Serenity and Storm

Serenity and Storm

By Graeme Willgress

Published at Smashwords by Graeme Willgress 2017

Copyright: 2017 Graeme Willgress

Cover design: 2017 Graeme Willgress

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please buy an additional copy for each recipient by returning to smashwords.com and making an additional purchase. Doing so will help the author keep cycling and fundraising into the future.

I would like to thank those who have encouraged my cycling, writing and supported me throughout my illness. You are too numerous to list but you know who you are. Special thanks go to Michele Reed Taborn for her patience and editing skills, again. My English would be inellegible without her and everything I see as I travel would be described as ‘lovely.’ I would also like to thank my good friend Mark for his efforts in updating the original logo into something more appropriate. Finally, thank you for reading my work and supporting my efforts to carry on exploring my world by bike.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1: Camping

Chapter 2: Whatever next?

Chapter 3: Getting started

Chapter 4: Wish me luck

Chapter 5: Traffic free tranquility

Chapter 6: The cut

Chapter 7: Further along the banks

Chapter 8: Through the city

Chapter 9: The Atlantic coast

Chapter 10: Good vibrations

Chapter 11: La Rochelle and south

Chapter 12: Enter the Gironde

Chapter 13: Opening the floodgates

Chapter 14: Onwards and upwards

Chapter 15: And relax

Chapter 16: The lions den

Chapter 17: The great escape

Chapter 18: Devastation

Chapter 19: Arrival

Postscript

Appendices Equipment, how to contact the author and where to find other books.

Preface

It was 8pm in the evening. I stood on the quay at Plymouth waiting to board the ferry to Roscoff in France. My legs were shaking at the thought of being in a foreign country alone. It wasn't the first occasion that I'd felt like this as memories of previous rides flooded my thoughts. It's just one more step, I said to myself as Michele stood next to me feeling much more positive about my departure for five weeks riding alone than I was. I unloaded the car clumsily placing Fly, my cycle, and Trevor, my trailer, on the ground. Assembling Trevor and placing my small panniers on Fly took my mind away momentarily from what I was about to do. Trepidation poured through my mind overflowing into a nervous tremble that threatened to derail me before I even boarded.

It was approaching dusk and the sea was calm. There was serenity in the evening air that felt encouraging. A peaceful quiet surrounded the dock as though everything was holding its breath and waiting for me to make my move. A final embrace, a kiss to last five weeks, and I climbed aboard my cycle hardly daring to look backwards as I pedalled away. I turned and waved, tears rolling down my face, knowing that my only contact with the gentle, loving, person who was now fading into the distance and evening light would be by telephone.

I was still quaking when I reached the ticket booth. I fumbled around in my handlebar bag, not quite knowing where anything was. This at least was normal for the start of a long tour. Within a few days I would know exactly where every item was. Each one would have a given place and I would find them without even looking. But tonight I dug around in my bag as though I had no idea what it contained before finally pulling my ticket out along with my passport and nervously dropping them on the ground. I picked them up and handed them over to the relaxed and smiling woman in the booth. I wondered what she made of my nervousness. After all it was only a ferry to France.

Presented with a boarding pass I rode off to the allotted lane where I would wait to be loaded onto the ferry. One final wave back towards where Michele had been standing and a deep breath saw me joining the long queue of people with their various modes of transport all waiting patiently to begin their own adventures. At the front of the queue where I had been told to wait were a surprising number of cycles and cyclists all fully equipped for touring.

I watched Michele's car sneaking off into the night. Neither of us is good at goodbyes, even though this was more au revoir. I turned my attention to the man at the front of the line by saying hi and asking what he was planning to do. Joe is a middle aged man whose wife is French. His heavily loaded Dawes Galaxy bike dwarfed his small frame. He seemed as nervous as me as he explained that he had ridden most of the west coast of France but had never ridden all of it in one push. He had a couple of weeks alone, after which his wife would be joining him with the car. He appeared a gentle man and I warmed to him immediately.

In addition to Joe and me there were lines of cars, lorries, caravans, motor homes, motorcycles, and other cyclists. Looking around I felt astounded that the ferry would easily swallow all these vehicles and their occupants. I tried talking to other cyclists, in particular two couples on tandems, but they weren't very open to conversation. Aware that I talk too much when I'm nervous I returned to simply waiting. It wasn't long before the barrier was removed and we were ushered aboard ahead of all the other passengers.

I felt a rush of anxiety as I moved forwards and then a small voice spoke inside saying you've done this before, remember? I had done this many times and this was no different other than the fact that I would be sailing to a country where I didn't speak the language. Onboard the ship I tied Fly and Trevor as best I could. One of the tandem pairs engaged me in conversation about the trailer, but it was obvious that he didn't like them and I wasn't in the mood to try to convince him otherwise. With that done, Joe and I made our way to the upper decks.

I found a quiet space in the corner of a dark lounge. The lights were dimmed to help sleep and I did my best to relax. There was no possibility of a full night's sleep. All the cabins were fully booked so I had to make the best of it. It was only for night so no real hardship. It echoed the early days of my first marriage when, with little spare money, we would catch the ferry to France with our motorcycle and sleep somewhere in a corner of a bar or lounge in our sleeping bags.

Tomorrow I would be in France for the first time in many years. That thought brought a mixture of trepidation and excitement that ran over me as I lay there quietly.

Another step taken.

Chapter 1: Camping

Atlantic coast, France.

I've been asked many times how I manage long periods alone and unsupported when my life at home fluctuates so wildly. The daily emotional fluidity that I suffer mars everything I do but not when I'm away on my cycle. How can this be? On the surface, it doesn't make any sense. By looking deeper at my past and recent events it becomes obvious that travelling is a completely different situation to living at home. From before I could walk, my family would go on camping holidays and these continued throughout my youth and into adulthood.

How five people, three children and my parents, ever went away with a Mini as transport I don’t quite understand, but we managed it. Our camping holidays at that point were simple affairs without the clutter that many modern campers feel is necessary. The boot of the Mini would be packed open using strong metal hinge-straps, and a tarpaulin placed over the luggage to keep the weather at bay. A roof-rack would take all the clothing and lighter sleeping bags whilst the three of us children would sit on blankets on the back seat with bags in the foot well that none of our feet yet reached. In this way, we would journey from Peterborough where I was born, or Weedon where I grew up, to a variety of places in Norfolk and Suffolk where we would spend our time enjoying the peace and quiet that was a camping holiday in those times.

During these holidays my father was a different person. He would take charge of erecting the tents, do all the cooking, and generally take care of almost everything. This gave Mum time to relax and take care of all the demands that I'm sure three children placed upon her.

I remember only small parts of these holidays but those memories are precious because they are part of my life that isn't in any way blighted emotionally. My father taught me, and presumably my brother and sister, everything we know about being independent on these holidays. We learned how to take care of ourselves and be happy in our own skins. With a patience not found at home my father would show us time and time again how to erect a tent so that it wouldn't blow away in the strong Norfolk gales that seemed to occur each and every time we camped there.

We were also taught which pegs to use in different soils, how to organise our space so it worked, what to do when a storm approaches, and other practical tasks. We learned how to cook when limited to two burners. We all took small responsibilities that helped everybody along by working collectively. As a young boy my role was simply to remove the rubbish to the bins. I took pride in this because I was trusted to do it without being asked. My brother would fill our water container as needed and I clearly remember thinking this was a bigger job than mine and wanting to be able to do it. As a four year old, lifting the gallon water container was a feat of great strength and I would watch in awe as my eight year old brother carried it across the campsite from the taps. Hard as I might try, it was all I could do to use that container to pour water onto the floor, let alone tip it up and fill saucepans and kettles.

My father's teachings were frequently reinforced by typically English weather. I remember quite clearly that as one storm approached my dad began to work feverishly around our tent. He explained that the long (14-16 inch) wooden pegs would grip the sandy ground better than the thin steel ones used on more modern frame tents. He explained that being triangular in shape our tents were much stronger than the rectangular continental type. He threaded a rope through the brailings, small loops that held the tent walls to the ground. Sewn in groundsheets were only just beginning to make an appearance then and ours was a separate waterproof canvas. He then pegged the rope with a dozen pegs to hold our tent down throughout the duration of the storm before carefully checking the tension on the guy lines.

The inside of the tent during the night was quite a scary place for a small boy in those days. No outside light permeated the thick canvas tent so once the torch was switched off it was pitch black. My bed, a sawn-off camp bed suitable for my size, lay across the end of the big tent with mum and dad's full size camp versions along the length. Made by a company called Safari these were still in excellent useable condition when I was clearing my parents’ house nearly fifty years later. My brother and sister had a small version of our tent next door which was held to the ground in the same fashion. The only difference was that the big tent had a specially made flysheet that extended some two metres from the inner tent to give a living space for all of us to eat and relax in.

I remember that particular night because of the storm raging outside. The wooden poles shook and rattled and the fabric sounded as though it would tear at any moment. I hunkered down in my sleeping bag which comprised of lots of blankets lovingly pinned together with a sheet liner. Rain hammered on the tent and even at four years old I already knew not to touch the fabric against the outer flysheet as that would cause a leak. The night seemed interminable but eventually light began to grow and the darkness inside the tent lessened. I must have slept on and off but I will never forget that particular storm.

Toddling outside I can still remember the shock I got. The campsite looked like a refugee camp. Very few tents were left standing and undamaged. People milled around the tangled mess that used to be their homes. The continental tents had come off the worst. Their large panels had been exposed to huge wind and the lack of strong guys as well as the use of metal pegs had sealed their downfall. I felt sad. My dad reassured me that the people were all okay and they were clearing up to go home, but I wondered how frightened they had been as all this went on around them.

From that day onwards I knew that my father was an excellent camper. Not only did he always choose the right place to pitch our tent, but we never had any problems during the many stormy nights we spent under canvas. When we eventually acquired a frame tent he was ultra-cautious about where we pitched it, still relying on extra pegs around the base, reinforcing guy lines, and using our faithful wooden pegs on sandy ground.

As I grew I also got to fetch the water and the gallon container got lighter and more manageable. We seemed to play endless games of French cricket, fly kites, and play many other simple games. I learned to create large vats of stew, just as my father made it, and to use the cooker safely with supervision. All of these skills were sinking in, waiting for the day I needed them. There's a wealth of fondness and warmth in those memories that has never left nor lessened to this day.

At the tender age of eleven I joined the village Scout troop. Weekdays were spent honing skills that we might one day use for camping in the traditional scouting style. We had to create everything we needed from nature. We dug toilets and wet and dry pits for waste. Come rain or shine we would be out and about chopping and collecting the wood and kindling necessary for eating and drinking each day. It was a task that took up a great deal of time but one I enjoyed tremendously. We learned to take pride in our skills exploring things like first aid, fire prevention, how to deal with accidents and emergencies and how to take care of both ourselves and one another. We even made our own tables and chairs, lashing together spars of wood to enable us to sit and eat in groups.

There were no cookers when we went camping. All cooking was done over open fires, a skill that took some acquiring and one that you never forget. Any one of us could produce quality food that would feed the whole troop whilst working hygienically and efficiently together. Each day it would be a different group of people that got up early to boil water for tea and coffee or to take on the epic task of preparing meals big enough for the entire troop to enjoy. Sometimes we would cook in small groups, patrol groups as they were known. I was in Tigers, the patrol group that my brother ran. When I took over after he left I had a sense of pride that never left me.

We learned to notice changes in the behaviour of those around us and to ask for help if we felt we were struggling. There was a wide range of people, some from very poor backgrounds, and scouting helped me to learn both humility and humanity by sharing what I had with others. There were occasions where other scouts had saved everything they had to be on holiday for a week. For some this would be the first time they had ever seen the sea or had a holiday of any kind. We were encouraged to support each other and to learn that our differences were just that and not weaknesses. It was such a positive experience and I grew a great deal from what I saw and experienced.

It was scouting that first led me into the mountain and hills of the UK. First was Ingleborough in Yorkshire, a hill with a limestone pavement along the top of the ridge. I was awestruck at the views from the top and the fact that we had got there at all. As scouts we prided ourselves in our ability to navigate, although there was another occasion when we got off route in the Lake District and ended up climbing the wrong mountain. By the time we realised our mistake it was easier to continue up the hill we were on. It was a warm and sunny day and no harm was done, but it was also a salutary reminder of the care needed when playing in the mountains.

Tired from our efforts we would gently unwind in the evening once all the chores were completed and stores of dry wood stocked for the following day. We would stoke up the fire and sit around telling stories, reliving the adventures of the day, telling jokes and singing songs to the accompaniment of our scout leader’s guitar.

Our mess tent was an ex-army affair. Heavy and cumbersome it took quite a few of us just to lift it. Pitching this monster would take a team effort but once it was up we had a place to store equipment, food and somewhere to congregate when it was inclement outside. We used old ammunition boxes to store our food and other equipment and also for benches on which to perch.

The final act of the day would be to break out the biscuits, cheese, and pickled onions that were our staple supper whilst the Tilley lamps burned paraffin, providing light, heat, and a strangely perfumed atmosphere that I will never forget. Learning to light one of these lamps was an arduous task that we all had to endure. When it came to my turn to assess another scout in his aptitude it almost had disastrous consequences.

In order to safely light a Tilley lamp you have to take great care. Paraffin, when used in a lamp or stove, needs to be pre-heated before it will evaporate and burn. You cannot just light the liquid form. In order to get it to vaporise you have to to pre-heat the fuel supply line using a device that is soaked in methylated spirits and clamped around it. This heating causes the liquid in the pipe to change state from a liquid to a gas that burns readily.

The scout in question had pumped the lamp up to build the necessary pressure prior to priming it with the metholated spirits, but whilst transferring the soaking wet gauze to the lamp, he had allowed metholated spirits to run down the outside. When he lit the gauze the lamp caught fire and he panicked. In doing this he knocked over the meths bottle spilling its contents, and it ignited across the whole table.

We weren't allowed to prompt during a test as that would show the person wasn't ready to take responsibility. The moment he struck the match was the moment that the scout master and I were about to say LID, referring to the meths bottle on the table. The resulting inferno wouldn't have been too bad as we had fire blankets and extinguishers at the ready but the scout in charge resorted to slapping the fire with his hands. As a consequence they caught fire and only luck and quick action saved our scout hut and scout from going up in smoke. He never went near a Tilley lamp again, much to our relief.

I had never been to Yorkshire before to our scout trip. I was astounded at the beauty all around. The rolling whale-back hills seemed enormous. They weren't in any way threatening, being so green and soft. I saw them more as big camouflage coloured blankets. We stayed near Dent, site of the highest railway station in England. The charming cobbled streets filled with old world houses and cottages were like something out of a dream.

Our campsite was no more than a field bounded by woodland. One of my strongest memories involves the river below the campsite. The rock locally is limestone and gives this area some of the most the country's most famous pots or caves as we all know them. Where the river passed our campsite it would regularly disappear underground only to re-appear some hours later depending on fluctuations in the water level. This fascinated me and it may be the reason I became so interested in geology and geography at school.

I would watch the river bubble and burble before disappearing underground. Once gone it left the highly slippery limestone surface on which we would try to walk. The scenes were pure slapstick as we slid and slipped without actually falling as often as we should. Of course, being a group of young lads we all broke into peals of laughter each time somebody else hit the floor or fell into one of the myriad of rock pools.

The river was central to our camp and would burble back to the surface each and every evening. We used the many waterfalls as showers and my other overriding memory is of just how cold they were. The water that rose from far below the ground never warmed and it was an endurance test to stay in for long enough to get clean. It was highly refreshing at any rate and moving back into the warm sunshine that blessed this holiday held an extra pleasure because of the cold that preceded it.

Living in a tent with five or six others wasn't something I enjoyed. You could hardly move without bumping into one another and the night time banter wasn't something that held great interest for me. I always wanted to go to sleep in order to be ready for the next episode of the trip. I found not being able to sleep irksome to say the least. Add to that the fact that we were in one another's pockets from dawn to dusk, it was a miracle that we rarely fell out or had any serious disagreements. It did reinforce that we all had different needs. This was strengthened when I later took to climbing, a sport that means you quite literally have a friend’s life in your hands.

It was during these times that I first began to feel on the edge of things and not part of them. Even though I thoroughly enjoyed taking part in the events of the day I would withdraw when things changed suddenly or in a way that I felt was difficult. Being part of a big group was something I never became comfortable with but the camaraderie in our Scout group was such that it didn't have a strong effect at that time. I would simply take time out and sit by a river or a quiet place in a wood before returning when things balanced out.

The scout trips and camping came to an abrupt end at the age of sixteen. There was no Venture Scout group in our area and it was time to get on with life. I already had around four jobs and earned enough to be able to do some of the things that we all want to do as we approach adult life. I was undoubtedly shy and would never even think about talking to girls. There were plenty of bands to go and see and we had recently discovered beer.

Life at home was changing too. My sister had left for New Zealand and would settle in Australia for her entire life. My father's bouts of anger seemed to increase exponentially as each of us became young adults that challenged him or his beliefs. As I documented in my first book my life caved in, never to be the same again, at the age of eighteen.

I found solace in music and climbing, things that took me away from the nest, but I kept on camping and enjoying it, something I still do now. It ingrained itself into my soul becoming more and more of an ally. Time spent quietly contemplating the mountains or talking to good friends under a starry sky provided a respite from the noise that governed my mind and life.

There is still joy in listening to the evening song of the birds and the dawn chorus. In hearing nature all around my shelter I feel safe and in that simple world I found that I thrive. Nothing lessens that experience even though my ageing body finds it needs a little more space and comfort than it used to. I can't see a time when I won't manage to camp out, even if that means some other method of doing so.

I've tried camper vans and also caravans. Both offer a level of comfort far above the humble tent but neither are the same as being separated from nature by a thin veneer of cloth that acts as your protector whilst enhancing your senses far beyond anything else