London to Amsterdam: Weather

The beginnings of our long-planned cycle adventure across Europe were less than modest, and more than fortunate. First, the ticket agent at the airport desk must have been in a particularly good humor, and waved us through with our bike boxes, allowing them to be checked free of the typical $100 fee. Through the inside advantage of having Kyle's mother hook us up with very cheap airfair to London, we also were able to ride business class on the 8 hour flight. This resulted in our staying awake through most of the overnight voyage to enjoy the fruits of the elite class, though I for one felt a bit bourgeois in my reclining chair, collared shirt and less-than-convincing straightened-up hairdo. Alas, I was forced to avert my gaze when the peasant folk from coach inched by, into their claustrophobia-inducing slum in the rear. C'est la vie.

Our imbibing of generously doled in-flight treats was tactful, not over the top, honestly. Though by the time we arrived at London/Heathrow at 10:30a.m., we'd had little to no sleep and could already feel the jetlag tugging at our eyelids. But press on we did, claiming our bikes and gear, and heading out into the British morn. An icy wind battered us as we assembled our bikes outside the terminal, and then a fine rain and sleet began to fall. Our boxes were whipped in every direction as we worked against the weather, until finally the last bolt had been placed, the last nut secured. After getting directions out of the world's largest airport, we were off.

The Grand Union Canal is an old waterway that weaves through town and country of England, between London and Birmingham. We rode about 8 miles out of the airport and to the small Paddington branch of this canal, using a towpath alongside. Journal entry from that night, 5/3/21010:

The woods are of comfort in any land. They pass no judgments, hold no expectations. All that is required of one in the woods is to be quiet and continue breathing. We found a place like this, along Grand Union Canal, near the London borough of Greenford. It seems a fairly safe place, a spare clearing amongst short and dense trees with vines wrapped tightly 'round every bough. We don't have the strength to carry ourselves further into the maw of Central London. Nor would we have any place to stay once we got there. This obscure nook will be our home for the night, our place of rest after a sleepless journey... ...After about 8 miles of cycling we reached the town of Cranford and descended the Paddington Branch of the canal. There was a narrow, muddy towpath alongside the canal, and we sloshed and slid among the ducks, swans, pigeons and geese. Longboats puttered along with their owners and tenants in the rear, manning the rudder levers. They live in these craft, roaming around the city's expansive canal system and mooring on the shores at night. We saw many on the ten mile ride toward London's centre. As we came to the halfway point, we happened upon a dark nook among the woods, about 20 meters from the water. It looked quite pleasant and discreet, and remarkably free of empty booze cans, trash or bumshit. After a meal and a pint at a pub, we returned to the spot and were overcome with fatigue, passing out before dark, our first night in Europe.


Kyle had met a Londoner a couple years ago, on a farm in Spain where they were working together. Her name was Amy and we'd been invited to stay at her place for a couple of nights.

Our time in London exceeded my expectations, both in duration and in enjoyment. We stayed five nights in the city of 8 million, spending much of our time cycling in the frenzied traffic. It didn't take too long to become accustomed to riding on the left side of the road, and we were soon flying past the black taxis and double-decker buses, splitting lanes and weaving through the loud, chaotic jams of Islington, Camden, Westminster, Parliament Square...

After leaving our campsite in Greenford, we continued along the canal a few more miles, the muddy path giving way to aged pavement. Buildings grew taller and more beautiful as we neared Central London, and joggers and other cyclists began to appear on the path. I was excited and anxious as the energy grew in the air, the sounds became more frenetic. London, called by many the most 'important' city in the world. Whatever that means. At some point we left the canal and ventured onto the streets, riding up to Camden. We had some food and gawked at the painfully hip. I've never been particularly interested in fashionable districts of big cities. Shopping is not one of my interests and seeing throngs of young people in the throes of transparent attempts to cultivate their image always depresses me. A couple of hours in Camden was sufficient.

We had great luck with the people we met in London, and with those fine folks who hosted us. Amy and her fiancee Tom were fascinating folks, and quite generous with their place. We also crashed on a wild night in Islington at Kyle's friend Ed's place. And our final two nights were spent in Hackney with a vegan chef and wonderful human, Adrian. He'd recently returned from a ten month bicycle adventure from the south of India to London, passing through Pakistan, Iran and Turkey along the way (all places I'm desperate to visit.) With Adrian we racked up many miles across the vastness of greater London on the bikes, and he showed us some of his favorite teahouses, resembling something you might find in a secluded corner of Amsterdam but not of London...

Our time in the city had been fantastic and productive. But the time had come to continue on, and get the journey underway. We felt as if we'd been on the move for ages but in reality had not even begun the task of cycling to Budapest, not even dipped our toes into the rushing river of uncertain experiences that awaited us. The time had come to move.

We rode out of London, through the lovely Epping Forest where I suffered my first tire puncture of the trip. We made about 50 miles that day, as far as the "Historic Maritime" town of Maldon. There was a large park and promenade along the inlet, and we searched for a discreet campsite. There was nothing ideal to be found so we picked the best spot, along a path in some trees by a creek. It was very cold, and the sun set late. As we were about to get into our tents, we saw a truck entering the park, spotlighting the fields and woods. It seemed he was making his nightly rounds, searching for intruders like us. We crouched behind our tents, as if we'd be hidden. The truck came near and stopped, and the spotlight beam turned directly upon us. It froze for a brief moment and we were certain we'd been seen. But the light turned away, and the truck slowly left the park. We were alone again, left to enjoy a cold and nervous night in eastern England.

Journal dated 5/10/2010

We arrived in the international port town of Harwich yesterday afternoon. We'd ridden from Maldon, a distance of 48 miles. All but the last two hours of the day had been miserable weather, which has been quite the norm since we've been in England. A light pissing rain came down on us all day, and a bitterly cold wind opposed us. Up the B108 to Witham, down the busy A12 to Colchester, and the A187 to B1352, winding finally down a rambling, quiet country road with the smell of cattle and flowers in the air, and the sea nearby. Our first business once reaching Harwich was to purchase our ferry tickets for the next morning. As we rode from the port toward the town centre, I was wishing for a squat nearby, conveniently close to the terminal for our early start. And as we passed along the North Sea cycle route, less than 1/2 mile from the terminal, what should catch me eye but a derelict house, lawn grown wild behind a crumbling outer wall. I stopped immediately and squeezed through a once-barbed door into the side yard, and was met with a passable hole (also attempted to be barbwired) in a door, low to the ground. Gleefully I entered and it was as it appeared: a ruined, decrepit, completely trashed old house. A mess, lots of broken glass, concrete and plaster. But more than suitable to squat, and what a location!

Pleased with our find, and glad at the prospect of avoiding the surprisingly cold British nights, we pressed into the town center and each went about our own tasks. We ate and walked by the sea, soaking up the first direct sunshine we'd seen since arriving in Europe. Eventually it was pub time, a reward for our 50 mile day in the rain. We found a quiet pub and were immediately greeted enthusiastically by the few folks present, and were bought our first two rounds by an earringed, spectacled fellow called Spick. Once a drummer for Iron Maiden (assuredly a true story, according to the pub patrons) he was impressed by our journey and lifestyle. We enjoyed high praise and an invitation to stay the night, drinking several pints of tasty English ale before saying goodbye to our adoring fans and returning to our humble squat, which received us equally well.

Heathrow-Harwich: 195 miles

After squatting in Harwich for the night, we arose early and rode only 1/4 mile to the ferry terminal. Before long we were aboard the ship and pulling out of port. In 6 hours we'd arrived in Hoek van Holland, downriver from Rotterdam about 30 miles. As we gathered our bikes below deck, about to disembark, we met an Englishman on a BMX who planned to ride to Italy. All his gear was in a backpack on his shoulders. He acted pleased that he wouldn't have to deal with heavy panniers, gears, and other such encumbrances on his voyage. We thought he was crazy. He thought we were crazy. Everyone in the world thinks everyone else is crazy. This is why we live in a crazy world. We wished him luck and pedaled down the long, steep gangway onto solid earth in Holland, my first time on continental European soil.

Immediately the language barrier struck me. Never before had I traveled in a place where I did not know at least some of the language. Dutch was, of course, quite foreign to me and I was struck with the realization that I wouldn't be in an English-speaking land until some unknown future time when I returned to North America. Here goes.

We stopped at Albert Heijn (a popular dutch market) for some groceries, and I felt a vaguely familiar sense of traveler's confusion. How much is this in US dollars? Where in hell are the beans? What am I going to say if the cashier asks me something? Why is all the produce individually wrapped in plastic? It's so easy to feel weak and stupid in foreign situations. Ordinarily I feel quite well traveled. Here I feel like a pathetic American dunce. I was reminded of a particularly heartbreaking scene from Malcom X's autobiography wherein he arrives in Mecca on his hajj, and is overwhelmed by the frenetic bustling of the devout. Malcom X, the great confident god of radical liberation, the unbreakable Hercules, humble and low in a foreign land, feeling stupid and clumsy and conspicuous, weakly struggling to understand, and struggling against self-loathing at his lack of understanding of the ritual and practice of that which he once felt such mastery over. We are all so confident in our own small niche, and it is these moments of humility that give us tolerance and perspective on how small our niche really is, and show us that we truly are but grains of dust.

Finally I clawed my way free of the supermarket, cheap dutch beer in tow, and we were off upon the LF fietspad Nordzeeroute, north along the sea and through the expansive dunes of coastal Holland But...not so fast. Two miles in, Kyle had to stop, complaining of a great pain in his knee. We'd meant to cycle halfway to Amsterdam that day, scheduled to be at our place to stay the next night. But Kyle seemed in a truly bad way. We saw a sign for camping and paid the 16€ for a grassy space and hot showers. There were other cycle tourists there as well; two dutch girls on holiday, and a gaggle of British enthusiasts down from Maldon to see the beginnings of some bike race in Amsterdam. But we were certainly the only ones with great ambitions to cross the entire continent.

I was disappointed to stop for the day, and to be obliged to spend money to camp. But Kyle's pain seemed sincere and I figured we'd best play it safe. Plus, I was in Holland, where every bird and tree and cold breath of wind was endowed with a special quaint majesty and magic. And cold, it was. We'd not yet caught a break from to weather, and even the Englishmen were quaking in their knickers against the freezing wind. I slept poorly, cold and distressed, but quietly ecstatic to finally be in the Europe of my life's fantasies, my WWII Europe, my green quiet countryside Europe, my peaceful cultured Europe of so many imaginations and dreams. I was there, at the beginning, the very genesis of the journey. At the hoek, the hook, I'd been caught, mouth agape, and slowly was I being pulled in.

By morning we had thawed out and began packing camp in the sun. We anticipated an easy day to Amsterdam, hearing it was a 65 mile ride and all flat. We opted to take the "green route," part of a countrywide cycle network and also part of the Nordzeeroute, or North Sea Route, which goes from Scotland to Finland. Soon enough we were in the rolling dunes with a strong headwind blowing in off the sea. It was hard work pushing against the cold wind, and Kyle was lagging because of his bum knee, so the going was slow but steady throughout the day. The dunes were expansive and beautiful, delicate in their uniqueness and harboring special endemic plant life in this strange intersection of sea and plain.


We passed through The Hague and Haarlem on the way. After a lot of laboring, we finally began to arrive in the outer reaches of Amsterdam, pressing further into the city, unsure of where we were or where we ought to be. Finally reaching the center of the city, we began to navigate to the nomad's base where we were set to stay. There was garbage everywhere in the streets, piles and mountains of rubbish on every corner. I was amazed at the departure from what my vision had been of Amsterdam, a clean and kept little city. I would later learn that there had been a garbage workers' strike for the past week, and the trash was piling high, with an additional week in the forecast.


Journal dated 5/14/2010
The streets of Amsterdam are calm, composed, remarkably orderly in spite of the city's activity and reputation. I've been very happy to find that this city little resembles its infamy. Certainly the foreign tourist can arrive and lose their wits in the coffeeshops and bars, treating this old and interesting European capital like a gaudy adult Disneyland. But this kind of hedonism can be found anywhere. Amsterdam's tolerance for drugs, prostitution, etc. do certainly contribute to the ambiance of the place, but do not define it. In reality it is a peaceful city with a pervasive sense of a high quality of life enjoyed by most. The cycle culture here is incredible, and there are (like in all of the Netherlands) miles of well-defined bike paths on essentially every street in the city. I read that there are four bicycles for every five of Amsterdam's 700,000 residents. This is not hard to believe when one witnesses the otherworldly melee of bikes whizzing around every corner, gathering in clattering droves at bike lane red lights, and being parked by the thousands on dedicated bicycle parking garages (multilevel) at Centraal Station. (The station has no parking area for automobiles.) One can easily get on any fietspad and be across the city in 1/2 hour without ever leaving a bike lane. Most Amsterdamers ride omafiets, "grandma bikes," with high handlebars and a low dipping top tube. They are mostly clangy and clumsy, but perfectly suitable for Amsterdam's flat, canal-lacerated terrain. In addition, bike theft is a huge problem. I heard that there are often more bikes stolen per year than there are bikes in the city, meaning some bikes get stolen more than once. They all stay in Amsterdam, sold at markets and pawnshops for 10-20 Euro. No one bothers to have a nice bike because it will only be stolen.




Needless to say, Kyle and I took extra pains to avoid such a fate for our bikes when we parked them in the Westerpark area of the city, where we would stay for four nights. The place was called Casa Robino, a "sustainable hospitality" space that hosted travelers from all over the world. The idea was that each guest was a host, responsible for contributing to all elements of keeping the space working, and for sharing in the exchange of kindness and open communication. Cleaning, cooking, dumpstering, answering the door; all of the guest/hosts did whatever needed doing in theory. Among us were travelers from USA, Greece, Germany, Finland, Israel, the UK, Estonia, Canada and Holland. Several of them had been at the Casa for several months, starting out just like any host and gradually atking their place in the more long term arrangement. It seemed to me that anyone that was truly engaged in the community was free to extend their stay if they saw fit. I believe, after spending a modest four days there, that I could definitely be happy staying there and enjoying the quiet pleasures of this novel form of communal living.

The people at the Casa were a diverse group, a natural element of the form of the place. The beautiful thing is that the group we became close with was but a snapshot, a brief moment in the timeline of the Casa, and surely now there are already many new arrivals, many who have come and gone, perhaps from Africa, Southeast Asia, Australia, South America...


The Finnish fellow, Topi, had sailed from Finland to Amsterdam, teaching himself to sail while braving the icy Baltic. He was also a brilliant computer programmer and designer, and had a bizarre and delightful habit of making farting noises with his hands whenever he was amused or pleased. A hulking Nordic man with long hair, to be seen rolling around on the floor in glee, laughing like a child and squeezing his hands together like a circus-style quiet applause. Mark was a razor sharp, techno-savvy, free-software-revolutionary Jew born in the UK and raised in Israel, with a desperate addiction to information. Heather was from Toronto with an African mother and Scottish father, and had been living in Australia for four years before setting out to return to North America by land and sea. She'd seemingly been everywhere, from Bangladesh to Iran, India to China, Laos to Albania. She often motivated cooking ideas from which the group would spring forth into the streets to dumpster food, and in a frenzy concoct large communal meals each night, shared around the large coffee table in the living room. Everything was so intimate, so small, very cozy and safe. I was content to spend hours each day talking with the various Casa comrades, cooking and cleaning and smoking. Casa Robino was similar to many communal urban living spaces I've seen before: the shared duties, communal meals, intimacy, responsibility. But there was something different about it, something that set it apart from the very focused and idealized experiments of the United States. First, it was dedicated to sustaining nomadic culture. It held travel and its social virtues as its first priority. It was an enabler, a catalyst, for the nomadic tribe to find itself and share of its constituent parts in a common place with a common need.

After a couple days in Amsterdam, I met up with Rose and she stayed with us for a couple nights. She'd been living in the UK for over a year, working on a makeshift rural community in North Wales, and had picked up a full British accent. It was a delight to meet with her and exchange our ideas and desires. She also wants to ultimately land in Arkansas and take over her family farm, not far from where I'd like to have my little spot. It was a joy to be with a familiar and cherished friend so far from home. A corn-detasseling, North American traversing, RNC protesting friend with whom I'd shared great memories in the past, and with whom I do believe I'll share much when we meet again on much more familiar soils. (Rose and I would much later meet in Spain and spend two weeks at Lakabe in the mountains. She's adrift in Africa now.)

Kyle and I left Amsterdam with both regret and exuberance. I could easily have stayed, made a temporary home of the Casa and of the beautiful city of canals and parks and good people. But we were riding a high wave, feeling both lucky and blessed at all our experiences we'd had so far as we were sucked into the journey, bit by little bit. It was time to see where else we could go, what other singular moments we could achieve, and who we would meet and come to love.