In which Sid and Doris ride from Bishop’s Stortford to Harwich to stand on the cold dockside with other intrepid riders.
At about 11.00 today we completely ran out of things to do and reasons for delaying leaving. All the obsessive lists had been obsessively ticked, the luggage had been stuffed into the four bags, and every switch and lock around the house was in the approved position. The ferry sailing wasn’t till 11.30pm but the plan was for a slow steady cycle to Harwich, dinner before boarding the ferry, and then take advantage of their early boarding time of 8.30pm.
So after a short pause outside St Michael’s church in central Stortford for a departure picture (we thought that taking a photo outside our front door would be inviting housebreaking), we simply had to leave.
I will spare you the list of villages we passed through from home to Harwich. True Essex riders can have a look at the map. You fall out of Essex into Suffolk at the River Bure, already going foreign.
Rather I will set up a convention for the data fiends and then pick up a couple of moments we should remember if this were just our diary.
Distance: 98 kilometres
Climb: 787 metres
Weather: Sunny with wind easterly force 4
For those of you watching in black and white, 98 kilometres is about 60 miles and really should feel pretty ordinary. But the route goes due east and the wind came due east; it felt a bit like work and not like holiday. So, a key lesson is to keep strength up eating more cake and more often.
We had our first mechanical when a nut dropped out of Catherine’s rear mudguard leaving the bolt to snag in the tyre tread. This gave a fine high pitched squeal. Bike upside down in field with rear wheel out, tie wrap applied in place of bolt and under way again.
My turn next, I found a hill steep enough to want the climbing gears with the little front ring. But not available. Probably because when we had our bike fitting (at Primo Cycles in Cambridge only the day before we left!) he moved the brake and gear levers, just slightly disturbing the derailleur tensions. Either way I get to climb hills with the bottom gears missing. (We won’t need those in Holland.)
But we are strong and know that at Mistley, on the Stour estuary (where a 19th century entrepreneur tried to set up an Eastern rival to Bath) there is The Thorn. And from the Thorn to the ferry is just 15kms or so and on average downhill.
We were two hours early for boarding the Harwich to Hook of Holland ferry and passed the time staying warm and eating in a Harvester-alike. There is a woman solo cycle-adventurer in here too. By their Ortlieb panniers you will know them.
We joined other intrepid cyclists and bikers down on the cold dock, all with their own plans: Sweden, Switzerland, Germany – and mostly with a lot more luggage than we have. I love getting onto a ferry, with bike or car. The car deck still has the taste of adventure – and of course diesel.
Having one of the better cabins, we consumed the free drinks before the boat was unmoored. Standard ferry procedure: I sleep and Doris frets, tosses and turns.