguise. For every Santa that ever there was is gathered there for certain because today's the day the crown the world Santa Claaaaauus!" (Almost fits the tune!)

Sure enough, once a year whilst the rest of us are tucked up on our sofas, the Swiss resort of Samnaun is taken over by Santas from across the globe. The mass of bearded competitors, sporting a variety of red and white themes, battle it out through a series of grueling tasks such as sleigh riding, chimney climbing, and even ice sculpting in the hope of being crowned The Santa World Champion.

So this year, after much deliberation over journey length, team members and costume making, we skipped work, raced across five countries and managed to arrive in time for the opening ceremony on Friday night. I say opening ceremony, it was more of a drunken brawl of teenagers huddled in a tent munching sausages and guzzling beers whilst all us Santa's stood on stage pledging to adhere to the rules of the Championships. Which were simply "I promise not to get drunk during the games" easy enough! Having said that, our German is non existent, and the translation sporadic so we could have been promising anything. Once the pledging was over, the band started playing, and the party went on until the early hours. Being mature, sensible, and unhealthily competitive we snook off to bed to get some essential pre-match sleep shortly after the Jagermester shots appeared. Despite our best efforts to frogmarch the whole team home, a certain member (who shall be nameless) had other ideas managing to free himself from our grip and dash off in the direction of some rather attractive locals and more Jager, until who knows what time!

The next morning, heads throbbing (not mine remember - I was well behaved on this occasion), we layered up with endless thermals, tights, socks, vests, basically as much as we could get under our already tight fitting Super Santa costumes. Not forgetting the extra pair socks each of the boys rather unsubtly stuffed down their enormous pants, after all the suits were tight, the snow cold, and these boys have their own little insecurities. Personally, with no pockets, it seemed to me the perfect place to stash a few tissues, some lipsalve and a mini snickers - amazing what you can fit into these things designed to hold so little!

The British team: Super Santa's

Doing it for our country!

Fully kitted out we strutted proudly from our hotel, capes flying, grinning like real live superheros into the knee deep snow. We'd been informed by the organisers that at somepoint during the day we'd have to present ourselves to the other teams in an 'original' manner. With half our team having flown in from the UK late the night before, and the pretty blondes distracting their virial young minds we had little, if any time to come up with an award winning presentation, so after a quick discussion settled on a plan of action on route to the opening of the games. It was simple, we didn't speak German and didn't know if anyone spoke English, so decided to stick to the universal language of mime and song. We'd race on to the stage shouting "Is it a bird...is it a plane....no it's Super Santa" (surely everyone knows that section of the film in any language) then we would spin in slow motion whilst singing the theme tune (da da da da da daaaa daaaa da) and ripping off our ski suits to reveal none other than Super Santa himself. The crowds would go wild and we would become Santa World Champions within seconds! Still, that was the third event of the day, so in theory we had plenty of time to practice.

We arrived on the ski slopes full of excitement, to be greeted by 22 other teams of rather normal looking Santas, and lots of German announcements being made across a tannoy for one very long, cold hour. At the end of it all there was a fantastic marching band playing Christmas tunes, so it was almost worth the frozen toes, fingers, bottoms - you name it, it was frozen and we hadn't even started the competition! Sadly these things tend to start as they mean to go on, and this was no exception, it was merely the start of a long, cold day of waiting around whilst people announced stuff in German around us.
Finally though the events began with the Santa's Zipfy Bob Race, which was probably the best of the days events - wizzing down the ski slope on a zuped up bum-sled in teams of four, so fast in fact that one of our team crashed and landed in a heap on the edge of the slope!

The next event (after another two hours standing around in the snow, in oversized underpants and tights!) was the Santa Parade, in which the boys, or rather their packages, were admired by all. Every 500 yards we were stopped by giggling groups of females demanding photos with my well endowed companions - to be honest I felt a little left out, I only wish I'd remembered to bring a couple of balloons to stuff down the old bra, then who knows what might have happened!

The parade was followed swiftly by the presentation, not on stage to the others as we had originally thought, but outside in the snow, in front of a panel of four judges. Our amazing idea which we hadn't managed to find a huge amount of time to practice, manifested itself in a mass of frantically flailing arms, spinning in all directions at different speeds to a shouted version of some unrecognisable tune, as coats refused to come off, snow flew, and Super Santa was ever so slightly less Super than his carefully designed costume. Superheros we were not!
Stifling shameful giggles, as the crowd watched on in silence we quickly bowed, scuttled across the floor collected up our snow covered clothes and dashed into the tent to lick our bright red wounds and of course warm our frozen appendages!

By the time we got round to the next events the sun was sinking and with it the temperature. So from then on it was just a case of getting through it. We climbed chimneys, rode sleighs, guessed where pictures where taken from around the world, and made a rather fetching ice sculpture, and an interesting gingerbread design.

I didn't do A-level art for nothing, as this award winning sculpture might suggest!

Despite our best efforts, sadly we didn't make it through to the second round, but every cloud has a sliver lining. This silver lining was a very hot shower, followed by layers of appropriate clothes and ski jackets. It sounds like nothing in comparison to becoming Santa World Champion, but at that moment in time all our unattractive competitiveness was lost and I can honestly say I have never been more happy (or perhaps desperate) to loose in favour heat!

Of course though, once we'd re-climatized we headed back out to the tent to see the final take place. Arriving late, we missed the famous Steinbock race, (which had given us hours of fun the night before) but got there in time for the karaoke final and yet another serious party. This time though the party was madness, people were on, under and even throwing over, tables whilst downing bottles of beer. Being the one major event in the tiny town of Samnaun, I think the Clauwau is an excuse for all the underage locals to do exactly what I did at their age, and drink themselves to oblivion. Being (...yes you've heard it a thousand times) nearly thirty (!) though we swiftly removed ourselves and made our way to one of the two open bars in the village with all the middle aged Santa's such as ourselves for a celebratory drink!

Even Super Santa goes shopping

Would we do it again? Not a chance!

Whilst The Santa World Championships is a great idea, and the activities fun, the event itself wasn't fun. There was no camaraderie, no team spirit between the competitors, just alot of waiting around in the cold, with other grumpy, frozen teams hoping for something exciting to happen. Most of the teams are locals and enter on a yearly basis, and with a few thousand euros as a prize, they are perhaps, more concerned about the competition rather than supporting the other teams and having a laugh - this is serious business after all.
Obviously we had fun within our own team, and got to run around in Superhero outfits for a whole day, but it's really not worth a trip all that way!

The worst thing is, I don't think it's actually a fair competition. A grand statement I know, I don't like to sound like a bad looser, and we were by no means winning material on most events, but we did make a lot of effort with our costumes. They send a breakdown of all the events before the competition, most of which are impossible to prepare for unless you happen to have a climbable chimney, and a spare horse drawn sleigh, but you can prepare your costume for The Santa Parade. The website states during this section of the competition; "The jury judges the originality of the costumes". After being only one of two teams with original and homemade costumes we were shocked to discover both teams had received the lowest marks for this event. So in an effort to understand where we'd gone wrong I emailed the organisers asking how the scores for this section were broken down, only to receive the following response:
"All the disciplines that were judged by the jury didn't have a system of judgement".
Fantastic! Clauwau - a competition with no rules! Good Luck next year people!

Still, this is not the end of Super Santa, so pleased we were with our lovely costume we have decided to take him to the New Years Run in Berlin this year - lets just hope those Germans appreciate the effort a little more and we win the enormous pancake on offer for best fancy dress, or at least make it round the 6k run with our post Christmas bellies!

Super Santa's Clauwau 2010

Click here for the ESPN Video of the event starring our goodselves!

Expogast - The Culinary World Cup

2010-11-22T12:32:00.006+01:00

Random chef showing his wares!

I know, "The Culinary World Cup" sounds about as exciting as washing underpants on a rainy day, but after so long on these deserted shores we know better than to judge an event on it's eye catching tag line! So off we trotted this weekend with no expectations what-so-ever and the comforting knowledge that should the quadrennial food show be a little tedious, the Vin and Crement festival just so happened to be awaiting our arrival in the adjoining room.

On arrival, and before even having paid to enter this gastronomic fair we were handed freshly made pots of something yummy with a fancy French name, which I suspect was posh cheesecake. Well, with the freebies already flowing, we happily paid €13 entry fee before dashing into to the main hall to see what else we could get our overly keen little mitts on. We were greeted by a huge bar in the shape of a boat surrounded by a stream of running water filled with live fish, which served nothing other than champagne and oysters at rock bottom prices. Of course at these events one must try everything, so we sat merrily slurping oysters and bubbly whilst some poor guy dressed as a fisherman had the dizzying job of circling us all in his boat towing a train of dinghies, overflowing with all manner of fresh seafood on ice.

Fish boat

Next stop was fresh local pates, sausages, and various bits of drying wild animals (deer, boar, and some unknown bird looking things) made into rather moreish snacks which we happily tasted and promptly bought sackfuls of for Christmas presents only to read the sell by date on the way home, and discover we will in fact have to eat all these meaty delights in the next three weeks! There were a huge variety of stalls from all over the world serving all sorts of local and international delicacies from as far away as Japan, too many, in fact, to list.

Once we'd passed through the sampling/eating area, we entered a hall of glass boxes, inside each was a team of busy chefs competing for the World Cup. It was amazing, we spent hours just staring at the manic preparations whilst playing "spot the hand wash", a self made game that would have made any health and safety team proud! Sadly they never did seem to wash them, so it was not so much a case of spotting but a series of disgusted cries as they choose to simply wipe everything (cooked, raw, meat, tables, hands - everything) with the same tea towel! In light of my slightly obsessive observation, and the fact we'd stuffed ourselves with free tasters we decided not to eat any of the competing chefs menus in the restaurant set up for the occasion.

Instead we opted for the famous Crement (Luxembourg's version on champagne) and wine festival. Much like last months soup festival we bought a glass on entry and were actively encouraged to try as many glasses as physically possible, which, surprisingly enough, is exactly what we did. Needless to say the afternoon ran into the evening very quickly and before we knew it we were sliding off home too full of booze and food to cope with anymore.

We had a great time though, and it is certainly worth a visit if you like indulging in the finer things in life without having to part with extortionate amounts of cash. Had it have been on for longer than four days we may well have come back to try one of the competing chefs three course delights, (so long as he'd washed his hands!) but for that we'll have to wait another four years.

The beginning of the end!

For further details on Luxembourg's Expogast please click here .

Is it a bird...? Is it a plane...?

2010-11-13T11:25:00.004+01:00

The Boy and I share a love of all things weird and wonderful, so when I stumbled across The World Santa Claus Championships there was nothing for it than to work out a way of getting ourselves there, and of course working out how to make THE BEST Santa costumes ever! A nine hour drive through the snow covered Swiss mountains seemed nothing in comparison to the chance of being named The Santa Claus World Champion.

A World Champion! I mean can you imagine, "Yes, I am a World Champion" not many people have that on the old CV!

So, the race is on to design the best ever Santa Costume - something practical, with a twist, yet warm.

Okay, well, we have forgone the warm bit and decided on, none other than the Spandex clad man himself.... SUPER SANTA!

Now if that is not a winners name I don't know what is!

After many a bizarre drawing we have finally come up with a killer design for our superhero selves involving enormous pants, lots of fluff and of course mountains of rather unflattering Lycra.

Amazing designs-R-US!

Here are some piccys of our progress below, but watch this space for a full review of how we get on becoming the British Champions!

The Boy asked me to put this one up to prove he can sew!

The capes proudly sporting our British flag

The finished product as modeled by a Spoon

Halloween Schmalloween

2010-11-01T08:58:00.009+01:00

Oh My Goodness how the world has gone Halloween mad! Those pesky Americans seem to have spread their love for cheap orange scary looking tat all the way across the globe, even as far as the UK and Belgium - shame on us!
Still, not wanting to miss out on the fun we jumped on the bandwagon with an exciting Saturday night spent carving pumpkins for our self made competition. So, Spoonfans we need your help on deciding who wins the grand prize of.... a sweaty Haggis, smuggled back from the UK in my hand luggage!

So, if you have a little free time this rainy Monday morning, please do have a look at our wonderful creations below and then leave feedback at the bottom telling us which is your favorite, so the rightful owner of the aforementioned intestine ball of goodness can be announced before it's sell by date!

Will it be starry eyed number one with the broken nose?!

...special little number 2?

...flat nosed number 3?

or last but not least zombified number 4? (or Derek as he prefers to be known)

Happy Halloween Spooners! Please vote below.