It is a long, tough cycle from the top of Scotland to the Black Forest in Germany, made particularly difficult when your bicycle gets stolen half way through your journey. Before we get there however, we must go back to the start, to a tiny near uninhabited village in the north of Scotland.
Named after a Dutch explorer, John O’Groats is as north as north goes on the British mainland. If you go any further north past the small settlement, you simply drop into the treacherous North Sea, most likely to never be seen again. Its remoteness did nothing to detract from it being the perfect starting point for my self-titled ‘JOG to the Black Sea’, a 5000km journey over mountains, across oceans and down rivers all the way to the Black Sea in Romania. The first and third sections of my journey are the cycling sections; they will see me travel through five different countries from my homeland in Scotland to the picturesque mountains of the Black Forest in Germany.
An eight-hour meandering train ride from central Scotland took me to Thurso, home of nearly 8,000 and considered to be a metropolis of the Highlands. A good night’s rest and after nine months of preparation, I was finally on my way. Before I could officially begin my journey, I first had to cycle 30km to reach John O’Groats, an unwelcome and frankly unnecessary warmup for the 2,500km to come.
John O’Groats is a strange place, with only 300 residents, its fame far outweighs its size. However, it does come with a sense of history, as it is the starting or ending point for many famous journeys that have taken people all over our world. The truth is, it is so remote that even reaching the village, no matter how far one has travelled, provides a small sense of achievement. The sense of anticipation of beginning or the satisfaction of finishing a voyage is rife in the air and it was with this sense of excitement for the journey ahead, that on the 9th of June 2016, I set off on stage one of my expedition, the 1,500km cycle to Dover.
My entire cycling history consists of a three-month period of intense cycling, followed and proceeded by extensive periods of not cycling at all. In 2012, I cycled alone and unsupported across the USA, effectively learning to cycle as I did so. I flew into Seattle, bought a bike and began my journey east before I could comfortably cycle with either hand off the handlebars. The old adage of “you never forget, it’s just like riding a bike” certainly didn’t apply to me, although perhaps the problem was that I never really learned to ride in the first place. However, the wide, deserted roads of western America proved to be the ideal place for me to practise and perfect my trade, ensuring that by the time I reached the busier east coast, I was relatively comfortable removing either hand from the bike (removing both hands at the same time remains, to this day, a challenge that I am yet to conquer). Almost four years later, I was once again facing the proposition of a long cycle tour, and having done almost no outdoor cycling in-between, I was intrigued to see how my body would react.
Scotland isn’t blessed with any enormous mountains. The highest I would go on the entire journey down to Dover would be a measly 1,500 feet above sea level. However, this unimpressively high summit is severely deceptive. Whilst Scotland does not have any of the alpine peaks that lure cyclists from all over the world to mainland Europe, the roads here are rarely flat. In fact, it wasn’t until I was south of the Cairngorms National Park, three days into the journey, before I was truly able to open the legs on clear flat roads. Despite the undulating roads, the long Scottish summer days meant that I was able to cover good distances without going uncomfortably quickly. In the first three days, I travelled 400km through the Scottish Highlands, skirting past Inverness, over the wonderfully named Slochd and Drumochter summits and into the Cairngorms, an area of incredibly natural beauty. This included an opening day of 150km, a distance that I only surpassed once on my trek across America, which also proved to be the only full day without rain on this entire section.
The fourth day took me south of the Cairngorms and officially out of the Scottish Highlands and into the central belt. I was joined by Iain, a good friend from School, as we battled heavy rain the entire day, eventually reaching my home town of Aberdour, pale, damp versions of our former selves. Day five was another wet and windy day, the mist over the Scottish Borders was so thick that I wasn’t even sure when I had crossed over into England. Alas, I had, Scotland was now behind me and Dover was on the horizon, a mere 800km away.
If Scotland doesn’t have any mountains, then England certainly doesn’t. The middle of the country in particular is incredibly flat, and despite the ever-present rain and a couple of bike issues, I made good progress south. Great Britain is a wonderfully unique country. No other country on Earth has such diversity and charm all crammed into such a small space. Even a cycling speed, in an hour you can cross into a different county, each with its own culture, its own way of life and most delightfully, its own accent. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly accents change in Britain. I travelled the whole way across America without noticing any distinct change in accent, however, in Britain, a journey of less than 100km from Newcastle to Yorkshire and you feel as if you’ve changed countries. This trend continued all the way down the country, as I travelled through York, Lincoln, Cambridge, Canterbury and finally onto the far from glamorous destination of Dover.
They say that people in the UK get friendlier the further north you go, while this might not be universally correct, the experiences I had at either ends of country do seem to back it up. In the very north of Scotland, I stayed in a cottage where the owner wasn’t even there; they simply left the front door open for me. At the very bottom of England, my bicycle was stolen. I was staying in Dover for three weeks (you will have to read next month’s magazine to find out why), during this time, my bike was stolen from inside the hotel where I was staying. The owner of the hotel immediately suspected the homeless community of Dover. We went to investigate and discovered some promising but ultimately unsuccessful leads. Two weeks after the robbery, I was visited by a homeless man who claimed to know where my bike was and that he could retrieve it, for a small fee of course. He described the bike in a lot of detail, including some aspects that would be impossible to guess, so more out of curiosity rather than hope, I paid him and wished him well. Three hours later, he returned with the bike. I suppose I will never know what really happened to the bike, most likely, this man was the thief but I was just glad to have it back, ready to continue onto France.
Crossing into mainland Europe meant two things; I would now have to switch to the right hand side of the road and I would now be switching from complaining about the rain, to complaining about the heat. Having done most of my cycling in America, I was used to cycling on the right, so thankfully this proved not to be an issue. However, despite living in Dubai for three years (and the people that knew me there will testify to this), I never fully adapted to the heat. I cycled south east down into Belgium, Luxembourg, back into France and into Germany through some blisteringly hot weather. Despite the heat, cycling through these countries was an absolute pleasure. The roads are wonderfully designed for cyclists; either there is a specific cycle path running parallel to the main road, or the road itself has a large section specifically for cyclists. Europe is a unique continent, even travelling by bike, I was able to visit three countries in one day. In Britain, the accents are constantly changing, in mainland Europe, it is the language that changes. As a result, I was left in a daze of constant confusion. The route through France, Belgium and Luxembourg was incredibly flat, and it wasn’t until the last two days of cycling in Germany before I reached any sort of mountains. The final day in particular was mountainous as I entered the Black Forest region and onto my final destination of Donaueschingen, 21 days and 2,500km after leaving John O’Groats. I may be finished with the cycling leg of my journey, but I am glad that my adventure through Europe doesn’t end here. It’s now time to experience this wonderful continent in a whole new way. (To be continued…)
Words + Photos by: Sam Brenkel
