Dear Members,

Thanks to Angela for putting together

another Newsletter and to Derrick Whittaker

for the great article which is attached.

As always its a busy time for the club.

Details of all the forthcoming events are

included and as always its worth keeping

an eye on the club website and social media

feeds. With the completion of the Steven

Burke Sports hub we now have a extra

training session each week and I am sure

will bring further events and opportunities

to the club.

Details of the club AGM are outlined on

Page 2, please try to attend and have your

say. If you have something specific you

would like discussed please let a Committee

member know so we can add it to the

Agenda.

On behalf of the Committee I would like to

wish all the members a Merry Christmas

and a Happy New Year. I hope to see you

out on the road soon.

Best Regards

Paul Whittaker

PENDLE FOREST CYCLING CLUB

NEWSLETTER - WINTER 2014

Weekly What’s On

Saturday Run

9:30am Walton Lane (5 hrs with cafe stop) approx 15 mph

Wednesday Social Run

7pm Walton Lane (1.5 to 2 hrs pub after) approx 14 mph

Thursday Training Sessions

7:30pm Steven Burke Sports hub £2 per rider.

Ladies

we are trying to encourage ladies rides. Please feel free to

come to the training sessions on Thursdays. It would be great

to get a ladies Saturday run going maybe meeting the A run at

the cafe.

Also keep your eyes on the Facebook page for impromptu

rides.

ANNUAL DINNER DANCE

AND PRIZE PRESENTATION

on

Saturday, 31st January 2015

at

‘Nelson Golf Club’,

Brierfield, Nelson 6.30 pm for 7.00 pm start

Put on your best togs and come and join us to applaud our prize winners.

Tickets are now on sale priced at £22.00 each

Plus £2 each way for bus travel

from our Secretary, Paul Whittaker

(See menu on page 3 )

Page 2

FORTHCOMING EVENTS

CHRISTMAS RUN

Saturday, 20th December

Start 9.30 am Walton Lane

DOWNHILL RACE Boxing Day Start 11.30 am, and afterwards at

‘The White Lion’, Earby

ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING

Tuesday, 27th January – Lord Rodney – 7.00 pm – All Welcome

ANNUAL DINNER DANCE AND PRIZE PRESENTATION

Saturday, January 31st at the Nelson

Golf Club

ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING

Tuesday, 27th January 2015

at The Lord Rodney

7.00 pm

All Welcome

Please try and join us to:

Air you views, have your say

Make a difference, its your club

Pay your subs

Anything for the Agenda to be submitted to

any member of the committee before the

meeting

BOXING DAY 2014

The Pendle Forest Cycling Club Present

THE

DOWNHILL RACE

Start 11.30 am Black Lane Ends

and afterwards at

‘The White Lion’

Earby

for

Pie and Peas

Details of Circuit of Ingleborough 2015

Saturday, 14th March 2015

Start 10am

HQ - Ingleton Community Centre, Ingleton Entries please on a CTT entry form to myself, with a cheque/PO made out to Pendle Forest Cycling Club or you can now enter online at ctt.org.uk D Davies 16 Waverley Close Brierfield Nelson Lancs BB9 5HD If anyone has not ridden an event before or not ridden the Circuit of Ingleborough before and fancies a go, give me a ring and I will give you all the info you need. Phone number 01282 699918.

Page 3

Pendle Forest Cycling Club Annual Dinner Menu

Fresh Butternut Squash Soup

Served with Crusty Bread and Butter

Moulnes Mariniere

With Cream, Garlic and Parsley

Black Pudding and Walnut Winter Salad

~x~

Chicken, Carrot and Apricot Tagine

Seasonal Vegetable Frittata

Pot Roasted Beef

All served with Garlic and Rosemary Roast Potatoes and a variety

of fresh vegetables

~x~

Individual Baileys Cheesecake with Double Cream

Great Taste Award Winning Sticky Toffee Pudding with Custard

Rich Chocolate Hazlenut Delice with Double Cream

~x~

Filter Coffee and Chocolate Mints

Club Subscriptions The club subs for 2015 become due on 1st Jan. Members can pay electronically via the British Cycling website , https://www.britishcycling.org.uk/club/subscriptions?club_id=742 or directly to Paul Whittaker. The membership fee for the period is £20. If you have joined since September 14 your payment sees you through to 1st Jan 16. We need: Name Address including postcode Telephone Email Date of birth

Cheques Payable to Pendle Forest CC Paul Whittaker, 19 Burwains Ave, Foulridge, Colne, Lancs, BB8 7NT

DATE DISTANCE TIME

16th April 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

30th April 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

14th May 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

28th May 2015 Gisburn Hilly

13

7.00pm

11th June 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

25th June 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

9th July 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

23rd July 2015 Gisburn Hilly

13

7.00pm

6th Aug 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

20th Aug 2015 Skipton 10 7.00pm

3rd Sept 2015 Thornton 6.25 7.00pm

PROPOSED CLUB EVENTS 2015

Entry fee - TBC

All riders must be a member of a CTT affiliated cycling club

All riders under 18 years MUST provide a

completed parental consent form before

starting

Page 4

CLUB MAJORCA

TRIP 2015

Out 6th February

Back 13th February

Fly Easyjet from Liverpool to Palma

Hotel, Roc Leo at Can Pastilla

Half Board

Alpha rooms.com are usually cheapest but have to shop around

Bike Hire available locally if you don’t take your own.

Book it all yourself, this is not organised for you

we just all turn up at the same time same place and have a great weeks cycling

At time of writing about 20 booked

INSURANCE

Could we remind all riding members that you should have some third party insurance cover for your own protection. Insurance can be obtained via British Cycling or the CTC and

other sources. British cycling insurance needs to be "Ride" or "Silver" to include insurance and discounts are available for first time members.

Sneak Preview of the new design club clothing The green will be slightly brighter (Fluro Ink) on the delivered items but here is a picture of the first working sample.

CLUB CLOTHING

Orders for Castelli Speed Suits for the testers will be taken early in the new year.

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Here’s what the critics had to say about his last PF article “End to End - In Search of the Perfect Fried Egg”. “Not enough about ferrets in it!” - Ferreting Weekly. “Where’s the smut?” – The Vicars Gazette. “His description of the gastric tract of the Nubian broke new ground, I had tears in my eyes - a triumph! (Sorry have I got the right article here?)” - Goating Today.

Belgium– Bikes, Beer, Battlefields and er more Beer

Consider the scenario, it’s the news floor of a major tabloid newspaper and it’s a slow news day, nothing of note is happening in the world, anywhere in the world at all; no duck house / expenses / MP / hacking scandals, no royals popping out sprogs, the attention seeking vacuous narcissistic celebs have all taken vows of silence (I wish) and gone to ground, no Red Top headlines in faux disgust announcing “kids are for life not just for benefits!” shocker. In fact the only thing that’s happening in the world is murder and mayhem, blood and bombs, taking innocent life in a world full of bile and intolerance and where’s the news in that? So in this cliché world of ours and with column inches to fill before the print run the sub-editor turns to the hack journo and says “go get me a list of 6 famous Belgiums - now!”. So where do we start? You could have Alphonous Sax (which instrument did he invent? answers on a postcard please) I think he was a plumber and had some spare piping left over from a job? Or you could have King Leopold – King of All the Belgiums who presided over the scramble for Africa, had the Times newspaper shipped in from London that morning, a special train halt, had it ironed and on the way to his breakfast table by 9.00 AM sharp, a bit like the Bramley Ave household although it’s the Indy with me. His empire carved out of the dark heart of the Congo – Conrad’s hero leaving Chatham and all that stuff. The colonial land grab (and here begins one of the threads to the Great War, Belgium had the Congo, France had territories in all over the place - Africa, South America, the Caribbean and Indo China, Italy was carving up Abyssinia and we had the rest and the best, and poor, jealous Prussia – well, it hardly had anything worth mentioning). It was Apocalypse Now, which really did turn apocalypse now in the 60s when it rose against colonialism with a reciprocal brutality. Of Stanleyville and Belgium Paras and mercenaries unrestrained from God knows where. All just on the edge of memory as I played as a rug rat in front of the telly with my Corgi Batmobile while my father watched the black and white news, “and now the latest report from Martin Bell on the An Loc road, in Vietnam” And then there is my three personal favourites Jan van Eyck and Rene Magrite and Pete Bruegel. Jan would be the top of this list, a master of figurative oil painting who in the 15th century painted the Arnolfni Wedding or now the Arnofini Portrait because art historians can’t agree on whether it’s a portrait of a successful merchant and his blooming wife or a painting of a betrothal of a successful merchant to his blooming wife to be. A painting I fell in love with after bumping into it in some gallery in London in about 1978 where it stood out from the wall and poked my eyes out with its vibrancy and astounding imagination and mind-blowing technique. And like a proper star of stage, screen and television it’s not as big in the real world as you think and you could almost give it the technical description of “poxy” in size but wow! What a punch it packs in the real world. The Girl in the green gown is stood next to a man who looks remarkably like the Russian Putin and the painting is a feast of symbolism, each brush stroke having some significance much of it lost over hand-me-down time. Jan’s triptychs / altar pieces and portraits of cardinals are just amazing although they think his brother may have done the lion’s share of the triptychs. In 1436 Jan was knocking this stuff out in oils that would take artists 200 years to catch up with!

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And the other two, the surrealist Rene what with his pipes and bowler hats and trains appearing from fireplaces and paraplus and his beautiful out of sync cityscapes and Pete’s landscapes many imaginary and with religious themes set in contemporary Flanders. We could include on the famous list but would it probably be best if we left him out, the Second World War Rexist collaborator and one-time Waffen SS Standartenfurther of this parish Leon Dregelle. He with his Ritterkruez and his swarmy, over eager buddying up to his new pals in Berlin. A washed up politician and hack theologian he was more than happy to sell his country and the troops in La Legion Wallonie down the Ost Front river to further his own ambitions. Skipping off to Franco’s Spain in 1945 in a Dornier for an extended extradition free holiday when things got hot. While the stay at home small fry collaborator had to face the music. His grave is in Malaga. It wasn’t just the Walloons who collaborated either, there was a Freiwillinge Flemish SS unit too oddly named Langemark after the First World War battle for the village of that name. The ones who survived justified their collaboration by saying they volunteered to protect Western Europe from repressive Bolshevism but forget to mention that they sided with the people who stuck the stick in the hornet’s nest in the first place. But hey we all have skeletons in the closet and Degrelle is probably someone most Belgiums would rather forget – so let’s leave it at that and just say that he was someone who just got mixed up with the wrong crowd! On a much pleasanter note what about the film “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, with Mickey Rooney awful as the bad tempered upstairs Japanese tenant and the unctuous George Peppard, the film only redeemed by that famous Belgium, the divine Audrey Hepburn. Oh great soundtrack too sung by Andy Williams. Burnley to Lille via Skipton, Leeds and London “I’m on a Trans - Euro Train” Van Morrison It’s the End-to-End gang who are going to Belgium, Mick Walker and John Sheriffs and me, going out to Flanders to see John’s son Chris who is based in Nokere in rural Flanders. That was the plan and the date is set and Mick as usual does sterling work sorting out timetables, train and hotel bookings. His admin is faultless, envelopes with all the documents for the outward and home journeys with tickets and duplicates of boarding dockets provided. No wonder Hyndburn is an “Excellent Council”. If it weren’t for Mick I would have got not much beyond Skipton. The plan is for me and Mick to get lifts for the bikes and us to Skipton, me and bikes with Our Kid and Mick with his Dad, jump on the train to Leeds down to London on to St Pancras then a nice leisurely Eurostar to Lille. We catch an early Leeds bound train and pick John up at Steeton. We have loads of time on the concourse at Leeds Station for a brew but early is always good. On the Kings Cross train John has thoughtfully provided us with an aperitif in the shape of Lidl own brand lager, which John swears is one of the best lagers in the world. John has wrapped it in tin foil to keep it at the optimum drinking temperature. As a digesif and to get us in the Low Countries mood I have brought us each a bottle of Belgium energy drink in the form of Duvel (or Doovel). As it would be sacrilege to neck it straight from the bottle and should ideally be drunk from its own unique tulip shaped glass, however in this case it’s a plastic cup, just to show to the world we are sophisticated travellers when it comes to the Benelux. With plenty of time to spare we walk / ride from Kings Cross across to St Pancras to the bike check-in. John filches us each a grey Eurostar freebie water bottle and UV 400 light blue plastic sunglasses, which make me look incredibly cool, they must do because everybody is staring at me! In the lift which we share with bikes, panniers with helmets strapped to the top and also with a group of rather attractive ladies who ask “are you guys Team SKY?” sensing an opportunity to cash in on others hard won fame I am about to dishonestly answer yes when honest John and Mick answer in the negative. I even had the headlines in the Daily Star dancing before my eyes “confessions of a cycle groupie – page 12”

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The Eurostar check-in is airline slick, press your boarding pass to the scanner, hand your documents to the man, empty pockets into the tray, put the panniers on to the X-ray conveyer, walk thru the scanner and pick up sundry items. At French Border Control (still in St. Pancras) I hand my passport over to the border guard and offer a breezy “bonsoir” and “merci bien”, when he throws it back to me with a show of Gallic indifference.

Despite all its slickness the Eurostar train is late, then cancelled and a replacement scheduled. It’s not a worry; our destination Lille and our hotel aren’t going anywhere. By now the departure area is getting fuller by the minute as waves of people turn up on time for their train and add to those delayed. Idling, looking round the refurbished Victorian station it looks pretty good what with all that exposed brick. The original iron columns here were supposedly hardened by soaking them in horse urine, you’d think nothing would rust them quicker and I did notice the strange smell, I thought it was one of the lads! The columns here are all positioned exactly three beer barrels width apart, this section of the station being used to store beer sent down from the Bass brewery at Burton over night before being distributed to the pubs of London. That’s it I am all out of St. Pancras facts so it’s all down to the wait now. It’s a nice train when it arrives, and it soon whisks us out of London going east following the Thames and by one of my favourite bridges the spectacular Queen Elizabeth II Bridge at the Dartford Crossing. It speeds us onwards through Kent to Folkstone and then under the channel, where frankly the view from the window is a disappointment, I was hoping to see swimming fishes, octopi and starfish and gambolling seals, perhaps a waving deep-sea diver and Davy Jones’s Locker. Spoiler alert - It’s just black.

We jump out at Lille and the news is bad, I guard the panniers whilst Mick and John walk half a kilometre to retrieve the bikes. You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes with a masters in non-verbal communication to deduce from Mick’s demeanour that the bikes aren’t on the train despite us paying a five-pound premium. After some discussion with the station staff it turns out that our bikes have gone to Paris. We explain that it’s not a problem, as we don’t need them just now, as long as they are here tomorrow. “But wait I check” he comes back “ they will be here in four minutes” which sounds pretty damn precise to me and some neat trick if they are coming from Paris, they must have the Starship Enterprise’s teleporter. And true to their word they are here in four minutes on the next (wrong) train. Reunited and happy we load up and head for Boulevard de Leeds and the first leg of our cycling adventure. We find the hotel suspiciously easy or maybe not, it’s just down to Mick’s proper planning (which prevents MMetc) again. At the hotel reception the concierge welcomes us at the door, bringing my best linguist skills to the fore (a multi - linguist it may surprise you to learn, I can order coffee and beer in three languages, three and a half if you count a very rusty Portuguese last used 30 years ago) sharp as a terriers tooth I greet him with my best French “nous avon reservee une chambre pour trois person sil’vous plat?” The five years spent at Mansfield County Secondary School, Brierfield weren’t a total write-off! The room is fine and with the bikes watered and bedded down secure in the underground car park we head for the bright lights big city and walk into Lille. On the way in its disconcerting to see squads of French soldiers (I have an half an idea they are reservists) in threes, camouflaged combat suits, jarhead haircuts and berets, two up front fully armed with Bull-pup rifles and a squad leader with just a side arm patrolling round the town and railway concourse. Why are they there? What is the threat level? What are the rules of engagement? Why are they carrying high velocity weapons? Has David Cameron dropped us in it while we have been under the Channel? Will we be asked for our papers forcing us to run over rooftops after we have gone on the lam like Richard Attenbourgh and Gordon Jackson, or more appropriately, James Coburn cycling all the way to the Pyrenees and neutral Spain? After the third sighting they become commonplace and part of the background. They do seem to spend a lot of time using the ATM at the train station though. We carry on with our search for Les 3 Brasseurs microbrewery and have our first French Flanders beer a Bier du Garde. For a time we sit inside a copper mash tun, which is a first.

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It’s late now and some of the areas we have to go back through are not the sort of places decent folk would want to tarry after dark so we head on back stopping first for something to eat in the Friter next door to the bar. John and Mick order burgers but I go for the frittes, which come in klein, med, grande. Thinking they will be like those from the burger chains at home where the frites come in portions so small that you need the Hubble Space Telescope to see them I order the grande frite. They come in a ½ hundredweight sack with complementary wheelbarrow. Oh my gosh it’s obviously a party sized bag I’ve ordered and it’s huge, however, they are also pretty good. John and Mick aren’t prepared to help me out, refuse my offers of frite and gleefully watch as I manfully pile my way thru them. Half way through I start to get the “chip sweats” and despair of ever seeing the bottom of the bag but I do hate wasting food and beside I’m greedy. On the way back to the hotel I have to lie down for a short while on a wall where in a scene from the film Cool Hand Luke, the one where Paul Newman and George Kennedy take bets (“got a bet here Bobaloola”) on a boiled egg race. As I lie on my back John and Mick drop frites into my open mouth, my stomach distended and bubbling. I could do with “un sac de chein” (I hope that is doggy bag in French). But eventually in true man V food style, man prevails (cartoon sound of knock out blow). It takes three days to digest the chips fully; the next morning I have an inkling of how King Elvis felt in those final despairing moments sat on the throne. Lille - Nokere L.S. Lowry was asked what he did when he wasn’t painting, he replied, “I think about painting” The next day sees us up bright and early after a Heineken nightcap in the hotel bar and almost ready for the off. Breakfast is “help yourself” which is exactly what we do. The hotel looked empty last night so it’s a bit of a surprise to find the breakfast room busy. Cereal, bread, cold meats and cheese, croissants and coffee. We’re already in our PF kit so its l’addtion (in Flemish the bill is “de rekoning” which has a certain sinister ring to it, “ jah for you is time for de rekoning” sounds like you are about to have an hairy hand placed on your shoulder as two black suited heavies calmly and menacingly make their way to the exit doors of the club just in case you’re thinking of legging it) collect the bikes, open the automatic garage doors and saddle up. This is exciting; a whole new experience in cycling is beckoning. Change the above quote to “riding a bike” and that’s me. We make our way out of down town Lille but unfortunately my map reading and spatial awareness lets us down big style. The road map of Belgium that I’ve got from Accrington library is so large scale as to be virtually useless. The plan is to go see the velodrome at Roubaix where the Paris – Roubaix Spring Classic finishes so I head us off in what feels like the rightish direction hoping to bump into somewhere big enough that actually gets a name- check on the map so I can get my bearings and take it from there. After five minutes and ten map stops later I’ve got us hopelessly lost. Luckily we happen upon a “you are here” map, turn left and sorta get back on track. The only slight worry is that Roubaix is blue signed “toutes directions” which usually means it’s the quickest route out of town to somewhere else a ways off, so that means on N roads which aren’t the best for cycling. And so it proves as we ride down a slip road and the sign I don’t want to see next to the Roubaix sign is the one for Paris. Still we plod down to the hard shoulder and if Mick and John aren’t worried then neither am I. Thankfully we get off 2k further on only to follow the Roubaix sign that wants to take us back on to the N roads in the opposite direction. Enough is enough and Mick takes out his notepad, goes to maps and BANG everything is sunshine and light – hard copy maps are officially dead, you heard it here first.

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Now we’re making good progress and on bike friendly routes too, we’ve gone straight from motorway madness to chain dog scrapyards to canal side pastoral. And after all the end-to-end miles we’ve done it feels good to be back on the road with John and Mick, simpatico, we slip easily into one seamless cycling unit. We find Roubaix and pose for pics under the sign then go find the Velodrome. At one time Roubaix was known as “the Manchester of France” due to its textile and mining industries, talk about damning with faint praise! But in the here and now there doesn’t appear to be much evidence of its industrial muscle, no red Accy brick spinning mills, no pit winding gear to be seen. The track itself is not steeply banked and is made out of unforgiving concrete. We each do a lap, the noise of the crowd ringing in our ears as we rip the sprint to bits and that cobble set presentation. Mick and me stay low whilst John goes slightly higher, bet it’s the first time it’s been ridden with panniers. Afterwards I wondered why we didn’t take them off and have a proper go? That’s one piece of hallowed ground ticked off and we have stood in the shadow of giants, Van Steenbergen, Van Looy, Moser,

Merckx, Kelly, Hinault and Museeuw to name a few. So now we take our leave and dive back into Roubaix after using the portaloos. I‘d mentioned to John and Mick to be aware of “prioritie adroite”. In France and Belgium they drive on the right, no problems there, so we have right of way over traffic approaching from the right, they have to give way to us. So far so good. And this rule holds good nine hundred and ninety nine times out of a thousand and the junctions are all marked accordingly with white lines or triangles painted on the road. That is except for those that are “prioritie adroite” where traffic entering from the right has priority over you. The only indicator is no markings at the junction, hopefully a sign. Fine in theory. Here we find ourselves riding straight thru a ville in La France profund, John on point, me at slack then Mick when I notice a car approaching from the right the driver with a smug “I’ve got right of way” look on his face and at some speed. Noticing no road markings I shout a warning to us all just as the driver slams his brakes on and stands the 4x4 on it nose, thereby avoiding “T- boning” us. He makes a Gallic gesture which I translate as “salutations to you and a warm welcome to our humble country weary cyclists and honoured English guests” John just puts up a supplicating hand and carries on riding, unflappable as ever, me? It’s the highest my heart rate has been all year! John mentions that he has left his passport handy near the top of his bag for when we soon cross the Gallo / Belgic border which runs in a big loop round the northern suburbs of Lille. He’s in for a shock for as we cross from France in to Belgium it’s just a continuation of the same road, shops, houses etc. I couldn’t even point to the spot. There must have been a sign saying “Belgium welcomes careful drivers” but I didn’t see it. There’s no checkpoint Charlie, no uniforms and suspicious alertness “and what exactly is your business in Belgium sir?” No “anything to declare” channels, no intrusive strip searches, nothing. You realise that the road signs have changed colour and you see one or two red, yellow and black tricolours as opposed to the French red, white and blue tricolours hung from house windows. I remember a railway crossing was that it? It’s an anti-climax for sure and makes me wonder why Europe bothers having countries with separate identities and national parliaments. The currency is seamless and there aren’t any border controls and faceless politicians make a lot of the laws in federal Brussels and anyway it’s the Germans that pull all the strings. Also, it takes the fun out of smuggling!

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Further on we stop for a map check and a car pulls up along side of us, the driver winds the passenger side window down leans across and says something in Dutch. Being British cyclists we expect a gob full of abuse and are about to give it back when we realise he is asking us if we are OK. “Ingles” John says. “Ah you Ok jah!” “ jah, jah OK dank u” we reply. He waves and drives off but we see him a few klicks down the road and he gives us a big thumbs up. How good is Belgium? Soon we turn right on to country roads and at the next town turn left into the village and stop for coffee in the local bar then head towards the Brood and Banket across the road. The bread looks fantastic and the patisserie is amazing. We order by pointing and eat al fresco. What I thought was a savoury quiche turns out to be a sweet custardy thing but it’s brilliant, tasty and filling. Following on cycle lanes and back roads we make our way to Tour HQ at Skinfit in Nokere. Chris Sherriffs is hanging out the upstairs window asking where we’ve been? He introduces us to his mate Dan and to Stefan who runs Skinfit, a triathlon and bike store on the ground floor, who speaks excellent English and who owns the building. We each hand over our Eurorent and he shows us to our digs, which are pretty good. A big open plan living area and kitchen with retro cycling tops hanging on the walls echoing Flemish tapestries. Washing and drying facilities down stairs. There are three single beds in our bedroom, Mick asks if he can take the one by the wall, I have the middle and John the one by the door. This turns out to be a shrewd move as he gets what little cooling draft there is coming down the corridor when the weather turns 36 degrees. We settle in nicely here and contact the British embassy in Brussels announcing our arrival and request for them to declare our bedroom British Sovereign Territory. With diplomatic immunity we can now collect taxes and issue stamps. We all pile in to Chris’s support car then head off to Waregem the nearest town of any size for some shopping as we’re on a self catering hol. The Colruyt supermarket is proudly no frills, its produce set out on tiered racking and in no particular order, sort of like a cash and carry. At the check-out a lady lifts every item one by one out of your trolly, scans it and places it into another trolly, it seems inefficient especially as this place seems geared to cost cutting. However the best bit is the beer that they sell by a reusable crate. It would put many specialist beer shops in this country to shame; it has most of my favourite abbey and abbey style beers too. Back at Tour HQ we bump into the other resident Tom the antisocial American who is racing here in Flanders. Tall and quarterback thick he seems pretty chunky for a racing cyclist so he must be as strong as an ox on the Flanders flat. To be frank any conversation with Tom is an uphill struggle, he’s from Newark and my attempts to reminisce about the North Jersey shore a’la the Sopranos fall on stony ground. Its not that he’s unfriendly or ignorant it’s just that I don’t think he could have cared any less about us if he tried. You’re gone in a week so why waste energy being polite? Over the eight days or so we were there I can’t recall him ever initiating a conversation with us. However when once talking to him he comes up with a classic; bemused with our accent and our dialect words he says, “do you guys even speak English?” which is pretty rich coming from an American. After tea we wander two doors down and introduce ourselves to the local boozer. Run by a very pleasant old lady who has good English as we walk in they eye us suspiciously to begin with “there be strangers” (shades of the pub in Golspie on the End to End) they are expecting football hooligans no doubt and for us to drink the place dry, start a fight, trash the place, spill out on to the street to take on the local Gendarmerie then the T.A.G. closely followed by the Belgium Army. However after the initial contact we get on famously and she and the locals look after us really well. I should have asked her for her name, it’s only just occurred to me that.

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Nokere - Koppenburg “Well I’m standing next to a mountain. chop it down with the edge of my hand” Voodoo Chile, Jimi Hendrix Chris is lead scout today so after breakfast its Oudenaarde then Koppenberg. Turning left from base camp we head up the small hill out of town. Once at the top we turn right then right again on to pave and I’ve not even warmed up. Chris, John and Mick set off at the gallop whilst I don’t. On this cart track at this moment a consultant clinician examining me would note my racing heart rate, blood pressure off the scale and with me expressing an overwhelming sense of impending doom would instantly diagnose Irunkanji Syndrome. It’s a rude awakening for sure, the pave is rough, the setts set irregularly and even though it’s dryish they feel shiny and slick but like Magnus Magnuson “I’ve started so MM..”. And then to make matters worse another set of riders over and undertake me and our three are nowhere to be seen. I try riding along the gutters but there aren’t any it’s just field margins. The edges also hold hidden bike traps where the sandy field wash has pooled; hit the silt with your front wheel and it sinks and whips about. Best stick to the cobble setts. Later on with a bit more experience under my belt I come to enjoy, nay even look forward to the pave; its all part of the Flanders cycling experience, so is bumping on and off kerbs and riding down rough tracks, narrow, a hedge on one side and a 0.5m drop on the other. Maybe every one is different but I find the technique for the pave is – get on the big chainring (stops the chain from jumping about, Chris told me that one) hands relaxed on the top of the bars, sit back on the saddle and hit em hard, GLF. It doesn’t half improve my bike handling. Chris takes us up and down lanes where again the concrete slab roads are slick with damp and with farm slurry. They are narrow too and an oncoming cyclist forces me to ride over a slab where the edge has subsided and cracked, sinking in to the field. The back wheel baulks at the lip at the exit of the broken section sending me briefly sideways, for that nano-second I think I am going to be dumped on to the unyielding slab but recover. So if you want that Belgium slab experience, albeit a truncated one go to Barrowford Locks, where the concrete slabs outside the lock keepers cottage are exactly the same, go ride. For a longer stretch try Holmfield Court also in Barrowford or Hodder St. in Accrington, and for further reading on the subject can I recommend to you the must read best seller of the year, the one that they are all talking about “East Lancashire Carriageways and their Surfacing, Vol VIII”. You won’t be able to put it down. After about an hour on the road John calls for the usual halt “Ils font toujours pipi sur le ble” bodily functions always sound better in French. Chris takes us down to Oudenaarde and to some fancy bike shop then to the banks of the Schelde River. The bridge starts to lift to allow barge traffic through just as we arrive. And don’t think Leeds / Liverpool canal barges, they are dinky toys compared to these, these are barges on steroids. We get fed up with the wait for the bridge to lift so Chris takes us over a fixed bridge 300m further downstream. He tips me the wink, cobbled section coming up and BLAM off he goes, John comes flying past too but in the process rips his back tyre off and puts a dint in the rim trying to slide off the cobbles on to the flagged drainage channel. The perils of the cobble eh? We mend it by the side of the river a church on the opposite bank its bells ringing out. Chris is heading us out towards the Koppenberg via lanes, pave, underpasses, playing fields and gravel footpaths. Its all stop / start, in / out of the saddle and its great. I’d never dream of riding on stuff like this at home but again it’s all part of the Belgium experience.

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We cross a small railway line, loop round through some woods and arable and ride into a small village. On the left is a cobbled side road. This is it. We model for pictures at the reddish / brown sign with the white writing KOPPENBERG. We can’t put this off indefinitely though so after the photo shoot this is it. I am not a proud chap so I knock the mule on to the granny ring (probably, at this moment I am the only bloke in Belgium riding a tripel) whilst Chris, Mick and John hit the sunken, narrow cobbled incline and go like snot off a clog. After all this flat land we now have to become shape-shifters and turn ourselves in to climbers. Struggling up the Koppenburg trying to doing a “Claudio” (Mick will explain) its strikes me that it is somewhat of a misnomer to call Belgium flat. Part of this country feels pretty high to me and in and the words of Jim Royle “low countries my arse!” Under some trees it really, brutally kicks up, and with the back wheel slithering about desperately crying out for traction I have to dab the foot down. I’m in good company; Mick, John and Chris have all stopped and even Eddy had to walk here in 1976. For us to have carried on would have meant to fall off and that’s not carrying on at all.

Eventually the gradient eases and we all mount up and ride to the top. After posing again we set off and drop over the other (un-cobbled) side. Although steep in places in common with many of the Hellingen (the cobbled bergs used in the Ronde) the Koppenberg overall is not that steep with an average gradient of just over 11%. To put it in to perspective the top part of Manchester Rd leading out of Burnley is 10%. So you wouldn’t think it a massive problem for a pro cyclist to get to the top, however throw in slippy, uneven cobbles and a narrow track with riders in front, along side and behind all struggling I suppose it’s a different prospect. I would dearly love to come and watch the Ronde van Vlaanderen race up here. At the main road we turn left then right and we are back on the slab lane farm tracks. Chris leads us back to base camp. It’s shower,

lounge about watching the Tour, brew and jam butties before tea, try to communicate with Tom the antisocial American. Later on me, John and Mick take our ease in this sunny beer garden evening sitting contentedly, drinking light refreshing Maes (pronounced Mars) then the 5% Stella from Louven then we hit the cool shelf with the 7 & 8%s, Edname, the blonds and bruins.

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Nokere - Passchendale “Aye wi all alreight here Paddy, wi still battin” I ask the gang if we could go to Passchendaele today. I’ve been before and can’t pass up an opportunity to go again and think it will be interesting for us all and also give structure to the ride. But before we set off we have a stroll round Nokere and its environs. It’s a really nice place and seems to have its own “vibe”, it feels slightly different from the surrounding country. On the other side of the berg is a large chateau set in its own heavily wooded grounds. By the side of the narrow lane which takes us back in to Nokere are huge Black Poplars, very tall with massive boles, I haven’t seen their like back home. I wonder if all this belonged to an estate, the big house, the cottages, the fields and even the village which may explain why it has an atmosphere this place. Once back at base camp it’s change and back on the road again with Chris taking us down the stop / start back lanes to Waregem where we head out towards Ingelmunster then Izegem via one or two detours. There is good signage but typically just when you need it most, for example at some crossroads or T junction it lets you down and there isn’t any. Also we come across a place name sign for a town or village and you think “great we’re here” but you aren’t, you are actually riding through the district of wherever, the actual center could be some way off, for example, a Colne sign at the top of Weets. Anyway to me they just don’t make sense. Having shredded my maps in disgust Mick’s notepad wants to take us North to Roselare so eventually we give up and head that way though we want to go west. It’s quite pleasant riding through the industrial part of town by the canal though eventually we have to wave goodbye to Roselare and get back on course. And then we find a cycle track marked Zonnerbeke and that’s in the right direction we are marching to the sound of the guns – so to speak. It would have been nice to stay on a bit further but the tarmac gives way to shale with large puddles so it back on the road again. As it’s near dinnertime and sunny we pull in at a bar in Moorslede, order coffee and cokes and ask if they do food. “Jah” so its cheese toasties for me. The coffee arrives first but with one strange addition, sat next to the cup on the saucer is a small shot glass filled with something thick and yellow; egg yolk? custard? It’s not set, but not too runny either also it comes with a small long handled spoon. We sniff it suspiciously, cautiously tasting a small amount on the spoon. Not sure who twigged it first but once it’s said it’s obvious and I am taken back to childhood Christmas telly adverts “evenings and mornings I drink Warninks” (it never occurred to me at the time but that the voiceover bloke needed to have that drink problem seen to!). It’s Advocaat. Seems a strange combination with coffee but why not? And again it all adds to the rich experience of this trip. Sated with coffee, advocaat and toasties we pay the rekoning and head off to the village of Passchendale a couple of kilometres away. We park up in its centre; Chris and me sit on a form in the sun while Mick and John go to source some patisserie. They have the same opening hours as France, it’s dinnertime so naturally the Brood and Banket shop is shut – for dinner! Fortunately it opens at one so we’ve not much wait. Sitting here in the sun with the bustle of traffic and people I try to imagine this place in September 1917. It was wiped clean off the face of the earth by artillery (there an old saying “ nothing ruins the neighbourhood quicker than artillery”) and rebuilt after the war. I try to reconcile what I am seeing with the aerial photos I have seen of this place, the footprint of the church opposite me and the ghosts of roads. It’s difficult to do and it’s some demonstration of what in the today’s politics would be the business end of what is termed “hard power”. Sat here I also wonder what exactly is under my feet just a few centimetres down.

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The cakes are great and so it’s off out of town and in to the countryside. I especially want to see the Bellevue Ridge or Spur, which was held by B Company, 2/5th East Lancashire Regiment prior to putting in an attack on Passchendale. The B was an appropriate appellation for it was joked that the B stood for Burnley, my hometown, where most of these men came from. Their nickname “the Burnley Mashers”. The quote at the top of this section comes from the recollections of Lieutenant Patrick King who was their platoon commander (the word “platoon” derives from the French word “peleton”). He shouted over to some of his men in an adjacent crater if they were all right after a shell had exploded nearby. They were, hence the quote above; also he rather liked the informality of being called Paddy. At a T Junction is Passchendale New British Cemetery where we stop and walk round, I place my poppy on the grave of Corporal Readings he was serving with the 2/4th East Lancs Regiment, a sister battalion to the 2/5th, he probably knew some of the lads. Looking over the wall in to the potato field it’s a sobering thought that 82,000 men, men just like you and me still lie in this earth, never found. A closer look at the topsoil would soon reveal the remnants of battle, anything that is resistant to rot, for example, shrapnel, unit badges, metal items of personal kit and bone. They call it the “harvest of iron” where cultivation of the soil by the local farmers still brings up unexploded ordnance. On a different battlefield in the Somme valley I have seen this deadly detritus left by the side of the road, sprayed fluorescent green awaiting collection and safe destruction by the bomb disposal teams. And how would you like to pick up an unstable, one hundred year old explosive device? Damn right you wouldn’t! These men have big brass ones for sure, and some killed. Some legacy? Standing on the cemetery wall I look to my right towards the Paddebeke Valley then scan round anti-clockwise over Bellevue Ridge and those Burnley lads. We decide to make our way back to base camp as it’s getting on a bit and I actually manage to route us in the right direction but eventually we get lost in a of maze of lanes and have to resort to technology again. In the evening it’s down to our local to sit out and discuss the EU Common Fisheries Policy, Keynesian macro-economics and clinchers all under the influence of Belgium post ride recovery drinks. Nokere – Gent “I spoke double Dutch to a real double Dutchess, I put on the brakes to get out of her clutches”. New Amsterdam, Elvis Costello Flemish is Dutch albeit heavily accented, and the analogy always given is it is what American is to English. Some of it seems fairly closely related to English e.g. “vel ney “ roughly translates as “well nay”, “wat drink je” – “what are you drinking?” “Dreir Chimay beir ahtstubleeft” - “three Chimay trappist beers please” if you’re asking. However things can get a bit tricky for the unwary - a pub is a pub, a café is also a pub but a bar is a errm a house of ill repute so probably best not go in to one of those and order “three blondes please landlord”.

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Speaking to Stefan back at base camp I mention that at Paschendaele New British Cemetery I passed on the cemetery register to a Dutch lady who asked after it. Later when she had finished and just before she waltzed off out of the cemetery with it I called out to her “vrouw” to ask for it back and which I took to be “Mrs” as in “frau” in German and “madam” in French. Stefan winced, technically it is correct but apparently it translates as “woman” I should have said “mvrouw”. Still she didn’t seem that fussed, returned the register and enquired “Spreck u Nederland” my reply “nay! (No problems there!) ik spreck geen Nederland”. Stefan also mentions that many Flemish folk can speak French as a second or third language but refuse to speak it to their fellow French speaking Belgiums, the Walloons. Also talking to Stefan and other locals about our destination today it seems that they prefer Gent to Brugge (Stefan pronounces it “Broohuge”, with a soft “h” and “g” tailing off to an “s” instead of the harsh Germanic “Brugg” with the “e” clicked on at the end which I expected. Gent is pronounced with a super soft “g” and a “h” in there somewhere, almost “hent”). He reckons as a university town there is more going on and it has more atmos than the honeypot Brugge. Chris is sitting this one out today which is lining up to be dull and cloudy with rain later. It looks straight forward the navigating as we are now getting the lie of the land and also we can follow the canal part of the way. Passing through St Vinkt Mick points out a memorial and church on the right. It turns out that it’s a commemoration of a 1940 massacre of Belgium soldiers and civilians by German troops as they advanced through this area to get to the main event the British and French. The wall of the memorial are linked with other massacres in other parts of the world in other wars, for example Oradour sur Glane and My Lai (“lets burn these hootches and move out”). In this sombre place I wonder how men like Dregelle could throw their lot in with the people who could do this to their fellow countrymen and women. We eventually bump in to the Kanal but set off in the wrong direction, cross over a bridge and head back in the right direction. And don’t think narrow gravel canal towpath either, here the Kanals are industrial, broad with those steroid barges plying their trade. The towpaths here are equally muscular, in effect they are tarmacadamed traffic free roads. We follow the Kanal more or less straight into Gent the birth place of Sir Bradley Wiggins and more importantly the venue for our dinner. Propping the bikes up outside the café its looks a bit swanky but we go for it anyway. They do really good baguettes too, the staff are very friendly and I have an egg salad, John has a meat thing which we never really identfied but it tasted good and that’s the main thing. Can’t remember what Mick had might have been Kip. I order and I think I pay the 15 euros for Mick’s and mine plus three coffees, I thought it might be a bit expensive. John hasn’t ordered yet as he his combing hair or something so as I walk out of the café John is walking in. I tell him I have paid for the coffees and for mine and Mick’s butties so he needs to pay for his. John reappears minutes later and tells me that in the process of paying I have also paid-on his baguette. It’s very pleasant sitting outside watching all life go by, trams, commuter cyclists, walkers, although it is a bit cool sat out. And Gent center looks good, even if we aren’t stopping and it’s drizzling too, but it’s certainly a place to come back to for another look. Bridges and architecture, cobbles and tramlines.

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On our way home two things happen, it starts to rain and I am slightly concerned about the worn concrete slab getting slippy. I am also slightly concerned at not being able to sit out in the beer garden tonight too. And we pass through Nazareth; I know my map reading is poor but it’s not that bad! Finally on the road between Kruishoutem I spot the Nokere sign and, behind both John and Mick, I am in the perfect position to take it in the sprint “ah read em and weep – roll over Tom Boonen and tell Mark Cavendish the news” As I explode out of Mick and John’s slipstream accelerating hard for the place name sign there is a jolt followed by a big decrease in speed, all is revealed when I turn round, much to the delight of them both, Mick has grabbed my top bag and am towing him along to the sign. He was lucky, at that speed I could have ripped his arm off! Nokere - Ieper “When it came to the advance of infantry for an attack across waterlogged shell holes movement was so slow and so fatiguing that only the shortest advances could be contemplated. In consequence I informed the Commander-in-Chief that tactical success was not possible0.” General Sir Hubert Gough, Commander 5th Army referring to a meeting with Field Marshall Douglas Haig during the Third Battle of Ypres. Another longish ride today back to the Salient of Ieper (to the Flemish) or Ypres (to the French) or Yprez (to the Spanish), Wipers (to the Tommies) and finally Iperen (to the Germans). I will stick with the Flemish spelling from now on, so it’s Ieper. Following sat nav it’s a straightforward road even if it is through towns and alongside busy main roads. But it’s true that the bike lanes and cycle paths make things a lot easier and a lot more pleasant. We stop for a mid morning coffee in a street café in Menin just off the town square and its nice just sitting there soaking up the atmosphere. Weather fine - all is well. On the road to Ieper we enter what the salient and familiar names start appearing, Gheluvelt, Zillebeke, Hooge, Polygon Wood - somewhere up on the right. Lots of CWGC cemeteries start to appear on this trail of tears. Over the last 90 odd years this land has been reclaimed and turned back to arable but there is the odd pond or two and these have to be shell or mine craters which were never filled in or levelled, presumably left so they could be used to water livestock as the ground water levelled? On the outskirts of Ieper at a roundabout I suddenly know where I am, I’ve ridden down here before. Carry on down the road then turn left and down hill and there before us built into the city wall and just over the moat is the Menin Gate, the massive arch over the road built to commemorate the dead and missing soldiers from the UK and Commonwealth (or empire as it was then). Inside the arch from floor to ceiling are panels inscribed with the name of each Regiment who served here then underneath are the names of the dead and missing in order first by seniority then alphabetically. It’s here that the last post is sounded every night by the local volunteer fire service. It’s hard to take it all in and I know that there are names on the other sides of the arch too. As it’s dinnertime we ride in to Ieper for some bait. In the square is the stunning Cloth Hall. All this was flattened during the Great War and rebuilt afterwards to the original plans. You’d never guess. Even though it was still in ruins it had a sideline in battlefield tourism straight after the war with grieving relatives looking for lost loved ones, fathers, sons, brothers. In the shadow of the Cloth Hall are several restaurants and a quick recce of the menu boards placed outside confirm what we’ve already guessed that the food is tourist coach party prices and we aren’t going to pay them. A school choir from England sings just to the side of the hall. We circuit round the outside of the square in the cobbled back streets, surely there must be other cafes here not just the swanky main square ones? And it’s not looking too good when suddenly we enter the cheap eating quarter and are spoilt for choice. We pick one and sit outside in the hot sun. The lady points to the menu on the table which is in Flemish and says

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“ah Ingles” sweeps up the Flemish menus and returns with four more menus - written in Flemish? Mercifully while trying to decipher them the owner comes out, twigs, and hands us English menus. The dinner is OK the setting better. Today’s other destination is Tyne Cot Military Cemetery and leaving the café Chris plots us a route out. As we head out towards Tyne Cot we cross over each successive front line as the Allies slogged their way uphill toward the objective of Passchendaele and the object of spending winter on the ridge. The offensive started in June 1917 and finished that October with fresh battalions replacing those worn out and decimated in the previous weeks’ pushes. Today it’s an easy bike ride up a gentle incline past maize and barley fields but if you’ve a minute to spare, in your search engine type in “Private Le Brun, Passchendaele, Canada”. What should appear is a picture of what this land we’re riding over looked like during the offensive in 1917 (Private Le Brun is the one behind the Vickers machine gun looking at the camera). Out of curiosity you count how many men are in the picture. I get ten, some were dead within days, hours of that picture being taken and only two survived the war. Going through Zonnebeke I spot a bank and need to use an ATM to allow for quantitative easing. I wasn’t sure how much cash to take with me with not really having any reference so I estimated how much I would need for the hotel and the eurorent for the digs and the kitty and for spends but without carrying about a wad of Euros with me. Inside the bank it’s just ATMs, there maybe a counter but certainly no staff. I choose an ATM put the card in. The display pops up and gives me options to continue in Dutch, French, German and English. I’d never thought of that, what would I have done if it had just been in Dutch? With the easy to follow instructions I withdraw my Euros, end the transaction and nervously await my card. This has gone just too well, but surprise, surprise I get my card back too!

We arrive at Tyne Cot, 11,000 UK and Commonwealth troops are interred in this necropolis. We park the bikes by the Lych Gate. And while the rest of the gang go their separate ways I do what I always do at CWGC cemeteries. I take a pen with me to sign the visitor’s book and a poppy, either saved from Remembrance Day or taken from the local verges if there are any, with the intention of placing it on a grave. I find the cemetery register and visitor’s book located in the

recess in the lych gate and look to see if there is a Whittaker interred here, if not then are there any lads from Burnley? Failing that I place my poppy on a random grave “a solider of the Great War” or “Known unto God”. There are three Whittakers here so I pick the last one and set off to find J.T. Whittaker. I can’t get my head round how they lay these cemeteries out and going off the cemetery plan and the alpha / numeric designation I always struggle. He is in plot XX and his grave D2. I find him. I touch the white Portland stone headstone. Standing there I read aloud his entry in the cemetery register in tribute: Private J.T. Whittaker; 203507; Age 22; Died 10th October 1917; 2 / 4th Battalion East Lancashire Regiment; Son of David and Annie Whittaker, 490 Bentgate, Haslingden, Manchester. Then I place my poppy on his grave. I can’t help feeling upset standing here by this stranger’s grave connected only by surname. He was 22 with all his life before him; he was loved and had dreams for the future. I wonder if he knew Corporal Readings who lies in Passchendale

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New British Cemetery? When I get back home I plan to ride out to see if his house is still there however a quick desktop study throws confusion. There is no such address as 490 Bentgate in Haslingden, there is a Bentgate Close but that appears to be modern. I feel that Pte Whittaker’s address has got mixed up - lost in translation. Firstly notice it says “Haslingden, Manchester” by any stretch of the imagination Haslingden is not and never was Manchester, Lancashire is the county. Also looking at the map Bentgate is not a street or road name but the name of the locale, for example what Alkincoates is to Colne. So I suspect the address should be 490 Manchester Rd, Bentgate, Haslingden, Lancashire. Riding out appears to confirm this, house no. 490 Manchester Rd., Haslingden, is in a small row of old “weavers’ cottages” next door to the Woolpack pub, although it looks like it has now been incorporated into the pub. I don’t know for sure but I think it reasonable, without more research, that this was his house. Standing here it’s not difficult to empathise and to picture him leaving for the last time in his uniform, returning to his unit. At this time in the war his parents would be under no illusions; the local paper would have published over the years lists of soldiers who had met their deaths so they were fully aware of what he faced. I imagine them putting a brave face on, dreading this moment. A kiss, a hug, a shake of hands “be careful lad and don’t do owt daft and don’t forget to write” then he’s gone. And now he lies here for eternity. Unusually at this cemetery there are two big German blockhouses. At this stage in the offensive the ground was so shattered and saturated and with the high water table and the lousy weather (it always seemed to be fine until the day of the attack) that neither side could satisfactorily dig down into the earth for protection so they built upwards and fortified. The front line became not the trenches of popular imagination but flooded pits linked to redoubts. I walk over to one of the two massive ferro-concrete structures standing here, a sinister presence, they are scarred and weathered dark grey. The wind rustles the leaves of a line of nearby Lombardy Poplars. Captured by Canadians these two blockhouses were used as aid stations. Possibly here but certainly at other captured blockhouses once wounded soldiers had been treated inside they were placed on the (now) reverse side for protection from enemy shell fire before being cleared down the line and hopefully safe back to blighty. The ground was so unstable that orderlies had to be posted as helpless wounded men lying on stretchers or on the ground would sink in to the mire and drown. Mick points out that the next grave to Pte Whittaker is Sgt McGee VC. Now Tyne Cot is busy with groups and school parties and I can’t help reflect that as the biggest CWGC cemetery it’s become something of a tourist attraction. Fair play, but hopefully during their visit rather than just another stop on the itinerary they will take something away with them; maybe they will reflect on the enormity of the pain here but for whatever reason it’s good that they are here. But that still leaves the hundreds of other CWGC cemeteries and burials that are small and often in out of the way places, in country churchyards, down lanes, even isolated in the middle of farmland. These are no less valid and I try to visit these ones too on my travels, and not just on the continent either, there is one tucked away on the outskirts of Whalley. In these small cemeteries the entries in the visitors book often illustrates the gaps between visits. Here at Tyne Cot the groups of young people, loud and taking selfies in front of the cross of sacrifice seem at odds with the suffering in this place. But actually I don’t think it is and it’s good to see them here, many of those who lie here aren’t much older. Mick told me afterwards that someone had scrawled obscenities in the visitor’s book. Shockingly, in this day and age it comes as no surprise. It’s worth noting that General Gough, despite his professionalism and proven ability as General Officer Commanding 5th Army was shunned for the perceived lack of success for the offensive at Passchendaele or the Third Battle of Ypres (see quote above) so much so that the Prime

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Minister Lloyd George on a tour of the front (or rather twelve miles behind it) walked right past Gough’s headquarters to look at some German POWs without so much as a nod – bad protocol, not the done thing. But, be wary also of Great War General Officer’s memoirs; in the prevailing anti-war mood of the 1920s and 30s when many were written some of the Generals were at pains to show how they shielded their men from senseless slaughter, even Field Marshall Haig was not above doing this and rewrote whole tranches of his diaries. Draw your own conclusions but Gough was known as a “thruster” and actively petitioned Field Marshall Haig for the sentence of capital punishment to be carried out for those convicted of “cowardice in the face of the enemy” and other offences after court marshals had found them guilty. He wanted this to be used as a “stiffener”, an example to the troops. This broadly follows Marlborough’s doctrine of over 300 years earlier in another continental war when he noticed one of his junior officers who had lost his nerve leaving the field of battle “face the enemy sir and you will have nothing to fear” said the Duke. Oh and don’t fall for the old adage of one General (supposedly Lancelot Kiddgel) who reputedly said on surveying this battlefield “my God! Did we really send men to fight over this?” As General Gough’s quote at the top shows they knew exactly what the conditions were like, at the very least all they had to do was pick up a copy of the London Evening Standard newspaper which had photographs of the offensive on its front page, and even a stereotypical “chateau” General could have managed that. I have even heard well-respected journalists repeating this quote when they should have known better. Finally, Haig to his credit deferred more death sentences than he sanctioned but is it any wonder that many of the Generals went to their graves half forgotten and unloved. We leave the salient via Passchendaele and Moorslede; it’s a beautiful warm sunny afternoon. We stop off at a small brick chapel on the edge of a village. It’s a treasure with a nice intimate feel inside and it’s obviously well cared for and loved by its community. I think we all put something in the collection box for its upkeep. Bar the hour or so of rain the other day we are still blessed with fabulous weather. Once back at Tour HQ disaster strikes, after tea we merrily wander out for an evening beer only to find that our local is closed. No worries we will try the other pubs half way up the Berg – shut! and so is the Maison Blanc. Wednesday night is dry night; this explains the large beer racks we saw in an open garage at the bottom of the Berg, they must stock up for Wednesday. Crestfallen we grumpily return to base; conversation between us is stymied, bad tempered and our bickering eventually reduced to monosyllabic grunts. With the beer bond broken we become increasingly morose and I go to bed early; what’s the point of staying up! Nokere - Nokere – Kruishoutem “It has a firm, dry body, slender for its gravity with plenty of hop character in the finish and a quenching hint of acidity. This noble beer is well regarded by the brewery”. Michael Jackson (the Beer Hunter) on Chimay Wit. Chris again has our destination today or rather two or three. First he takes us out down the lanes and out past the Barry White of the sheep world. We are assured that this tup has the deepest “baaaaa” in Belgium (perhaps that should be Baaa-ry White). Testimony to its worth it is segregated from the rest of the flock in its own five star pen. I don’t think it appropriate here to mention its two biggest attributes! We head off down various lanes through really nice countryside. Chris takes us left down a field track, at first it looks like gravel but closer inspection reveals that it has grey interlinked concrete sections for wheel tracks which is fine until he takes us left again and we really go off piste. It’s just a grass path at first glance but then turns out to be made of the concrete sections again but over grown. The drop-off in to the fields on either side keeps your mind focused. We eventually hit more normal road surfaces

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but this isn’t good enough for Chris, oh no! “Turn left here” and suddenly the road goes upwards and then turns to pave. It’s not too bad at first as I can ride down the right hand gutter but that soon ends. After the road levels its apparent that the pave runs the length of this ridge too. So after a quick stop to look at a windmill, we skipity-hop down the rest of the pave. We have the lot today, heading down a little lane it’s blocked with road works so we resort to portage and “bucket brigade” the bikes off the road, over a ditch, get stung by nettles, past the blockage, back over the ditch then ride over mud and gravel. Toughens you it does riding in Flanders. After the previous hour or so of riding it comes as a bit of a jolt to hit smooth dual carriageway. We loop round some traffic lights then back up the road. We get waylaid by more road works but these are on a different scale than previous and we get hemmed in by heavy traffic that we have to cross and it gets a bit scary crossing between cars. Then on to some lights where I stop for a comfort break. Looking up there is a bloke on a bike “ah one of them has waited for me” so I give chase only to find it’s a local and almost taking me off in the wrong direction as well. I catch our gang only when I come across someone else who has stopped behind an advertising hoarding (guess who?). We cross the dual carriageway and ride through a big industrial park, a left and we are here, the BMC Service Course. And just to prove it there is a team car being loaded up with euros worth of red team bikes on the roof rack. The unit is split between the garage or racing side with racks and racks of team bikes and the shop. Glass provides the demarcation and you can look in from the shop in to the garage area. Chris says if the mechanics here are in the mood they will make us a coffee – they aren’t in the mood so we go without the coffee. John spots a Lamborghini BMC time trail bike, a snip at 25,000 euros. I would have one too but I am not paying that for a bike that won’t take mudguards, it would be hell to ride in winter back home. Mick buys a small bike lock, it’s probably the only thing in the shop that he doesn’t need take out a second mortgage on. On the way back Chris takes us back through Oudenaarde again where we stop for dinner at the Flandrian café. Its “schorchio” sat out in the sun and we find a new toy to play with - the table top spins. It keeps us busy for hours. I make a gaff when I order chips off the menu, the helpful English speaking waitress point out that chips in Dutch are crisps and its frites that are actually chips, but I can have chips if I want. Totally confused I go back to messing with the tabletop. Just round the corner from the Flandrian is a museum dedicated to one thing, the Tour of Flanders. Imagine that having a museum dedicated to one race! Cycling over the ages I can understand, Flemish cycling, I could go with that, bike racing, no problem but a museum dedicated to one race? We don’t go in because at 10 euros admission it’s a bit pricey so we content ourselves in rubbernecking through the windows. De Leeuw van Vlaanderen (the Lion of Flanders) heraldic devise seems to be much to the fore, the lion rampant on a field of gold, with or without red tongue and claws, appears on everything from flags, badges, jerseys, mugs etc, toM. well you name it. There’s probably even a photo inside of Barry the Tup watching the race go past, waving a flag. In the window display on the front is a line of cobble sets with the name painted on of all the winners of the Ronde and a reminder that it’s not just Paris-Roubaix that incorporates cobbles. Back at base camp Chris and Dan offer to take us over to Kruishoutem to a local bar, so we shower, get changed and in our civies ride over to the next town. Chris and Dan give us a demonstration of Flandrian bike skills; they bump into one another, knock the gears, twist the bars round and pop wheelies. I predict it will end it tears but disappointingly for us spectators it doesn’t. We sit outside the bar where it’s uncomfortably hot until Mick twigs and cranks out the awning. It’s coffee and cokes for starters then because it would be rude not to we have a beer. I settle for the beautiful Trappist brew Orval.

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Once back at Tour HQ it’s beer o’clock so we do the twenty-second walk down to the local in ten. And yeh its open! So we hydrate, replenish lost vitamins and minerals and hydrate some more with four or five Belgium post ride recovery drinks. Mine hostess is not feeling too well tonight as I go to get the next round in she is sat with an empty pub her head drooped. Looking up she says “ the heat is bad for my heart” I say we will go but she insists that we stop but we sup up quick so she can get closed up. It’s still early so we walk up to another bar half way up the cobbled Nokereberg. Walking through a “teking in” type barn door lead us in to a enchanted candle lit courtyard. We sit at a large table and peruse the beer menu (how civilised is that a beer menu!) John and Mick go for the Westmalle Bruin and Trippel respectively (good choice). Chris has lemonade, Dan the Chimay Blaw (another good choice) and me well I have to pay homage and go for a Chimay Wit (or Blanc) at 8%. It seems only fitting to drink one of my favourite beers in this setting in the country of its birth. The landlord brings out our drinks on a tray, pours half into the shaped and branded glass, places the glass and bottle on the table in front of each of us, then turns the label on the bottle towards us. This noble beer indeed. And as much as I like the pub down the road I wish we had found this place earlier in the week and split our time here. I wake up in the wee hours and notice that John has disappeared from his bed so I fear the worse. And so it proves next morning when I get up and go to get breakfast on. John is asleep on the settee. I wasn’t sure at first and wondered if Mick hadn’t been the cause. But John confirms that while I was in sleepy-bobo-land my snoring woke the whole street up, forcing Mick to revert to ear defenders and John to retire to the settee in the living room. But on the plus side I slept like a log. I apologise to them both but there is not a lot I can do and offer that if it becomes a problem I will sleep on the settee in the living room. I could order the “Snooze Wizard” off the Ideal World shopping channel but doubt it will get here in time. Nokere – Geraadsbergen – Muur / Kapelmuur - Nokere “It was not planned, I looked back saw there was a gap and pushed a bit more. To win, to attack on the Muur and drop Tom Boonen, the King of Belgium – it was the perfect scenario”. Fabian Cancellara. It’s another hot and sunny day again, perfect weather for going up the wall today, or rather the Muur, which translated is “wall”. Chris is going to take us out to the Muur and Kapelmuur. The Muur is the main section of the cobbled climbed out of Geraardsbergen with Kapelmuur the final section at the top, the Chapel Wall in literal translation although I suspect it means something like “the little chapel at the top of the hill with splendid views over the Flandrian countryside”. They are another fixture on the Tour of Flanders; often where winning breaks are made. Chris leads us out through a succession of lanes until we meet the main Geraardsbergen road and then we are stuck with it. Still with the cycle ways and closed sections it’s not too bad. There’s a long sweeping drop down to a river at the bottom of a valley. And we pass the Edname Brewery, which is giving off one of my favourite aromas; there is nothing quite like the smell of a rolling hop boil. I would have loved a visit. We also pass a pub which has a motif on its wall saying “Peter van Petegem local” this must be where the Ronde and Paris – Roubaix winner drinks, he’s probably sat at the bar now “so anyroad there I am right, an I’m elbow to elbow with Boonen coming out of the last bend an we’re just going for the sprint when I lean over an I sez to himMM...”. John discovers a slow puncture so me and Chris go over the road in search of some shade.

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Over a bridge and through a pleasantly bustling Geraardsbergen the road kicks up, we bear left over a square past a church then left again where we stop. There is a road going straight up to our right that seems to fit the bill e.g. steep and cobbley but I ask a passing cyclist where the Muur is. His English is less than my Flemish but he points out the general direction – UP! Can you feel the tension here? We ride up a wide boulevard at the top of which is the bike rider pointing out the route – UP! Turning right the road narrows the modern setts give way to the usual lumpy - bumpy stuff and goes upwards at some tilt, yep from here it looks like a five pint hill for sure. Another sharp right and up it goes again under trees. John and Chris are flying up as I unashamedly drop on to the tripel. Mick comes powering past me and I realise that maybe it’s not as steep as I was expecting and could have gone up in the middle ring. The road bears left then levels as we go past a pub on the left, then its right up the final section of pave as the road bears left again and summits at the Kapelmuur. It’s some view from the top here too, which is a change as usually the view ends at the next field boundary. To the rear of the chapel is a viewing platform and this is the highest we can go, all this wide open space gives us agoraphobia. We speculate what happens here during the Ronde as its too narrow to get supporting cars up here especially with spectators lining the pave, so they must leave the riders, detour round the Kaplemuur some how and rendezvous on the other side. Dropping back down the Muur we have dinner sat out at a fast food place and watch the hustle and bustle of Geraardsbergen go by. There is even a wedding-do going on further down the berg. As we are setting off Chris points out the EcoToilet on the other side of the road discreetly parked in the shadow of a church. Chris explains - you wee into one of the four chutes on each side. Think big plastic clothes bank in a supermarket car park that you legitimately can urinate into. There is no privacy what so ever, no screens, no walls, no nothing to shield you from the gaze of passing Geraardsbergians, who incidentally take not the slightest bit of notice. A first for John he has to go and try it out as does Chris and they cross the road and boldly relieve themselves, nodding at passing pedestrians. Me? If I had tried to use it I would be still be stood there now! Isn’t it strange though that the Belgians can have such a facility in such a location and no one bats an eyelid whereas in this country you’d be arrested! After that bit of excitement we make our way straight back and more or less follow the same route back to Tour HQ only to stop right outside the brewery while John pumps up the rear tyre. I could stand here all day, I like everything about breweries. We are going straight back as we want a shortish ride today as we are riding this evening out to watch a local crit. So it’s a shower, change, have some tea then back into out kit to ride out to Ingelmunster for the race. Chris’s mate Dan is racing, as is Tom the unfriendly American so there is some interest for us there. The next day I told Tom we saw him racing last night “where? “at Ingelmuster” when?” “Last night!” he mutters something like “it was 14 against 1” and walks off.

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It’s still hot as we ride out to Inglemunster, Chris is driving out with there with Dan. Straight away I am hitting the bidons. After Waregem it’s all on the kanal bank so its easy navigating, that is until the sat-nav wants to take us over a bridge. No problems here you might think only there’s steps - it’s a footbridge. So we portage; at the top it dawns on us that the kids that were hanging about on the bridge are actually “tombstoning” picking up courage before jumping off the deck and also higher up from the girders off the superstructure. There were both lads and lasses doing it too and while it takes a certain kind of courage to jump from that height that would be the least of my worries and I certainly wouldn’t want to get a mouthful of kanal water inside me what with all the protozoa and blue / green algal blooms. Also the banks either side of the kanal here are lined with large industrial units, grain silos and the like and goodness knows what they discharge into the water. You can also water ski and there are loads of anglers so it’s a busy resource this kanal aside from the industry. Ingelmuster has come out to socialise as well as watch the Kermis and it’s a nice atmosphere. An outside bar with waiters and waitresses waiting on. Coffee and beer. Families milling about plus the odd drunk who falls asleep on the table next to us. It’s well marshalled with ambulances and commisairs chasing the race. John tells me that the tent opposite with two or three staff in throw away purple gloves is dope-control. When I mention this later it gives the gang a good laugh, it was just the medical tent. However the evening is good and completely different from any race I have experienced in Britain. Convivial. After tea we take a stroll in the evening sun round Nokere. At the bottom of the Berg a local cycling club rides past us in formation, it’s a mixed group and they all look great in their club strip. But as soon as they hit the start of the cobbles “BOOM” this cohesive group suddenly fractures as they sprint upwards, shouting and calling to one another as their bikes bounce about. We try the bar through in the courtyard but disappointingly it’s closed so we go across the cobbles to the swanky white house restaurant opposite. We order and sit down having a beer outside but we all feel its disloyal nay an insult, a positive slap in the face of Vlaanderens mooiste to be drinking Danish Carlsberg. Fair play to them they brought out a bowl of salted peanuts but we aren’t so easily bribed so like wasps to a jam jar in September we are drawn back down the berg to our local. Nokere – Brugge – Nokere “Being in touch with the natural world is crucial” Sir David Attenborough” Our Kit Carson Scout Chris is still stacking zzzzzs this morning so it’s up to us to find Brugge by ourselves. But it’s an easy find, it’s mostly on roads we’ve done before over the previous week and once we hit the kanal that’s two thirds of the ride over. It’s dull, muggy and close. What did I say about easy navigating? By the side of the kanal Mick’s sat nav takes us to a dead end ignoring the obvious lane that goes off to the right. We ride down an increasingly overgrown single track lane until we come to a barb wire fence with tall grass and rough ground beyond. Chucking my bike over I offer to reccy a bit further along the towpath as it must revert to single track hard top further on – sat-nav never lies. It doesn’t and it does and I report back to John and Mick so the decision is made to plough on regardless, one minute we’re in Flanders the next the Mekong Delta looking for V.C. It turns out we are riding through a linear nature reserve which has been given over to the local flora and fauna and vehicles are forbidden. The herbage is well over chest high in places and the path so narrow that you can’t see what you are riding through; shrubs tug at handle bars, adventitious shoots of bramble switch across your face and rear mechs become clogged with grass and there are butterflies

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everywhere. Something stings my calf and the slight irritation lasts on and off for the next two days. It toughens you up it does cycling in Flanders. But this is getting silly until on our right we can see road just the other side of a smallholding. The locked gate shouts no entry but stuff that. Back on the blackstuff it’s full steam ahead Broohuges. The kanal takes us past rows of large Black Poplars and large blockhouses strategically positioned to stop invading foreign armies crossing and outflanking Brugge - lot of good they did! It takes us via a smart cantilevered wooden bridge straight in to Brugge. We know we are there due to the chocolate shops and other assorted tourist tat, (not to mention tourist selves included). We find a café and order and sit down, me and John plump for the paninis which are OK until Mick’s bowl of pasta belatedly arrives. Why does someone else’s meal always look better than yours? We have left the bikes parked up down a ginnel at the side of the café where we can see them from our table. It’s around this time that I notice the strut on John’s bike that fastens the pannier rack to the cross tube just below the seat. It’s an elegant, simple arrangement and I compliment John on it. Brugge is Ok with its kanals, boat trips, famous tower and horse carriage tours but I can see what Stefan means, although we have hardly been there long enough to form a more objective opinion. After eating we don’t hang about. It’s basically retrace our steps back home and its pretty uneventful, points of note being another long wait for a kanal bridge to rise and the humid, claggy weather, dull with a hint of drizzle but really warm. As we are riding back John has a loud rattle somewhere to the rear of his bike, on inspection it seems that I have jinxed his pannier rack. That mount that I said looked so robust and elegant and has done sterling service for the last ten years has broke – it’s just this gift I have! As it’s quite a longish ride today and given that I had picked the wrong dinner I suggest a bait stop but these are hard to come by on the kanal until we happen upon a bakery just off the towpath. The air conditioning inside is in sharp contrast to the humidity outside. This shop is a temple of sugary goodness and everything looks fantastic from the bread to the confectionary. We choose our poison; in my case it’s a vanilla but with thick chocolate spread on the top. We spend a pleasant ten minutes eating our Belgium energy gels sat on a bench sharing the towpath with a Belgium pussy and a dishevelled, trouserless old man. We go slightly off-piste when the sat – nav wants to take us across some playing fields which are closed off for some sort of archery tournament. We stand watching for a few minutes trying to make out exactly what is happening. A group of men are stood under what appears to be a covered bus shelter holding bows and arrows. When it’s their turn they walk out from the shelter to a large pylon type structure. Standing at its base they load then elevate their bows into a vertical position then fire at targets that are situated on top of the pylon at a height of approximately 10 - 15 meters. Presumably if they hit a target they get points, if they miss the arrow falls back to earth hopefully avoiding trepanning the firer because none had any head protection I could see. We wander down to our local for a final few bevies and to say good-bye to mine hostess. She is really nice and asks us what time we are leaving in the morning as they have a bird singing contest and can she buy us coffee? A bird-singing contest, we wouldn’t miss this for anything.

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Nokere – Lille Tweet-tweet, chirp-chirp

Nokere bird singing contest After brekie we change into bike kit and ride down to the local. This bird singing contest is a big deal here and they have even closed the street off. Loads of people, mainly men are turning up with caged birds. The landlady (why didn’t I ask her, her name!) gives us coffee. I asked last night if they bet on these contests, I am sure that I read somewhere that they did but all I get is an emphatic “no! no! no betting! Definitely no betting!”. Later that evening in the pub after a quick look round and with a wink I bet she told the locals she’d sussed us out; we were moles sent to gather information on betting scams in bird singing contests and what better way than by Belgium Revenue and Customs have three of their English counterparts inveigle their way into the community by posing as innocent cyclists thus lulling them into a false sense of security – then asking questions. We all put some Euros in a kitty and buy mine hostess a drink. Just before we set off there is some disagreement between John and Chris, John has it thirty odd kilometres to Lille, Chris has sixty odd. So it could affect what time we set off. I have to go with John as it didn’t feel all that far in getting here even if we did put loops in and go round in circles at the track at Roubaix. Chris wants to visit the American Flanders Fields Military Cemetery at Waregem on the way out and we find it following the signs and a short turn back. The man at the cemetery lodge says we can park our bikes over here. American cemeteries have a different feel from the CWGC ones, different headstones and a different maintenance regime. The gravel has been brushed and there is a small office attached to the lodge with wooden floors and a rug, a toilet, plaques on the wall give details of battles fought and there’s a visitors book. I give Chris my last poppy and ask him to put it on a grave on our behalves while I place a stone on each of the two visible Jewish graves. With their Star of David the stone signifies a visit. I have also placed my poppy on Commonwealth Hindu graves too and visited Chinese Labour Corp graves in St. Valery. High explosives and ball round don’t discriminate. There is a family placing flowers on a grave, their appearance suggest that they are locals and not American tourists and I wonder if it’s just something they feel they should do Sunday mornings, remembering? Leaving we follow the usual mix of gravel paths between fields of rye and of maize, industrial estates and motorway cyclepaths. At one point the tech takes us to a dead end, just a small gravel path in front of us. A man with his daughter getting out of a car on the drive of one of the adjacent houses asks us if we are ok, do we know where we are going? And actually the path is the right way. We say goodbye to Chris on a dual carriageway heading towards Lille and head for that none existent boarder. It’s just past here that I start to feel like I am starting to “bonk” and when we stop to water the grass I have to have an energy bar (a proper one) to stave off the fringal. John reckons that the frites I had way back in Lille on the evening of our arrival have finally been digested, their calorific value finally burnt up.

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Just before the Belgium / Franco border, and I mean meters before just on the Belgium side is a patisserie which has a queue stretching down along the counter out on to the street and down the shop front. They must come from miles around from both sides of the border. If the queue is so long it’s tempting to stop and get to the back of it, the cake must be damn good. The tech takes us down, round side streets and up the wrong way down one-way streets. Finally it takes us down the central reservation of a dual carriageway all the way into Centreville. We stop at the first two junctions at the red lights then get fed up at the lack of traffic so jump the rest when they are clear. In Centreville we park up and go for coffee. The plan is to go to the station, get changed, dump the bikes and promenade Lille til the train comes. That’s where it goes askew. The problem starts when I pat the Mule and tell it what a good and faithful bike it’s been. We finish the coffee and buy baguettes (it was the same one where I bought the chips, I was tempted believe me!) As we set off I have that wallowing rear puncture feel so end up pushing the bike to the station (it’s just a knack I have – I praise something then it breaks!). On the station concourse I drop the wheel out and mend the puncture. John and Mick leave the bikes and kit with me to go look for the drop-off for the bikes. They both get changed here too with them both electing to change al fresco. While I am swapping the inner tube I notice a bloke in a suit stood watching me. I try not to notice but each time I look up he is there staring, I am not aggressive by nature but it’s hard to resist the urge to say “what the fM are you staring at?” have you ever had a non-cycling audience when you have been mending a puncture, it’s rather annoying. My buddies can’t find the drop-off and by now I have mended the flat so it’s my turn to get changed and being shy I opt for the fifty-cent toilets. You have to pay for the pi-pi but that’s not what I want but don’t know how exactly to say to the lady I want to get changed instead of the toilet. So I explain I don’t speak French and mime me taking my top off. The young lady concierge understands instantly and obliges by leading me to a disabled toilet first removing the mop and bucket there. I strip off and have a “Burnley bath” i.e. it doesn’t involve water, though actually I use some baby wipes I have brought. It all goes well until I am ready to leave and realise I had left the door open and in full view, I might as well have stood on the platform for all the privacy I got. However the madamoiselle was very helpful so I press all my loose Euro change on her. We now have five hours in Lille, which is not as bad as it sounds. We wander back in to Centreville pushing the bikes (I daren’t risk the rear tyre, something just didn’t feel right and I was right to be wary, back at home checking the tyre revealed a large chunk of sharp green bottle glass which I had missed, embedded in it, riding would have meant another puncture for sure). Our slow promenade round Lillie reveals the old town to us with its cobbled squares and hidden courtyards and it’s fair to say we can’t resist the coffee shops and it’s brilliant just sitting outside one watching France go by. At the final café opposite the Gare de Lille Flandrian train station Mick and John order beer while I have my 5th café noir. We have locked the bikes in plain sight so are feeling fairly chilled, well John and Mick are, I’m wired from all the coffee when a bloke walking past sorta jokingly tries to lift the ten euros addition from the saucer off the table left by Mick. It’s a good reminder that you can get complacent. Finally we depart for the Eurostar and check our bikes in. It’s not the slick operation of St Pancras and the manager tells us we have to remove the seats off the bikes so they fit thru the scanners. I know it’s not a massive job but when you are holding panniers and looking for an allen key it’s something we could do without. I kick my bidon over in the process and water goes everywhere. Despite us being first at the check-in due to our sloth we end up more or less the last to get to the platform. Turns out our Eurostar has been cancelled so when it does

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turn up it’s 10 minutes late. We have to take the lift down to the platform too, which is another pain and ends up with John being reprimanded for twice trying to take his bike down the escalator. We stow the bikes (and invariably the bike racks are always, always at the other end of the train, and that’s always!) and we find our carriage and then our seats. Only we don’t, we had reserved seats on the cancelled Eurostar which have now been altered but eventually I find coach C, seats 27, 28 and 29 but there is a French family sat in them. I won’t bore you with the details but there is an altercation, raised voices, which is eventually sorted when a member of staff turns up.

The journey back to blighty afterwards is uneventful and hardly worth recording. The Eurostar dumps us at St.Pancras from where we cycle up the road to Euston. Once again Mick’s organisation and attention to detail is superb and he really should go into the travel business. It’s a short wait before we catch the Virgin north to Preston where Our Chris is waiting there at 11.15pm to pick the bikes and us up and take us all home. It’s been another brilliant trip once again, different but on a par with the End 2 End for sure and I would again like to put in writing my appreciation of my three mates John, Mick and Chris for making this a fantastic cycling experience. One last question needs to be addressed though, who are those six famous Belgium’s? Mick, John and Chris may beg to differ but here is mine, although I need two lists. Here goes: Eddy (no introduction needed); My alternative list reads as follows: Lucien Van Impe; Westmalle Trippel; Roger de Vlaeminck; Chimay - the red, white and blue; Freddy Maertens; Maes; Johan Museeuw (without the EPO); and Ename - the blond and the bruin; Tom Boonen (early career before the recreational drugs)

Rochfort the 8 and the 10; and Orval.

Derrick