* * *

I arrived on the morning of New Year’s Eve, bundled against the cold and ready to ride. I had a couple of plans, heaps of enthusiasm, and eight hours of daylight. At the terminal I queued politely behind a few cars, but was soon motioned around by the customs official. I thought he might want to see my passport, or at least ask me something, but he was busy checking in motorists, ignoring me. So I kept pushing on past, behind the office….
Walking by a couple of cig-smoking customs guys, I nodded, and their conversation(in Dutch) didn’t even stop. I passed through the gate as easy as a breeze.

And then,

I was in Holland.
IJmuiden, Noord-Holland, Nederlands.

It was 25 winter kilometers from IJmuiden(“aymowden”) to Amsterdam, through the thick mist and dusty snow. “They drive on the right side here!” I often had to remind myself that first day; and several times, nearby random pedestrians shouted something to me in Dutch, directing me off of the street(where I am accustomed to riding), and onto the bike path… which is everywhere!
I had a little map to the city center, and I didn’t even use it. There were bicycle signs at every corner, separate from the roadsigns, and of course people on bikes to ask for directions. I passed a cold couple of fellas on the way, one pedaling and the other sitting side-saddle on the rear cargo rack of his old Dutch bike, holding his mittens over his ears. Through his scarf, he said to keep cycling, keep cycling and I left him with an amused “Only in Holland!”

Downtown Amsterdam was bustling with trams and cars and bikes and tourists. The Station Centraal was teeming with travelers coming and going, waiting, or rushing to catch a train. I went there hoping to find a tourist info office and a free map of the city, but it was so hectic there, I was momentarily paralyzed, overwhelmed by all the sheer busy-ness. It’s Amsterdam, where the city posts “Beware of pickpockets” signs and hundreds of thousands of bikes are stolen each year; and not only that, but it’s the train station – generally the riskiest crowd to be in, no matter which city it’s in. There was no way I was going to leave my bike and gear alone, my first day in the city, among who knows how many bike thieves; even for a second, even to have a map. I’d just have to wing it.
So much for a map then; on to the next priority. I found the coffeeshop I was looking for, Homegrown Fantasies, and ducked in for a quick purchase before heading South to Leiden. It was a nice atmosphere in there, with a deliciously intoxicating aroma and a gregarious cashier behind the menu, rolling joints and shouting at tourists.
“It’s okay to roll tobacco in it,” and “Don’t leave, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to sell you drugs!”
I wanted to be impressed with the cannabis expertise in downtown Amsterdam, but when I asked him to recommend something that would chill me out, versus send me flying, his response was disappointing. He didn’t even really know which ones were Indica and which were Sativa. In the end I chose two grams(12 euros) of something called Euphoria, and I sat outside on the cold patio seating, next to my rig, and had my first smoke in Amsterdam. Not your average pre-rolled, walk-outside-in-a-haze Amsterdam coffeeshop tourist experience; it was more of a new take on an old hobby. Bike tour style – after finishing my doobie, I faced to the South, and with a deep breath, started riding. Down broad boulevards seething with big-city activity, through narrow criss-crossing alleyways, over canal bridges, and out of the city, using only my compass and those handy bikepath signs.
Fourty kilometers of car-free fietspad(bikepath) without a map, sailing past sunset in a foreign land… with the Homegrown attitude adjustment, it was one of the most entertaining rides I think I’ve ever done.

And then there was Capers! Capers with a song on her lips, Capers with that bounce in her step. It was as if Fate had decreed that we should meet with success, and had carefully watched over our every step and pedal stroke, guiding us inexorably together.
The air vibrated as we hugged; cats purred on plush cushions around the world and luscious fruits dropped ripe from their branches. The ink of a thousand poems in a hundred languages finally dried at that moment, their pages fluttering under the eager breath of cloud-chasing romantics and giggling children.
Like we were in a moonlit dream, we struck out into the night. With Josta, our gracious host in Leiden, we skipped down to the Turfmarkt in the center of town for the fireworks. We were like a couple of little kids, laughing and jumping about, celebrating everything. Imagine Capers on my shoulders as we play beside the canal, pyrotechnics blazing in the sky and reflecting in the water, the old windmill silhouetted against the fiery night. Sparkler-trail vision streaks in circles, thousand-string bangers unleash in deafening staccato. The smoke from a fresh spliff in the winter air, and a cold bottle of champagne to ring in the new year… it was pure magic.

The fairy tale continued as we explored the town and Dutch culture over the following days. Josta took us for drinks and authentic Dutch cuisine, and cooked the best “stampot”(they love to mash everything together over here) I’ve had this whole time, with language lessons and quirky side-notes sprinkled throughout. We meandered over the old cobblestones of Leiden, soaking in the history and the happiness. We visited the public library, we sat on the sidewalk and photographed people on bikes. We wandered and wondered, taking it free and easy.
Josta rented a bicycle for Capers, a classic Dutch single-speed coaster, and we took a trip back to Amsterdam. I couldn’t follow the route I took the first time, so we adventured onward with my compass, following perfectly flat bike paths toward the horizon along arrow-straight canals, detouring through quaint little villages, taking breaks, sharing fruits, and discovering life together.

In Amsterdam once again, this time I had a destination. Capers had set up a place for us to stay for a couple nights before we returned to Leiden(nice to let someone else worry about the accomodations for once!); a kind of dumpster-diving hitchhiker nomad base – more on Casa Robino later.

I asked if anyone had any recommendations down in the center of town, but all I got was “Get lost.” As in, ‘Getting lost is a great way to see the city.’ That fit snug with Capers and I, both being very try-it-and-see, faceful-of-optimism, adventure-around-every-corner livers of life; so off we went to see what all the hype was about.
It was a Saturday night, the perfect setting to witness Amsterdam’s world famous Red Light District. It was easy to find; it’s even shaded in and clearly marked on the free maps the police provide. We walked along that oh-so-famous strip full of neon sex shops and brothels, where scantily dressed, perfectly manicured prostitutes lay on their beds with their legs open and on display, or stare through the glass alluringly at the passersby. The aroma of marijuana could often be caught on the breeze from the coffeeshops and street corners, and lecherous drunks stumbled to and fro, wondering if they’ve got enough money left to get laid. On one particularly shady avenue, a small dark man dressed in black weaved through the crowd, subtly whispering “Coca?” to anyone that might be interested, and other rough-looking characters whistled from doorways and alley mouths to get your attention. I was of course targeted by the hoodlum type of drug dealers(I ignored them like a good tourist) but Capers, with her vibrant smile and her blonde dreadlocks, was approached by a bouncy dready hippie chic saying, “You’re not from here, are you? I was just wondering if you’d be interested in some LSD.” When Capers declined, she smiled and waved, and with a “No worries, have a nice day!” she disappeared. I guess Amsterdam has every kind….
It wasn’t long before we had had enough – the place is actually rather disturbing; even just window-shopping, we were rather disgusted by the sex industry(apparently most prostitutes are still working against their will) and certainly not interested in backdoor white powder. We split a paper cone full of fries and decided to call it a night.
We weren’t actually lost at first, but before long we realized we were a little underprepared to find our way back. We were 80% sure we had the street name and number right, but it’s a tiny street, and we hadn’t memorized any nearby landmarks. We didn’t have a cellphone, nor even the phone number. We had no map, no money, and no motor vehicles, just each other and a strong determination bred from principle – can’t give up just because the going gets a little rough. It was late, and the only people out were drunks; no one knew where Callenburgstraat was. And after an hour of wandering around trying to find something that triggered our memory, even the drunks were gone, and the streets were empty. Eventually Capers did flag a taxi, but only to ask for directions, and after another round-about detour, we stumbled upon a street corner we recognized. Hooray! We celebrated in relief with a big hug. Back inside, after a hot cup of tea, we slept with the sublime contentment of an adventure accomplished.

We returned to Leiden for the last few days of Capers’ stay. After meeting up with Josta, we took the rental back to the bike shop that’s attached to the train station. We’d be one less bike on the way back, so we rode Dutch-style, with me pedalling the rental and Capers sitting side-saddle on the rear rack – an experience I will never forget. It’s one thing to have a girl on the back of your bike(classic Dutch romance), but when Capers slid her arm around my waist to hold on, it felt so good I couldn’t stop the joy that bubbled up and burst forth in blissful laughter. What fun, cycling in Holland!
Josta’s kitty-cats finally got used to me the day before I left; silly scaredy cats – don’t they recognize one of their own? Then for our last night in town, we stayed with a guy named Niels who inspired me to build a bike-generator-powered battery charger from scratch. Still workin’ on that one….

And then I was walking with Capers for the last time, to the train station. We navigated the way effortlessly, with all the mystery and truth of the cosmos bouying our steps, and made it to the platform just in time. With a hug and a kiss and a toast to the future, we said fare-thee-well, and the marvelous fairy tale of Capers and Charlie in Holland came gently to an end.

And they lived happily ever after, surrounded by vibrant memories of inspiration, love, and joy.

Until we meet again….

SCOTLAND
The approach into Cairnryan brought on a familiar giddiness; another new land, full of new experiences, and inherently adventurous. The solid weight of my rig was eager to roll – zoom! – down the ferry ramp into Scotland! It was only nine a.m., since I made the seven o’clock voyage, and it wasn’t even raining on this side of the Irish Sea! I was laughin’!

CYCLING IN A CLOUD
I found my way onto a nice back road, and the elevation started to rise. Some downhills, but mostly ascent, up and up until I was in the blustery heights with the wind turbines. It wasn’t the Highlands, of course, but it sure felt like it. Crossing the Galloway and Border Hills, I climbed till dusk to reach the highest point, right up into the clouds. The sky actually touched the earth there, and the mists gently lay themselves directly upon the pastures, swirling thick; muting sounds and obscuring nearly everything. Every once in a while, cycling in a cloud, I experienced a strange phenomenon: I ran into a massive glob of precipitation, like a hanging shot glass was carefully emptied onto my cheek, my knee, or my head. It’s quite surreal – I had to make sure I wasn’t actually dreaming. I’ve often wondered what causes this(I experienced the same mystery on Faial’s clouded peaks, in the Acores), and I believe they’re progentior raindrops, the freshly condensed, that haven’t been slivered by the wind of falling. Whatever they are, what I learned was this: even if it isn’t raining, Scotland can still soak you.

CAMPING IN THE COLD
Camping up there wasn’t too bad; plenty of thick moss and dry wood, and wooded areas that were frequently enough flat and with decent access. I suppose I should say it wouldn’t be too bad, in summer… because it was freezing. Bone-chilling, sub-zero fridge-toes cold. Cycling is no problem – the most comfortable time of the day; if I stay moving, I stay warm(mostly). Cooking, reading, and writing are tolerable, within the globe of warmth from a campfire. But it’s bedtime out there that I dread. Even with all my layers, even with a bottle of boiling-hot(at least for half the night) water between my feet, even with my crinkly emergency foil blanket wrapped around me inside the sleeping bag, even with my long johns, my hat, my gloves… it’s hard to rest peacefully. And if I have to answer the call of nature in the dead of night, after the fire has died out and the moon has abandoned the sky, and step outside into the frigid winter breeze…. There’s an ominous, malicious weight out there in the darkness that seems to whisper, “Freeze to death… freeze to death…” as if it’s hungry, and it can’t eat you unless it turns you into an icicle first.

THE BILSTON PROTEST SITE
Outside of Edinburgh, just off the A701, there’s a group of activists camped in the valley, protesting the projected “A701 Re-Alignment,” which would redirect the already nice and straight road through the wooded Bilston valley. They’re successfully squatting in the way of progress, down there six years now, constructing as many domiciles up in the boughs of the trees as they can(a treehouse valley!), trash-picking all their food from local dumpsters, and living the simple, electricity-free life of the woods. Basically they’re trying to make it so expensive for the government to evict them that the road work becomes fiscally inviable. But the UK actually has a national eviction team, complete with brutal security guards and specialist climbers, so they’ve got their work cut out for them if they want to save the trees.
I wound my way down the muddy slopes and found the communal outdoor kitchen-campfire and introduced myself. I was expecting hard-to-understand Scottish accents, but the only guy there at first only spoke Spanish, so I was introduced and showed around the place without English – no problema! I chopped some wood, had some tea, and helped bring the latest scavenged food supplies down the muddy banks to the pantry-shack. There was another Spaniard with no pants on, a British girl that ignorantly compared me to Colin Powell when she learned I was from the States, a kid that had moved down to the site as soon as he was legally allowed, on his 16th birthday(his girlfriend climbed trees better than he did), a couple of rough-around-the-edges old Scots with a blind-n-deaf doggie, who was falling in the river and forgetting his tail in the fire, and a bunch of other crusty, low-tech Scottish hippie punks.
That night they put me in “the teepee,” which was disappointing to hear(I really wanted to sleep in a tree) until I realized the teepee was actually in a tree like all the other dwellings, on a platform and erected around the trunk. I love treehouses!

EDINBURGH
In the morning I had a delicious dumpster-dived breakfast of tea and dark rum, bread with organic Scottish cheese, and organic yogurt. I hefted my rig out of the muddy valley and out to the road, and I was on my way into Edinburgh.
I got a funny feeling, coming into the city. A feeling of familiarity. Funny enough, it was a parking lot that reminded me of home; it looked like the East Towne Target. Soon I was thinking, “I could see myself living in that flat,” or “I could be a student here; it’s just like the University of Wisconsin.”
Then I crested a hill, and saw a mountain, and the familiarity fled, replaced by medeival architecture and exotic earth-shapes that we just don’t have back home. The original Důn Čideann, in all its gothic majesty. A dark tower spikes into the colorless sky – the Scott monument, dwarfing the glittering ferris wheel below. Calton Hill, and the towering cliffs of Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park, frame a bit of the bay: the Firth of Forth, leading to the North Sea. And across the center, Edinburgh Castle commands the skyline from a summit all its own.
I was stunned; with every turn I was brought deeper into a travelers’ high by the style of Edinburgh. I explored the city on my bike with a giddy grin and an enthusiastic greeting for every passerby. The place was all decked out for Christmas, happy thick Scottish accents in holiday-mode.
I met Shannon, my host in Edinburgh, who’s also from Wisconsin, and we shared the experience of celebrating the season in Scotland, both of us far from the comforts of home and family. We were invited to a traditional Scottish Christmas dinner, and though it was cooked by a New Zealander, there were locals there later(they had ordered Chinese take-away). Before dinner, on each placemat was a cardboard tube called a cracker, that pops when you and your neighbor pull it apart like a wishbone. Inside for the winner, there’s a paper crown(a very common sight out in the city that day), a useless bauble of some kind, and a terrible joke. The meal was a proper spread, and delicious all around… except for the haggis. That famous grain-and-pork thing they eat in Scotland – and this one was apparently from a very reputable butcher. It’s similair to blood pudding – an acquired taste – except bigger and more bloated. Yuck; but at least I tried it!

ON TO THE CONTINENT
Soon it was time to push on, to catch the Amsterdam ferry from Newcastle for New Year’s Eve. Normally I wouldn’t bother myself with an itinerary; I prefer to reserve the ability to go slow if I want to, to explore out of my way, to go where the wind blows me, and to stop for a while if the omens are good. But I already had a ticket on the King of Scandinavia, courtesy of the Royal Yachting Association of Northern Ireland. Those wonderful folks in Belfast couldn’t help me with a sailing passage to Scotland(right before Christmas isn’t exactly sailing season), so instead they sponsored me for the ferry rides. Thanks Lisa!
My first morning out, I visited the Roslyn Glen country park and Roslyn Chapel; the chapel was toursity and expensive, and no photos allowed, but the park along the river, running through the frozen valley, was gorgeous.
I passed a lot of folks riding horses on the back roads; I always love to see alternative transportation. A woman at a random house in a tiny village graciously refilled my water bottles – a credit to her country. I took short breaks out in the cold, eager to be working up some body heat on the bike, and actually hoping for uphills, to keep up my core temperature. I crossed the border into England at the top of another nice warm-making mountain, then descended into Northumberland, into the winter air with windchilled hands, frozen tears, and icy eyeballs.

After three final days exploring Britain, and three more beautiful but dangerously cold campsites, I arrived in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, and with time to spare.

NEWCASTLE
I ignored the glitzy city center shopping district, being reluctant to leave my bike alone at all, even to secure my accomodations in the Netherlands. I started meandering my way toward the international terminal, thinking I might find a library or something. In a seedy dockside district, with boarded-up buildings and a crazy shopping-cart lady, I found a pub instead, called The County, and decided to pull over and sample a pint of the local brown ale.
It was three in the afternoon, but I was delighted to find the place busy with local fellas getting drunk; the perfect venue to pass some time. The accents were somewhere between Scottish and English, and just as hard to understand as any new dialect. It’s always an adventure when you’re not quite sure what all those laughing mouths are saying. And besides, I don’t mind asking “What did you just say, sorry?” As much as it pains me to admit, I am, after all, a tourist… a poor, grubby, lunatic tourist, that goes into places that never see anyone from outside the borough.
They compelled me to bring my rig right inside the pub, for security, and then the beer was flowing. I finished one huge bottle with a thirsty gusto – Newcastle from Newcastle really does taste better, somehow. The next one I drank on a discount – all my remaining British coins. And before I was half-finished with the second, and definitely feeling the first, Tony behind the bar, in his Chicago t-shirt, hands me a third. I stayed an hour or so, amidst raucous laughter and rough verbal abuse; it’s the type of place where everybody sees everybody every day. I polished off the third bottle and had to be on my way before dark. Tony gave me a token for the road, a lapel pin, and I left my new friends with hearty thanks.

FINDING THE FERRY
That objective(“sampling” Newcastle beer) now complete, it still remained to make it to the ferry terminal eight miles away. (I decided to figure out Amsterdam when I got to Amsterdam, and concentrate on finding the Royal Quays.) A bit woozy now, and with the sun dropping below the skyline, I made my way East along the docks at Willington Quay. I connected with a very convenient bike path, which took me nice n’ easy most of the way into North Shields.
Then, through some inaccurate directions and a decidedly relaxed frame of mind, I was led to cross over to the South side of the river. The signs on the bike path were clear enough, and eventually they deposited me, pleasantly away from traffic, at the lift down to the tunnel. The deserted path ran around the pedestrian escalators, and abruptly ended in a dirty back corner, where a grafittied, slightly dilapidated brick shack surrounds the bicycle elevator. Next to the crooked, dented silver door, a dubious red light blinked “Lift Operational.” With a glance over my shoulder, I pressed the button.
The lift took ages to arrive, and groaned disconcertingly as it drew up to street level. Inside, it was just big enough for my loaded bike, with faded signage and old electronics in the panel. It descended with only a few startling shudders, and after an extended ride, opened into one of the creepiest tunnels I’ve ever had the excitement to traverse…. The floor was grey concrete, stained and cracked; the walls were of dirty tiles in sickly aqua-blue; and the cieling was whitewashed and lined with a track of eerily flickering fluorescent lights. It was completely empty, and there was a morbid sense of desolation down there; I could just feel how devoid of life it was. Except there were still noises – I swear I heard a puppy cry out in pain, from the darkness at the far end of the tunnel; and the rickety escalators rattled at intervals like the taut chains of a frustrated ghost. It was impossible to forget the river Tyne above, the crushing weight of its tons of water rushing to the sea, just a few yards over my head. I hustled through to the lift on the other side with a tickle of fear in my spine and an exhilerated grin on my face. Thankfully there were no British muggers or drug addicts hanging around the shady lift shack on the other side, but I soon realized I should actually not have crossed the river at all. Ah, so much for decision-making when you’re drunk!

After sobering up a bit, and some slightly more accurate directions, eventually I made the ferry terminal. I was directed into line with the cars, but when I pulled up in queue to wait, a customs official came out to greet me(by name!) and skipped me to the front. “I know you must be freezing.” There were no questions about why I don’t have a UK stamp in my passport; only questions about cycle-touring in the winter; how many miles do I cycle every day, where have I been, where am I going. He was cool and let me past with a “Good luck!”
And I was onboard. A worker on the semi-truck deck tossed me a strap to tie my bike to the bulkhead. I gathered a few items for the voyage, and secured the rig. Upstairs I had a little cabin to myself, and after depositing my things, I went to the observation deck to say another goodbye.

After six months of Great Britain and Ireland, I was finally taking the next step – venturing, by bicycle, not just into foreign countries, but also, now, into countries where English is not the primary language. Until Australia, then – goodbye, mother tongue.
After fifteen months of this bike tour, after a quarter of the world behind me, after many challenges, each bigger than the last; after seeing deeper inside myself than I ever had before, I could still feel my determination holding strong, my resolute passion just starting to heat up. I’m going places on this bike!
And, after a fifteen hour, overnight journey, it would be New Year’s Eve, and I’d finally be in on the Continent. The Netherlands, land of my anscestors, land of tulips and windmills; and O Amsterdam! The fabled city of bohemian freedoms and lusty vices. City of canals and bikes; city of my dreams.

TO BE CONTINUED….

On Thanksgiving(just another Thursday in Ireland), after a big traditional Irish fried breakfast(cooked by Keane the leprechaun!), we departed for Dublin. We had a (relative) feast that night, camped in a bog, huddled together under my rain tarp. Dawn surprised me by having a huge sheepskin along – very cozy! Over the next few days we pedalled across the island, trying to stay warm and trying not to get lost. She was a champion; it was like she’d been bike touring for years. She even convinced me to stay in a couple abandoned buildings to escape the frost – something else I’ve never done before. And I had my camping stove again – hot tea on demand! A crucial bit of kit for winter camping.

We arrived at some friends of hers outside Dublin and stayed for a few days, relaxing and helping set up Indian-made yurts on a beautiful organic farm estate. One night we took the row boat(which was apparently sinking) out to the island in the middle of the lake on the property, on an ice-breaking trip. The sound of the ice cracking all the way across the lake, then rebounding against the shore and cracking back, was unreal. It reminded me of lightning. We had hot tea from my steel bottle and the last of my Crown Royal whiskey atop the 200yro tower built on the island, taking in the brilliant starry sky, the stunning pink haze of Dublin’s city lights, the splashing swans, and the sparrows nestling in the reeds.

Next we pedalled a bit farther and stayed at her parents’ place for a couple nights. During a conversation about traditional food, I told her dad I didn’t care so much for blood pudding(a sort of sausage patty made from pig’s blood). The morning we left, though, what does he serve for breakfast? Eggs and blood pudding, with an extra portion for me. Hah! Of course I ate what was given to me – it’s all calories, right? But the next day there was a nation-wide recall on all pork products; some chance of carcinogen contamination or something. Thanks a lot Jerry!

From there we finally made it all the way into Dublin’s fair city, “the Big Shmoke,” via Pheonix Park, Europe’s largest urban park(whole herds of reindeer live there), for the weekend and Dawn’s birthday. It was nice; she used to live there so she knows her way around and has plenty of friends in town. For a couple of days we hung out and saw the sights, walking and cycling around town, visiting Trinity College, Grafton Street, the Spire on O’Connel Street, Molly Malone, Templebar, the Quays along the River Liffey, and tons of other spots. We had a grand ol’ birthday party and polished off a liter of Jameson between the three of us. I did some Spanish homework for her old flatmate Grianne who was swamped with exams, had an interview for the national Irish Times, met up with a Madisonian that saw the article(http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2008/1208/1228571631919.html), and got my broken Leatherman replaced immediately(and for no charge) with a new Swiss Victorinox multi-tool.

Saying goodbye to Dawn was not easy, but the time had come to part ways. She was one of the few women I’ve met that was tough enough for bike touring, and I’m sure we’ll meet again some day, but I had to move on. It’s one of the hard parts of this traveller’s life I’ve set myself up for – so many goodbyes; always goodbye.

I left on a crisp(and thankfully dry) Wednesday morning, headed North.