To pick up where we left off; Emma and I whizzed down the highway and into a campsite run by Dutch people called De Oude Wilg.

It has come to my attention that this means The Old Willow in Dutch, the symbolism was not lost on me – my old Willow would have loved ithere too. It was quiet and beautiful and cool and had warm, clean showers and I was so very happy about that.  On the way we managed to choose a very bumpy and rutted road with zero other traffic and so Scout got out for a run. She did brilliantly beside me, although she was understandably a little scared when we passed a factory with two barking dogs telling us to get away from their place – the dogs weren’t behind any gates so they had the potential to rush right up to us. I had my mind on staying calm and in control, encouraging Scout to keep moving and preparing to protect her at all costs but as with so many dogs they were all bark and no bite and we continued on without incident, however when Scout saw Anthony on the road ahead getting some footage she swerved across and into his arms for a reassurance cuddle. Fair enough, young pup, fair enough.

 

 

The pretty little town the campsite sat in had people in traditional dress, horses and carts and, to Scout’s delight and my frustration hundreds of swooping swallows. I suppose they were catching flies but I’m not sure they weren’t just teasing Scout and dive bombing her to make my life more difficult, and to give Emma and the locals a good laugh. She desperately wanted to chase them and I dearly wanted her to stay on the right hand side of the bike and not run across the road and not pull me over. It was quite a clash of wills. To her credit she was quite restrained and we stayed upright all the way to the campsite…where she saw a cat.

We met two lots of cycle tourers at the campsite (French and South African) and compared stories from the nightmare night at the top of the Transfagarasan and offered advice on onward journeys – Romanian dogs nipping at heels and fast roads without cycle paths featured heavily. We decided to continue as we had planned, crossing the border at Cenad into Mako for the 9th and cycling as much as we could on the way given the conditions. Although it had been a rainy night, the sky was beginning to clear as we made our way to the UNESCO World Heritage city of Sibiu. There was ice-cream, there were fountains, it’s seriously worth a visit, guys.

We cycled along roads that had enough space for us and a car and felt pretty ok until we approached the city and the roads doubled up and got busy. We took small roads and eventually found ourselves in the beautiful pedestrian quarter of Sibiu. Scout sat proudly in her chariot with the front flap open without trying to jump out and basking in the interested points and stares. On more than one occasion now I have wished I had a large sign or a t-shirt with K8 and K9 on it so I could direct people to the website and potentially garner more donations. The Transfagarasan Highway was a prime example of advertising opportunities – word had spread about the two women and a dog cycling up the highway – our French friends had heard about us – how great would it have been if people knew we were going all the way to London? Another example of poor foresight and prep from me!

Anyway, we then loaded up the bikes to get out of the city and take a punt on a large Decathlón we’d spied on the way in – I was still cleatless on one shoe and needed a screw to set things right. No luck – only £15 for an entirely new set that I couldn’t bring myself to spend. I did manage to buy myself some new socks – my ‘cycle specific’ ones were too big and fluffy and I only had three of them as one had been stolen by a dog (probably) on our first night in Bulgaria. On taking a wrong turn out of the city we ended up driving past KTM bicycles and I decided to jump out and ask. I showed them the twin of the screw I needed, I was met with an exhalation and a slow shake of the head before I showed them the rest of the cleat and a little cheeky grin spread across the guy’s face. He moved aside some papers, found a small plastic packet and ripped it open, he pulled out one, two screws and gave them both to me, refusing any payment. His partner said ‘nothing but hugs and kisses’ for which, to be fair, she didn’t even exact payment. I showed them the blog name and said I would thank them there. Do me a favour? Like their fb page.

Cleaaaats!! Yay. Oh god so much better. I’ll be honest I was a little worried having only used them for my Oxford training ride and nothing since but when we found a quietish patch of road to whizz along that afternoon I felt like I was really getting in the grove of this cycling malarkey and stopped being scared of falling with heavy bike.

Romanian roads are not amazing for cycling. People drive very fast. The roads are not very wide. People do fairly reckless overtaking. Emma used to be a police officer and she finds it hard to ignore the accidents she’s seen. I cycled on with blissfully ignorant, as we passed shrine after shrine of dedications to perished motorists. Seriously, they erect proper crosses and things, sometimes with pictures, not just temporary flower memorials. ‘Tra la la,’ I cycled on thinking ‘they probably weren’t on bikes, we’ll be fine.’ We planned a stop at the next lay by for snacks and who was sat there but Mr Smith, with GoPro in hand ready to film us…stopping. A quick assessment of the road and the distance still to cover before Wednesday and we decided not to endure the scary roads. We were in the van and on our way in a few minutes. Much better.

We jumped in and out of the van like this as we continued west through Romania and the towns began to change, they got a bit smaller, a bit more run down, there was a large motorway that initially diverted most of the traffic off the ‘B’ roads we were trying to cycle but it hadn’t been finished and so for a good 80km all the traffic piled on to some really small roads that were hairy enough to drive in the van – no way we were going to cycle them.

Scout loves the van. About a month ago Scout was car sick when she went to a fundraising event and she was a little sick when she travelled in the back of the van to the train station at the start of the trip but as soon as she climbs into the cab now she lies down and goes to sleep. Willow always did the same – it meant all the drivers on my TV jobs never objected to her coming along – she slept the whole way in the footwell and was completely unobtrusive. This bodes well, little doggo.

We saddled up again for the journey through the border into Hungary. It was pretty hot and the queue was long – we pushed ahead to see if there was a pedestrian or bike gate we could go through just as they opened another gate to ease the tailback caused by five or six Turkish men in German Mercedes they were not interested in letting in apparently. We passed through with ease and the border guard ladies were quite taken with Scout who sat prettily with her head out the front flap again. Top marks, pup.

CYCLE PATHS! Oh my god there were separate cycle paths parallel to the main road almost immediately. I could taste the easy cycling from here on out. And it tasted gooood. We bumbled along, Scout smiling out at her third country in a week and drawing stares and points and laughs and puzzlement (signage, Lamb, signage would be great).

Not as dramatic or catastrophic as the previous few days had been but it was a few more days with Emma and Anthony by my side. I think the challenge really begins when I set out on my own. For me and for Scout. She knows Emma and Anthony best and although we certainly have a bond, she’s very very attached to them too – I think we’re both going to miss them. I don’t know if Scout will be confused or just take it in her stride. She’s going to mental when she sees Emma in London – she’s attending a Dog’s Trust course just in time to see my triumphant return (I hope).

We spent a good few hours in the thermal baths next to the hotel, leaving Scout in the air-conditioned bathroom of our room where she good-naturedly tore the top off her foldy bowl and a few holes in Willow’s old sleeping bag. Sigh. She did very well with the separation and only seemed very excited to see us rather than extremely stressed by the situation – she’s a very independent little thing (street dog smarts) which is good in many ways, but no so much for her recall – it’s good for dogs to have a small amount of dependency on their owners – it strengthens the bond and prevents them straying too far. Hopefully that will come in time. And so will she!

I had a thoroughly unimpressive massage (I need some serious muscle manipulation and this was just firm stroking) and Emma was so mashed about in hers she ached more afterwards. Win some, lose some I guess and we thought sadly about the next day’s parting. I’m anxious to see what this next stage brings. But I’m really going to miss these guys, I only met them a few months ago but we’ve already shared an awful lot. I peed in a bowl in the same van as them for god’s sake (don’t ask but it was the only option available, there were reasons) and you don’t go through stuff like that without ending up pretty darn close. They opened their home to me with astonishing generosity. The same generosity they show every day to the dogs.

They are good peoples. But it’s clear that they can’t go on doing what they’re doing without help. Help from your donations to create safe and secure spaces for the different dogs (they have 70 right now, guys, and they just don’t have the facilities for that), help from the municipality who offer neutering funds and support, and help from volunteers who will work hard and not be afraid to get dirty and exhausted. They never stop. Which is exhausting. This trip is the first time they’ve managed more than two days away from Street Hearts in over a year and it was only possible with help from four lovely ladies – Candy, Laura, Bianca and Monica who stayed to do doggy duty. But, with your donations, there will be secure puppy areas, sick bays, quarantine pens, scared dog rehab areas and a medical and grooming room. Everything will be easier to muck out and keep clean, and the dogs and the people will be happier. So please share this blog, or the others, or the twitter account, and spread the word; a little goes a long way, I can’t believe where we are already! Or where we’ll be tomorrow. Not quite Budapest yet, but it’s close!

The Romanian border guards didn’t seem all that interested in Scout’s papers. In fact I’m not convinced they even knew I had a dog in my trailer. I think I just smuggled a dog. We cycled out of the border, the roads lined with Turkish lorries (notoriously dangerous road buddies) but even at 7.30 the heat was beginning to get to us. There were, of course, no cycle lanes and although the roads were ok and not too busy the heat in the end forced us back into the van. We found a petrol station for coffee and wifi and discovered news warnings of Heatwave Lucifer burning its way across Eastern Europe (way to be dramatic and scary, weather guys). We deemed it acceptable to drive the rest of the day. Scout was extremely pleased with the decision. 

My original route through Romania was a completely different one, a ‘shortest, easiest route possible’ one. But Anthony mentioned a very special road that he thought we needed to see; The Transfagarasan Highway. It was out of the way and didn’t fit with my 5 week plan, but it seemed churlish to miss the opportunity and so knowing we had the van I plotted points we would have to drive to make up the time and distance out of the way. I also knew that as the TH was 100 km of nearly 3000m of ascents and descents (as in; it rises up to 2040m altitude but in real terms because of the the hills and nature of the roads you’re actually cycling up hill for 3000m and going down for the same) that it couldn’t realistically be achieved by me without weight reduction.

It’s talked about as one of the world’s best roads to drive, with tens of hairpin bends and 1000ft drops without barriers and breathtaking views. It’s also a lot higher and therefore potentially cooler than anything at sea level so we resolved to give it a go despite the severe weather warnings (again with the dramatics!). 

We drove on to Pitesti and the start of the Highway. It cuts through the mountains north to south and while the south side is a relatively steady straight incline over 70km from Curtea de Arges, the north side squishes all that height into just over 30km. I thought the slow, gradual ascent would be easier but Jeremiah, the Canadian American cowboy we met on our second day in Bulgaria and who had done North to South didn’t think we’d enjoy it all that much. We hoped he was also being dramatic. 
At a busy roundabout in Pitesti we found ourselves behind a couple whose transit had broken down and we hopped out to help push them to safety. Anthony, ever-ready to help, offered them a tow. They were Romanian but she spoke some Spanish and between us we worked out that they lived very close. She hopped in the cab to direct us and Emma sat in the car with the Romanian man. We set off, brimming with the self satisfaction of good Samaritaning when, at the busy round about, the nervous Romanian braked on the tow (more than a few times) and managed to rip the entire engine out of the bonnet. His horn was also broken (along with his windscreen), and he was unable to alert Anthony for a good fifteen seconds as we proceeded to drag his car through the city, and spill its guts out even further. We eventually realised and pulled over. Emma sprang out of the car, desperately trying to suppress her inappropriate giggles as wife called someone and husband cried on his knees in Romanian at the twisted mess we’d made of his car. I thought it was going to be one of those ‘back away slowly, get in the car and leave’ situations as, through tears he detached the tow. But remarkably he began searching for a part of the car that was more solidly attached to the rest of it and insisted we get him home. Emma could not stop giggling. A little more Spanish revealed home was not far and Anthony finished what he’d started, taking off once more only to immediately stop as the bumper tried to abandon ship and had to be stamped on to detach and stuff through the passenger window. We deposited them at their home, wildly unsure if we’d actually achieved any samaritaning to be smug about. Hmmm, on to the highway then. 

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At 5pm on Saturday we began the little routine we would become experts at (bikes and trailer in or out of the van) and donned our highvis again and set our lights – it wasn’t dark but it was busy and the roads were small and windy and we wanted to give people as much chance of seeing us as possible. We were warned that weekend Transfagarasan traffic can be a bit silly but we didn’t find it too bad – people seemed to give us as much room as possible. I like to think it’s because they were so very impressed with us. I’d already decided that if we were going to tackle the TH then I would under no circumstances be doing it with my panniers. It was something we could only do with the support van. I would, of course, take Scout but only water and snacks besides her. Our first evening’s ride took us up and around the large lake/reservoir at around 800m. After first rising up above the lake we continued to roll up and down beside it, losing any altitude we gained but it was shady with large trees and smelled piney and fresh and was the first time we’d been cool in days. Anthony leap frogged us to take pictures and check in every so often and just as the light faded we saw him in a grassy lay by next to the river. It was cool and quiet (apart from the rushing river and spirits were high for a 6am start and a push for the top. By my calculations it looked like only 20-25km to the top and nothing much worse than we’d done before just without the relief and rest of the downs that followed the ups on days one and two in Bulgaria. We’d be there in time for lunch we said. That evening we geared ourselves up to bathe in the mountain river. Scout danced around the rocks beside us, never bold enough to take the freezing plunge herself and I recalled all my Welsh sea childhood training but still got brain freeze after dunking my head and trying to wash my hair. Utterly refreshed and invigorated and we slept with our ears and the van doors open to the river. 

The morning was gentle and gradual and we felt like we were making good progress. Although I think Emma struggles with mornings and never quite wakes up until coffee and second breakfast around 9am, Scout absolutely adores the early hours. She naturally wakes me at 5.30 even when we’re lying in and the cool temperatures and a good night’s sleep are the perfect puppy combo – she chews, she zooms, she chases, she does big energetic head booping cuddles, so with the roads quiet and cool I set her running beside the bike. She only tried to drag us across the road twenty times and chase after birds fifteen – if the conditions were right (Emma ahead, no left turns, not too up, not too down) she was a perfect pulling pooch. She needs constant verbal instruction – “good girl! Ah ah! That’s it, stay on target, stay on target, nice, No! That’s it, nicely, ah ah, no birds, stay on target….” She wasn’t actually in shot on the GoPro so I now have about 10 minutes of footage of the road and my handlebar bag that sounds like me self-coaching my tendency to swerve into the road after birds. Nice work. 

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After second breakfast the going was much tougher for me. I couldn’t work out why until I eventually stopped to check the tyres and lo and behold the trailer was lopsided – phew. First puncture of the trip and Anthony had my pump with all the rest of my panniers. Not to worry – he was with us in less than ten minutes and I had to deal with my first puncture…or so I thought. I couldn’t find the culprit on the tyre and the inner seemed to have sealed itself again. There was one tyre that had deflated much more than the other when I left it for three weeks so I decided the tube was leaky and I would just swap it for a new one. It seemed to work and we set off again. 

The climbs began to get steeper. The day began to get warmer. We needed to stop every fifteen minutes. At 11.30 I had absolutely nothing left. My legs couldn’t push. We had about 10km to go but were spinning around 4km per hour with breaks for heart-rate steadying and liquorice eating. I dearly wanted to summit by lunch, before the day got too hot and we had to stop for the midday heatwave, but I couldn’t. We took the decision to recharge by the river (even colder up here – my crocced feet went numb in it and Anthony made us sandwiches that I scarfed down and we had a power nap in the van’s suspended bed. Mercifully, clouds started to roll over and the final (actually final) push wasn’t hampered by too much sun and we saddled up yet again, Anthony sending us off with a  trademark “get on with it then!” motivational speech. But it honestly was not that easy. Scout was just such a dead weight and it was too busy to have her walking beside me. We’d shared many a bell ring or helmet nod with cyclists descending and wishing us luck but we eventually started to be overtaken by day trippers with nothing but water bottles and cameras to document their insane cycling prowess. Honest to god some ten year old kid and his dad on mountain bikes just sped past us like they had wings. I couldn’t work it out. The final kilometres absolutely sagged by. I cycled, stopped, calmed my heart rate, and started again, rinse and repeat. We never seemed to be getting closer. The top seemed like it was so near we could touch it but it still evaded us. Very near the top there’s a stretch of road with stalls and food sellers and the traffic grinds to a halt as everyone tries to squeeze past everyone else without falling off the edge. We clung the mountain-side and pushed the bikes. My trailer still seemed to be pulling me backwards and I was aghast at how difficult these final few kilometres were. Did I need to call it quits? Admit that this was too much for a amateur cyclist?

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After the stalls we had a drink, took some more pictures with donkeys and set sail for what we hoped was the final final final push, for real this time, no jokes and no stops okay? And remarkably, it was. It absolutely was. We rounded a corner and saw the beginning of the tunnel we knew was the passageway to the north side of the summit and not terribly suitable for cycles and the signal for us to van-up. We did it, and as if it had been patiently waiting for us to finally ascend, the mountain exploded in rain and hail and thunder and lightening and we clamoured to get everything loaded up and out of the storm, me only then realising that the same trailer tyre was again, flat. 

We sat there for the best part of an hour before the weather and the traffic eased and the other side was clearing so we parked in a cliff-side lay by and watched in awe and horror as the entire world queued up to drive to the summit, park for an hour and go back down. Surely the mountain couldn’t hold this many cars? How many of them fall off every year, I wondered. As the day wore on the traffic eased and we walked up to find some overpriced not very great food before settling in for the night. 
That night. Right. Well. That night, at about 2am the thunderstorm came back with a vengeance. The wind, the rain, the lightening, the rumbles of thunder, it all felt a little “get off my mountain” if you’re familiar with the Himalayan folk-lore. While the pass is closed from October to May because of avalanches I wondered what the chances of rock and mudslides were during Summer storms. Anthony wondered the same and Emma, already convinced we were going to be blown straight off our perch, insisted we find somewhere safer. Cue a 3am drive 5km down the highway in darkness and driving rain, me clinging to the back doors and Scout diving under the bikes for cover, Emma buried in her duvet and none of us all that comfortable if I’m honest. 
We saw out the storm next to a raging river but safe from rockfalls and mudslides and cliff drops. The van still rocked in the wind and it wasn’t until 4.30 that the storm finally left us to sleep. The rain continued into the next morning, however, and Anthony and I sat discovering and digging out thorns from the trailer tires and repairing three inner tubes. Three. Eventually we decided to drive back up to our old lay by if it was still there (it was), grab some local bread and cheese and think about cycling down. I was sat typing my blog and Emma was still in her bunk as Anthony made the short trip back up. Now, being in the back of any vehicle means you feel the bumps and turns and turbulence more than in the front. This was very much the case as we drove back up and without even a view out the front, the turns, bumps and bends were…somewhat alarming to us cargo passengers. Emma may have emitted some squeals as we wove our way up but suddenly the van swerved across the road and back three or four times, bikes rocking and bags sliding as Anthony overcorrected and fought with the wheel. I’m not a panicky person. I’m calm in a crisis but I was quite sure we were about to slide over the side of the road and could only hope it was the side without the huge drop. After a few more terrifying seconds we levelled out and progressed more slowly and evenly up the hill, hearts in our mouths, adrenaline shooting through us. When we stopped Anthony’s grinning face popped into the side door and was met with tears from Emma and near hysterical laughter from me. Turns out he’d done a ‘couple of swerves’ because he thought we were being a bit dramatic. We have vowed to get him back for this. And it will be sweet. 
The descent was long and cool but the clouds prevented the views we had been promised. We had to stop every now and then to regain feeling in our fingertips from the constant braking (sharp turns with a trailer are not allowed) but within an hour or so we’d left the mountain behind and found that flat, straight Romania we’d seen a few days ago. It was a strange feeling, watching the altitude drop so effortlessly when I’d fought so hard the day before to make it climb and given the dramatics of the night before it really felt like we were leaving behind an entirely different time and land. 

The Transfagarasan Highway is a road I could and would never have attempted without Emma and Anthony by my side. And I wonder how many dogs have made the trip by bike? Can’t be that many, can it? Apparently it was Jeremy Clarkson who said it was the best road to drive and I’m inclined to disagree with everything he says on principle. It is rather spectacular, I will concede, but actually I don’t need to agree with him – we didn’t just drive the Transfagarasan Highway. We CYCLED it. And it was marvellous. 

August 3rd came about entirely too soon. I had one day of bike building and pannier packing and puppy training and nowhere to trial riding the loaded bike and trailer as Emma and Anthony’s roads are hilly and unpaved. ‘It’ll be fine, other people do this too. It can’t be that hard.’ I figured. So Thursday came and we just got in the van and headed to Tsareva Livada train station where Scout was found. It was the first time she’d been back and when she reached the platform she had a rare moment of stillness. It was quite spooky really – she stood and stared out at the tracks for a full 30 seconds before snuffing and trotting back to the bikes. I don’t know enough about how dogs think and remember – they are wonderful examples of living in in the moment – but I’d love to know what that moment was like for Scout. 

 
People arrived, tv news crews turned up, I was given a charm bracelet, wished good luck by Bulgarians and British ex-pats, offered a ceremonial mouthful of traditional bread and spices (rather wished I could have scoffed the lot but cameras were there and I was feeling a little queasy…) and most wonderfully, Kirsty and Sam, who were holidaying a few hours away and who have kindly lent me their GoPro for the journey, drove to TL for the send off and managed to find the cable I’d forgotten along the way! Heroes. 

So, with camera people satisfied and 35 kilometres to go, Emma, Scout and I set off up the BIGGEST HILL OUT OF ANY TOWN EVER. I’d never cycled with full panniers plus dog trailer but it was remarkably hard going. I just couldn’t seem to get into a rhythm and was working maddeningly hard, followed patiently by about ten locals on their bikes and a few well wishers in cars, watching with mounting concern as I failed to move at more than about 3km per hour. Embarrassing to say the least but when about five minutes up the the hill, I clipped in to my right cleat and found I couldn’t unclip it, my red face wasn’t much to do with the heat. There was no torque on the cleat when I twisted. I could feel it moving on the shoe rather than the pedal and absolutely couldn’t get out. Halfway up a hill. That I was having to grind my way up. I had to stop, my cavalcade drawing to an unimpressed halt while I stood astride the bike and tried to extricate my foot from my shoe while attempting to stop trailer and bike from rolling back down the hill. Seeing my clear distress, everyone came to help, which may or may not have helped (it didn’t really) and my shoe span around on the pedal like some ghost cyclist while I wrestled with it in my socks. It was mortifying. Luckily the cameras had stayed at the train station and my Mr Bean exploits weren’t played on the news later that day. Still, always good to give people low expectations of your ability so you can surprise them with your competence. Well not always. With a good few yanks we pulled shoe off cleat and cleat out of pedal and turns out one of the screws had come out and the other was loose and was utterly useless. Anthony pocketed the pieces, my shoe went back on cleat-less and I was given a push start to get me going, wobbling incompetently into the middle of the road and going so slowly people were walking faster than me. ‘Scout’s going to have to get out for a second.’ I conceded. We were never going to get out of Dodge.

So someone offered to walk with her while I crawled up the hill and with 15kg less I began to make progress, but I was still huffing and puffing when Andy, a local expat on his bike behind me, said ‘can you get into a lower gear?’ Really helpful, Andy, ‘No, I’m on the smallest at the front. And at the back-….Oh, right.’ For those of you who don’t cycle the lowest or ‘Granny’ gear is with the chain on the smallest cog at the front, largest at the back. I’d been riding with my chain crossed and a full seven gears away from the easiest setting. What. A. Kn*b. Suddenly everything was fine and I could spin up the hills without blinking. Scout hopped back in and 30 seconds later the chain popped off. Awesome. A quick stop and reset and I set off with that same miraculous reassurance that you get when your period turns up a day or two after you were convinced you were losing it because you cried at everything that moved and were sure you were a terrible human. Just me? Ok. Well basically I’d spent thirty minutes thinking I’d never leave Bulgaria let alone make it to London and I was going to disappoint everyone and royally embarrass myself. In actual fact, I’d just forgotten how gears work. Embarrassing but not disastrous to the journey.  

After a brief stop in Dryanovo, a final check with Scout’s vet and another flag to add to the trailer we set off again. It was hot, and hard going and I felt the pressure of being followed by un-laden well wishers. Desperate not to look like a complete novice, I kept on pushing and as soon as we were out of the town and on our way we stopped, poured water on Scout and ourselves and made a plan to go slow and steady with regular shade breaks. Our late ceremonial start put us at the hottest time of the day. We had a hilly route and I off loaded the tent and a few bits and bobs to the van to acclimatise to the weight through the terrain. It was tougher than I wanted to admit but I had fuel in my legs and knew that we just needed to keep drinking and cooling down. I was cautious on the downs, horror stories of trailers jack-knifing playing in my head and Emma whizzed ahead to enjoy the breeze when my light flew off just as a car came hooting behind me and I had to travel an extra 30m round a corner before I could stop safely. Emma was no-where to be seen and I quickly propped my bike on the sloping verge and got Scout out to go light-hunting. The bike fell over (again), and flustered and hot I left it and went after the light. Emma, hearing the car’s horn and realising we weren’t following turned around, cycled back up, saw the toppled bike in the verge, and no dog or girl and had a minor heart attack until I answered her panicked reply from round the corner. Sorry, Emma!

As the temperature climbed and we flailed our way up steep sun baked roads we neared Momin Sbor where Emma’s friends live, they’d already offered tea. It was nearing three and the day was punishing us for brazenly cycling in the heat and we diverted to Norma and Gordon’s soon to be B&B and ice cold drinks and, eventually, inevitably, their pool. Scout played with their street dog Wolfie and had her first swim. She wasn’t much of a fan and clung to me like a baby and was fully terrified of the inflatable Orca whale. Two hours of shade and cool and swimming was an astonishing tonic and the final push to Hotnista and Emma’s other friends Jules and Russ’ place flew by. We showered and fed and were eaten alive by mozzies and got a good few hours’ sleep before a 5 am wakeup, a 6.30 departure and the start of a very long, hot day.

We cycled for 5 hours, stopping every so often for water and food, spinning up hills and freewheeling the descents. There were five big climbs of around 200m before the port at Shvistov and we worked through them methodically, seeking water at every small town (sometimes in vain).. We planned to stop at 11 but the small town we got to by that point had no water or cafe to wait out the day and we were forced to push onwards. My Garmin told me it had got to 41 degrees Celsius when we rolled into Alekevo to the sight of a cafe and directions to the village well. Thank god. We had cold drinks and sandwiches and salty crisps and ice cream and were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves as we lay under a tree and hid from the sun. We thought we’d maybe get going again at three. Or four. But those hours came and went and we still couldn’t move. It was around 35 degrees in the shade and we were prisoners to it, venturing out from the shelter of our tree only to buy more cold things and stand in the air-conditioned shop for as long as we could make it look normal. Eventually we tried to get moving around 4.45, Scout ran alongside the bike as we rolled to the water fountain and managed to wrap herself around a bollard when she decided to sprint along the other side of it. Ah yes, lead walking around objects – not something we’ve worked on yet – flying start though, Scout, flying. 

That ascent was hot and difficult. As we rested at the next town Mr Smith pulled up in the rescue van. We replenished our water and made the decision to put Scout in the cab for the next few hours. It was too hot for her but the day was disappearing and we needed to push on to the ferry. Slow and steady, Emma and I found our rhythm and soon enough, Shvistov was in sight, as it cooled (around 7pm) Scout hopped back in and we arrived triumphant to find the last ferry had left and we would have to spend the night at the dock awaiting the 7am crossing. Anthony made us masses of pasta which I struggled to eat in the heat and we settled in to our first night in the van. Sorry, I mean: the most uncomfortable, noisy, sweaty night in the van. Truck drivers who had arrived on the last ferry were having their own private discos and running their engines for the air con and getting drunk and putting the world to rights, the heat was oppressive and inescapable and the mozzies made me itchy and paranoid. Sleep was elusive. I was quite worried about Scout – she’d been warm in the day and hadn’t really had a chance to cool down and was being quite lethargic. I kept squirting water on her and checking her heart rate and when she woke me at 5.30 to pee she was her old self, mesmerised by pigeons, watching everything around her, and giving some right good cuddles. We had a private ferry crossing – no one else wanted to go to Romania at 7 in the morning – and Scout handled her first boat ride (so many firsts for this one) very well. She’s processing new things every day and she does this little jaw chattering movement like she’s working something out or saying ‘ok that’s new, that’s new, how do we feel about that?’ Mostly I think she’s feeling fine about it. A couple of grumbles and woofs when people surprise her but she’s had a wonderfully secure few months at Street Hearts and this is a lot for any pooch to take in. It’s easy to forget how much hard work it is for her, especially as she’s mostly sat in the trailer resisting the urge to chew it apart or jump out…but that alone is pretty amazing. I think I picked a good’un. 

Wifi is scarce everywhere, but I’ll try and fill you in as much as possible. Your donations are making my heart soar each time my phone finds internet. Tune in next time for Romania, disastrous towing and the Transfagarasan Highway to hell.

(This was put together on my iPhone as my ancient iPad gave up – it will not be completing the journey with me I fear…)

Because I am not very good at saying ‘no’, I agreed to be part of a festival Parkour Performance team the weekend before I left for Bulgaria. Which meant those last minute trial packs, practicing with all the gear on the bike etc, all those things you’re definitely supposed to do…I didn’t. Oops. What I did do is spend the weekend alternately throwing myself onto a stunt air bag, swinging and jumping around a scaffolding set up and getting soaked through and cowering in a tent. Honestly, the first night it just chucked it down, which you’ll know if you were at any one of the tens of British festivals in the last weekend of July. After a vaguely warm meal I lay on a deflating air bed, that grassy, rubbery, damp-sock smell of wet tents pervading my nostrils and thought….5 weeks. Oh my god. 5 weeks. 
With the last of my phone battery I ordered a lightweight tarpaulin I can use to rig up an additional shelter if I am indeed assaulted by hideous bouts of rain (again, Amazon Prime, god damn you for being so convenient. Pay your taxes, yo.) and then tried to enjoy myself and forget about all the things I still hadn’t got done. I arrived home about 2am on Monday morning and the next 24 hours were spent bike packing and padding, shopping for the last minute things (tea, food for Bob while I’m away, and a tool bag – my new favourite insult), clearing my room so my lovely friend can stay in it and an unexpected gathering of the Lamb flock from its various corners of the U.K. My brother showed up, mum cooked my ‘last meal’ and my Dad surprised me by coming down from Sheffield to join us – I was sleep deprived and definitely cried when I saw him at the door. It was slowly making the entire thing a whole lot more real and a whole lot more serious – I’ve never had a full family send off before!

With the bike box taped up and slid perfectly into the boot of my mum’s car my brother and dad departed and mum looked up how to track my phone while I’m away…we downloaded an app. As long as she doesn’t request a GPS update every 30 mins and it doesn’t drain my battery I guess there’s no harm in letting her track me. She’s survived this long without it though. It prompted discussions of letting me go to school in Swaziland on my own at 16 when mobiles were barely a thing and how she’s always known she couldn’t hold me back from doing the things I want to do, even if they cause her worry. She’s really pleased that Emma and I will be cycling the first five days together with support from Anthony in the van. But she still filled me in on the new I’ve been kidnapped but can’t talk openly code. The old one used to be asking after whichever dog wasn’t actually alive anymore, i.e. ‘Give Jessie a hug,’ ‘I hope Elsea’s feeling better,’ etc. I guess Willow gets to be kidnap code now too… Despite her natural, motherly concerns, (no, pepper spray is illegal, mum, you can’t buy some for me) she promises me that her proper gift will be that she’s not going to worry. I love that.

We got about three hours’ sleep and set off in darkness to Gatwick. Swift, tear-defying goodbyes at the drop off point and then a slightly anxious wait as the oversize baggage guy told me the bike was two kilos overweight and I would need to unpack. ‘But..but…I don’t have any tape, I’ve checked my other bag, the heavy stuff in there is tools and I won’t get them through security. It can’t be that heavy, I can lift it! I weighed it at home!’ Nothing doing. I looked at the box, loath to do a bad job of packing it back up, only just about confident that everything was safe and secure. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’ Apparently if I could get confirmation from the loaders that a 34kg bike box was acceptable to them, there’d be no issue. Cue talking to a couple of really lovely, helpful, understanding, friendly lead agents from easyjet who were already pretty run off their feet with 50 malfunctioning airport equivalents of ‘self service checkouts’. In the end one lady had to go to the office to call the mobile of one of the loaders to warn about a heavy item and she rushed off to do that ‘What’s the time?  Right, I’ve got 5 mins to get you cleared through here, don’t worry, we can do this!’ hi-vis vest disappearing among swathes of people and suitcases. Honestly, that kind of optimism and cheery manner at 4.30 in the morning. That lady was golden, give her a bonus, easyjet! Oversized baggage guy was eventually convinced that the loaders were happy and they must have been because as I boarded the plane, there was Jeeves, proudly standing upright (thank god) on the tarmac, ready to be loaded. Winning. 

An hour or so waiting for an ATC slot meant a cheeky visit to the flight deck (yes, it is probably meant more for kids but they didn’t specify and I got there first). ‘I’m coming home by bike! With a dog!’ – I sounded about eight anyway. The pilot wished me luck and I let the real kids get their kicks – I’m not a monster. 

I arrived at Varna airport to a disconcertingly hot, sunny, day – holiday makers around me ready to swim and tan, me wondering how fast I’d have to pedal to create a cooling wind… Jeeves came out lying on his side and with a few gouges in the cardboard but relatively unscathed I think and Emma and Anthony were there to meet me. We wasted no time in getting the new magnetic signs on the van – Street Hearts ones for them to use on the sides and back and one for K8 and K9 with the awesome new logo my brother made for me. Looking hella professional and like I know what I’m doing. I wonder when the fact that that is not true will come out…

On the drive back we had to stop and pick up a starving blonde girl dog in a lay-by. She’s called Penelope Pitstop in honour of my mother who drove me to the airport and paid for our seaside lunch as a thank you and good-luck to Emma and Anthony. We didn’t arrive at Street Hearts until about 8 o’clock where I was met by, you guessed it, tens of dogs, one of them quite special. There’s only loads of stuff to do before we leave on Thursday morning and I’ve already realised I’m missing a GoPro cable and have no inner tubes for the trailer….the dogs are awake. So am I. Here’s to a productive day.

I’ve missed Scout. It’s been 6 weeks since I saw her last and she’s done a lot of growing! Don’t worry, she’s still bendy and lanky enough to fit on my shoulders (and through a catflap) but she’s looking much more like a proper grownup doggo. I’m pretty sad to have missed the puppy months and get started on her training but hopefully five weeks intense bonding will make up for lost time. And I know she’s been well cared for by Street Hearts while I’ve been gone. Just like they do for the fifty other dogs in their care. The situation is chronic and Emma and Anthony simply can’t continue without better facilities and volunteer help. I was there for nine days and with the three of us working flat out we barely found time to eat. (More on this in my Street Hearts blog post to come.) As a result I feel like I neglected Scout a little too. I was so busy trying to gain the trust of scared dogs, or lead train puppies or, to be perfectly accurate, shovelling s**t, that Scout got a little pushed to the sidelines. She’s the complete opposite of the scared ones that need work; interested in everything, nuzzling at you for hugs, getting involved in everything you do, eating all the food she can see. “Get Out, Scout!” is, unfortunately, a popular refrain. She’s been so lucky to have found a place at Street Hearts but she isn’t suited to shelter life and it’s clear she needs new challenges and adventures.
So, on to the adventure training: Scout hasn’t slept in a house since being rescued (no idea if she had before that) and I was dubious about her ‘housetraining’ skills. The idea of cleaning up tent accidents filled me with dread but I was able to stay in a bungalow on the Street Hearts property so I could roll up the rugs and see what we were working with. Nine days and no accidents. She may have woken me at 3 in the morning once by jumping on me, but most of the time it was 5.30-7.30 and I’m much happier with that than waking up to a cleaning job. Awesome doggo points: 5

Trailer time

I wanted Scout to feel comfortable in Bill, the Burley Tail Wagon. It’s going to be her caravan, her safe place, her little snail shell…if snails got other, overly dedicated species to pull their shells around for them… We began with the wheels off, all the flaps open and a blanket, toys and treats inside. Doggo heaven. She jumped in with a little encouragement, sat for her Orijen treats, but wasn’t interested in spending much time in there. That evening she slept on the rug, but the next night she curled up inside Bill and even when the wheels were on she was very content to curl up or stretch out in her new bed/home. She actually seemed pretty pleased with herself, heck, I would be – this thing is awesome. She loved it so much that one morning I woke up to see she’d given the front flap a bit of extra attention (she chewed it, guys.). Emma had warned me that she was going through a secondary chew phase (…at least I really hope it’s a phase) so I’d brought with me a few of Will’s old toys and an antler chew. Turns out she really likes soft furnishings so I’ll have to buy a few stuffed toys she can busy herself with de-stuffing. I used an anti chew spray on the trailer and we didn’t have a repeat incident but I have to keep an eye on what she decides to amuse herself with – she listens when I say “no” and gave me back the pyjama shorts she nicked off my bed very nicely but she clearly needs some acceptable chew outlets so I don’t turn around to see nothing left of the trailer but some wheels and a satisfied dog. Awesome Doggo points: -1
The first bike + trailer training went well. I borrowed Anthony’s bike (Jeeves is still in the UK) and hooked up the trailer attachment easy peasy (points to Burley Design). It was clear Scout was a little unsure (thanks, distant thunder for not making that easy) but with some encouragement, a seatbelt (harness) and a bit of speed she stopped trying to leap out. I’d quite like to be able to ride with the front flap open for her to get a better air flow but she’s clearly not ready for that kind of self control yet. Maybe once we’ve been on the road a while. ADP: 4

Chilled out Scout

A few days later Emma and I saddled up to cycle to meet the Mayor, who has been very supportive of their work in the town and wider municipality by securing money for neutering and lending his Mayoral seal of approval to the programme. Leaving Street Hearts HQ, however, is not as simple as getting in a car or hopping on a bike. When we’re around, many of the dogs are free range and wander about the place but they need to be in pens and paddocks while unsupervised so when everyone leaves we run around catching puppies and scaredy dogs and finding places to put them. We received a dog the day before who has one of the worst cases of anxiety I have seen. He howled all night and was desperately scared of his new environment and of being without us. Emma and Anthony use expensive tranquilliser paste to aid catching feral dogs and we couldn’t move this new dog without traumatising him so we decided to give him a dose of sleepy juice so he could get some sleep and relax a little. We put it in cat meat because every dog knows that cat meat is delicious and, unbeknownst to me, while Anthony was keeping the other dogs away from the sleepy cat food, Scout followed me into the garden on our way to the van and she zoomed in behind him and gobbled up a small ticket to snoozetown.  Brilliant. It’s hard to say how much she snaffled and it affects different dogs in different ways so I was really hoping she hadn’t dosed herself up to the eyeballs – I wanted to get her running next to the bike at some point….good work, Scout. ADP: -3
It’s hard to tell exactly and maybe it was actually for the best, but she was hella chill on the ride. It took us about 25 minutes and she wasn’t all that interested in standing up when we got there. And her pupils were a little small, and she was walking a little bit sideways and blinking kinda slow….Yeah, ok, she was high as a kite, my dog stole drugs from another dog and she wasn’t even sorry. Do I need an intervention? She slept through till 8am though…it was kind of nice… Can I give her an extra AD point for that?

 

The meeting with the mayor (Scout safely trying to dopily steal food in the vet’s store room while we did grownup stuff) was extremely positive. I think we’re going to have a really exciting send off from Dryanovo – maybe even with people joining the first few miles on their bikes.

Street Hearts have done wonders for the abandoned and stray dogs here but the next mission is to educate people who have unneutered dogs on their property either as guard dogs or livestock or crop guardians. Twice a year in ‘puppy season’ Street Hearts deal with dumped and abandoned puppies left to die of cold or blood loss from fleas or malnutrition from worms or to be torn apart by jackals. It’s astonishingly irresponsible and callous behaviour but it is very common. By starting with fanfare from the little town where Scout was dumped and then on to the brilliant Veterinarian in Dryanovo where she was neutered, vaccinated against disease and microchipped so I can find her if I lose her, I hope that awareness might spread and attitudes towards dog ownership might begin to shift in a more responsible and caring direction.

I managed one more short excursion with Scout running alongside the bike after she’d slept off her high and she’s certainly less sure of herself outside in the big wide world. She wasn’t quite up for pulling me along, that might come in time. But until she can read the Satnav and take direction, I’m happy to take the lead, literally. It’ll be good for her to get a nice gentle run a couple of times a day before hopping in the trailer for a drink and a snooze. And to walk beside us when I have to push uphill! 2 ADPs for Scout the adventure pooch. I think she’ll be just fine, and when it’s just the two of us, we’ll have plenty of time to work on general good-dog behaviour and help her kick the drug habit. She’s already one hell of a cuddler, and bendy AF….I have to take Jeeves the bike apart to fly him out. I hope I can put him back together ok. I do not recommend practicing on foldy dogs…I definitely put this one together wrong…

 

My mother turned 60 this year and she’s having a proper party, the first in her life, so she tells me. And to be honest, I don’t remember her ever having a party – my family never really went in for the birthday hype. But she’s done a lot of things differently over the last few years and now she’s actually having a full-on river punting, picnicking, hors d’ouevring, marqueeing, dining, live musicking, cocktailing birthday party with 40 of her nearest and dearest. Preparations are underway and it’s stressful but clearly going to be a huge success. Well, her creme caramel looked a bit funny and then I dropped something on top of it…sorry, Mum, it’ll still taste great. She wanted me up here a little early to help (she may be regretting that since the creme caramel incident) and I decided to use my journey to test out a few full days of cycling avec the trailer – loaded down with water and a big rug….here’s how that went….

                                                                       

Day 1 
80ish kilometres to Amerden Caravan and Camping Park (actually 90 because I went wrong)

Ten minutes out of the door and I clipped the tire of the trailer taking a corner too quickly on an underpass causing it to tip and take the bike with it. I miraculously unclipped my right foot in time to save myself crashing to the ground underneath it all and learned a valuable lesson about trailer life, very grateful the only dog inside was a fluffy one.
I plotted a slightly more scenic route out of London from Greenwich to avoid the big roads – I’ve been knocked off before, I’m not interested in navigating the traffic with a trailer in tow which makes me wider and slower. I tried as much as possible to stick to routes that have been designated ‘local’ bike paths. Sometimes this meant a quiet residential road (ace), sometimes a small white line on the road separating you from zoomy traffic (meh), and sometimes a lovely tarmacked path frequented by dog walkers or people with push-chairs (aaaaah, lovely! Wait, what? Seriously?!). London cycle paths must be plagued by motorcyclists or something because every few hundred meters at the start and end of these paths (and sometimes in the middle) there are numerous ingenious barriers perfectly built to prevent those of us dragging a two wheeled trailer behind their bike. Sometimes I had to wiggle my way through a zig-zag thing, sometimes I had to unhitch entirely and lift the unwieldy thing over a horizontal thing, or a narrow bollard thing, or through a twisty thing…there were numerous, unhelpful things. Many people, however, were very helpful, (some were conscripted, some volunteered) but after about the fifteenth obstacle I began to be less smiley about it.

I do parkour; railings and bollards are things I can have fun with, but throw a few wheels and a 20kg trailer in the mix and it starts to get you down. Trying to manipulate the trailer around a sharp bend while holding Jeeves up is a tricky business. On one section of the route I had to battle (with a nice lady’s help) through a sharp zig-zag configuration of railings to enter a park, only to cycle 30 meters along the edge to another identical zig-zag to get out again. This time the lady had disappeared and I had to do it alone. Jeeves fell over twice and when I picked him up after the second time he bit me with his big chainring, leaving two chunky teeth marks in my shin. I sympathised with him, but it all got a bit tedious. I also left some very nice people rather confused…I think they expected to see a child. Not a rug and a soft toy…
To cut a long, frustrating journey short, I basically should have just taken the ring road and trimmed off 30km of not very cyclable cycle path through south London.

Gravel: A lot of cycle paths run along canals. And are made of rocks. And are narrow. And are really bumpy, so that the internal monologue goes like this: ‘don’t get a puncture, don’t get a puncture, don’t fall in the river, don’t get a puncture, watch out for that duck’ etc. And your average speed cuts waaaay down. I followed a jogger for about 3km before I could catch up with her because the path finally smoothed out.

I got lost: I am not a good navigator. My brother is amazing at this, his internal compass could tell him which way was North after walking around an IKEA for an hour. I barely manage to work out where the car is parked. It’s a running joke in my family – the word ‘Bridgend’ is synonymous with Kate not really knowing where she is. That said, I’ve worked pretty hard at understanding maps and plotting routes etc. because I know I’m not naturally gifted in this area and sometimes there are not good signs and sometimes your satnav gets confused and sometimes it even dies because you’ve taken four hours longer than you were supposed to because of goddamn barriers and gravel.

Grit: Now, grit is different from gravel. Gravel can go do one. But grit keeps me going. I’m pretty gritty, and stubborn, and good at seeing the positives. Barrier number forty-something was one I could barely squeeze my bike through and there was no way I could get the trailer through it. It was 4.30pm and I’d seen one other person cycling the canal path in 30 mins. Luckily, just as I stood staring at the mind bogglingly cruel blockage a young man approached from the other direction. ‘Need some help?’ ‘Yes, please.’ I unhitched and he lifted from one side and I took it from the other. If we need to do this on the trip, at least Scout can hop out, with all the stuff inside it was about 10 kilos heavier than it needed to be which did not aid in lifting and twisting. ‘Wow! I’m so lucky you came along, thank you!’ I said to him. And that’s what my brain told me as I began the fiddly business of hitching up again. ‘Wow, I’m really lucky.’ Clever brain; telling me what I need to hear to keep me going. And then the stairs. The stairs that I had to grit my teeth and heave Jeeves up, slipping on gravel and dust, and then do the same with the trailer in the baking heat, which was so energy sapping I had to rest to return my heart rate to normal. ‘Hey, strength training too! That was an added bonus.’ That’ll do, brain, that’ll do.

And so, with dead satnav and only dear old google maps to guide me I wiggled my way to the campsite a full three hours later than I expected. It was blissfully quiet and calm and had an amazing shower block. Immediately I clocked a fellow bike tourer who asked expectantly ‘Dutch?’ ‘English!’ I replied almost apologetically (my primary language, if not my nationality). The Brits don’t have quite as strong a bike-touring culture as the Dutch so I imagine you’ll be right more times than you’ll be wrong if you assume a person on a bike with lots of bags is a Nederlander. Either that or my Danish ancestry has given me a Hollandic appearance…I’m 5’4….I’m not sure it’s that.

Edwin and I made that immediate connection that I think will be common on tour, jumping straight into conversations about routes and gear – he was on a 30 day tour and following a London – Land’s End route – and then, pretty quickly, more about our lives and careers. I envied his full, matching, Ortlieb panniers and handlebar bag set up, something that I have not yet managed to commit to purchasing and we discussed routes through Europe and the fact that I won’t have to worry about insurmountable barriers across cycle lanes anywhere else – solely an invention of the Brits. Phew.
He was up and gone before I clambered out of my tent – disciplined and on the road by 7am. Something I didn’t decide to push myself into just yet, although I think I might have to think about 5am starts to avoid the worst of the heat in Eastern Europe…cross that bridge when I come to it and all that. Maybe we’ll meet again in Holland…

Day 2
80ish kilometres to Witney

It was another hot day and I deliberately avoided the canal paths Google wanted to send me on but for a good 20-30km I had to ride on 60mph single carriage ways which had either no possible path or one that was rutted and overgrown. A constant choice between puncture or close zoomy car scares. The Phoenix trail is lovely, I urge you to wander it by foot, horse or trailered bike – all are welcome here. For the most part it was simply a question of keeping on going. It was hot, my half hour lunch break turned into an hour after I got lost getting back onto the cycle path afterwards, and the A40 cycle path is barren and zoomy and boring but it was simple cycling…I just kept going. 80km was done and dusted and I was surprisingly physically fine. Barely any soreness the following day, and food and sleep recovered me well. Showers are also remarkable at making you feel human again. Top tip.

So, safely at my Mum’s I’ve been putting up tents and cooking and cleaning and turning her garden into a Moroccan Palace for her epic 60th birthday party. For someone who hasn’t ever had a party before, she’s certainly not pulling any punches. Go big or go home, I guess. As Edwin said to me at the campsite when I revealed my plans and my lack of experience, ‘Why start small?’. Why indeed. Two days was nothing. Bring on 5 weeks. Jeeves, Trailer and I are so, so ready.