So I have accepted a job in a small Belgian town in Mol. I need to get my bike there to get around. I went on an intrepid journey with my bike so I have transport upon arrival.
After discarding flying options (battery of electric bikes might catch fire!), I set off on the ferry from Dublin to Cherbourg.
Dublin port is large and confusing – there are signs for cars, and pedestrians, but not bikes. The few bike lanes often finish abruptly, are on the opposite side of the road, or merge with the footpath, then join with the truck lane.
I eventually arrived at the check in terminal, confirmed an hour early by a kind lady, who smile tried to ease the burden of my cumbersome belongings and the added weight of worry she could see I was carrying. “First time travelling with a bike?” some knowing French cyclists asked, overhearing my many questions. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”
As I waited, a father and son’s haunting tin whistle harmony echoed around the terminal – a delightfully Irish send off.
Happily, I was one cyclist of many. We cycled from the passenger terminal, weaving through the cars, trucks and were ushered up the vehicle ramp. At the top, a staff member asked me to dismount, at the apex of the ramp, where solid concrete met oscillating metal. It wasn’t quite flat. 7km across town with me and all my stuff had meant my already on-the-brink-brakes were shot, combined with the slipperiness of the car deck surface.
I attempted a smooth dismount, with 20kg+ tramping pack on my back, but my foot caught on the cross bar of my bike. I fell! Spectacularly. I knew what was happening, but couldn’t stop it, and I hit the deck in seeming slow motion. My bike lay sprawled, about 1m away from me – thankfully my hefty tramping pack broke my fall.
I picked myself up, dusted off my pride and my clothes, and was swarmed by concerned onlookers “Are you ok?”, “That was a nasty tumble”, “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Only my ego is bruised, I’m fine.” I sheepishly replied, wondering if it was possible for the car deck to become as molten as my face, and swallow me. I covered the urge to limp from the ache now in my upper thigh, gathered myself, my things, secured my bike, and went to find my cabin.
I was dreading sharing a cabin with strangers, so was delighted to find my cabin was wholly mine! Complete with ensuite and terrible TV options. I could’ve found a corner and slept like many others did on the passenger decks, but for maybe €70-100 extra, I got a solo cabin – rest would be pivotal for the journey to come. (Luckily, school was paying for my travel, so the expense to me was only temporary.)
The ferry was the longest, but easiest of the four journey legs, and it was going very smoothly so far. I grabbed a glass of French sauvignon Blanc, nestled next to the last window seat starboard side, and admired Dublin as it faded into the distance, like a strange beautiful dream. The Poolbeg lighthouse saw me off, and the Sugarloaf mountain stood sentinel as we veered south for France, the sea a crowd of spray-crowned crests waving farewell.
I wandered around the ship, trying to get out into the open air to breathe in the salt spray, but, unable to find an opening, retreated to my room, and feasted on my packed snacks while I read.
I had read online that the food on Irish ferries was terrible, so naturally I needed to see if that was true. I can report that the chips were shite, but the salad was fair.
Jared had slipped the external hard drive full of movies into my bag as I was doing the last minute round up, so I went to sleep to the a very young Maggie Smith leading a star-studded cast in an ancient Agatha Christie Poirot movie – Evil Under the Sun.
I slept like the dead, and awoke as we were nearing Cherbourg port, hurriedly packing my things, and being ushered out of the room by the cleaning ladies, disembarking mostly on time.
I met up with my other new cyclist friends, cleared passport control, 20 or so of us cyclists sandwiched between a campervan and a truck, and followed the other cyclists to Cherbourg train station.
Arriving at the station, I was cognisant of the fact that I hadn’t correctly booked my ticket with a bike attached (you have to add your bike as a separate ‘person’ on your booking), so to ease my panic, I’d booked an additional ticket for the following day in case I’d not been allowed on the train. A disgruntled train conductor growled “If you can fit it on, you can take it, but really I shouldn’t let you. I already told a family of four they couldn’t come!”
My French cycling friends from the ferry were on the same train, but only going as far as Caen then taking another train to their new home in Rouen, having recently moved from Paris. I peppered them with questions about the Eurostar trip, and how to successfully get on the train, and they were very helpful – “We’ve been travelling all over Europe for 10 years with our bikes, and we’ve had to fight, but we’ve never not been allowed on a train”. Maybe this ridiculous plan would actually work?
We exchanged details, and I promised to come and see them with my bike as soon as I was settled.
Soon enough, I was in Paris, gathering my things, and cycling the 2km across town to Gare du Nord. I confirmed my bike reservation and the requirements with the Eurostar staff, and settled in for the 2 hour wait for my train, downing a delicious burrito bowl while a kind Korean watched my bike and my belongings.
2 hours came and went, and the train still hadn’t arrived.
Finally, around 90 minutes after it was scheduled to depart, the train arrived, hoards alighted, and the departing throng descended onto the platform. I tried and failed to get close to where I was supposed to go with my bike and my belongings, but the unencumbered passengers could move a little faster than I.
I dutifully headed towards carriage 1, where I’d been directed by the carriage 3 stewardess, and waited to put my bike on – exchanging mildly worried looks with another blond guy with a bike. The carriage 1 steward and the train manager looked us up and down, shook their heads in disgust and shooed us back to the carriages where our tickets were for, the train manager yelling at us to get onto the train as we were now the only ones not on board.
It’s not an accident that an idiom of awkwardness involves a bike – they’re notoriously difficult to manoeuvre in small spaces. As I shoved my various belongings into the luggage compartment of my assigned carriage, the train manager came passed, again yelling at me for not having already disassembled my bike – front wheel, saddle, basket and pannier bags should be removed, handlebars turned, and bike put in a carry bag, obviously.
The door closed, and I dutifully started the disassembly process, and as kind stranger helped me find spaces for the various bike appendages – putting wheels in between suitcases, and stashing pannier bags between backpacks.
Exhausted, and filthy, I loitered near the door, guarding my bike, which took up nearly the whole doorway. Even having used stretchy cables to try and tie it out of the way, it was still sticking out, and making it impossible for anyone else to conveniently disembark.
The blonde bike guy, Montague, came back to check on me, and make sure I was ok, and we got chatting. 30 minutes or so passed, and I thought we’d gotten away with our cack-handed bike storage, when the ticket inspector came along, and told us that we weren’t allowed to store our bikes in the doorway because it was a fire hazard. Montague argued with him in French, and eventually we were asked to take our bikes down to the restaurant car, parading through hundreds of other passengers, whispering a confetti of apologies as we bumped and sidled our way through the aisles.
In the restaurant car, we snacked on a fruit and nut mixture with lashings of added salt, sourced from a ‘salvage shop’ for mere pennies, as I learned about Montague’s summer adventures. He’d cycled from Amsterdam where he was studying to around the Champagne region, and been building houses in a communal living village. He was only in his early twenties, but was determined to learn how to live off-grid, and sustainably.
Later a French guy who lived in Amsterdam joined us as well, and learned of his life trading art in New York.
Before I could believe it, we were nearing Antwerp, and I was trying to gather my belongings from various corners of the train for the next leg of the journey.
Sooner than expected, we were in Antwerp Central, and I attempted to disembark from the restaurant car and to my horror this wasn’t allowed! So I employed my new friends, and my best damsel in distress look, and asked them to help me get off before the train departed again for its final stop – Amsterdam.
Smiling my thanks at these amazingly helpful humans, I wished them well, and turned to survey my disparate disarray on the platform. I pieced back together my bike, righting the handlebars to their original position, and reinstalling the front wheel, then set about finding my way through the many-levelled maze of Antwerp central station.
Thankfully, we’d been there only a few weeks previously and I knew where to go for the fourth and final leg of my journey to Geel. 2 elevators later, and I was at the correct platform, and waiting for 22.15 train to leave, amazed that plan A had come together. ‘Let me know if you’ll still be up when I arrive or if I should stay in Antwerp’ I messaged my host. Given the lack of reply, I assumed it was ok to still come, though I’d be arriving much later than my initial estimate of 9pm.
I secured my bike on the train using various belts and stretchy cables, hoping it wouldn’t topple over any more times than it already had, then assumed a seat.
It was 39 hours after I’d left home in Dublin the day before, and any attempt to do anything useful was entirely not working, so I amused myself with phone games, and making faces at the toddler sitting opposite me.
An hour later, I was in Geel, and clambouring through the 20-odd bikes and scooters than now barricaded my bike in place. I eventually freed my bike and with yet more helpful strangers assistance, got my, my possessions and my iron horse onto the platform before the train departed again.
There was 2km between me and a bed, and I loaded up my bike for hopefully the last time, and went to set off – only to discover my bike chain had come off!
I crouched over on a small side street next to the train station in Geel, and used my phone light to attempt to put my chain back on. Sweating, covered in bike grease, and having expended my extensive expletive vocabulary, I admitted defeat, after having gotten the chain back on twice, and it immediately coming back off again. Wheeling my bike the last 2km, shrouded in moonlight was my only option.
Finally, at exactly midnight, I arrived at the address I thought I was supposed to be at. A dog barked as I rang the door bell, but there was no scurry of footsteps. I rang the door bell again, and waited. I called my host – no answer. Hmmmm.
I messaged my hostess who was currently in Dublin, a picture of a car in the driveway – “Am I at the right house?”
“No” came the reply.
I collapsed onto the grass in despair, chuckling to myself at the absurdity of it all.
Exhausted, and feeling utterly defeated, I sat down on the grass, with nothing left to do but wait. The night was beautiful, warm and clear – perhaps I’ll just sleep on the grass I thought to myself.
“No, wait! That’s my husband’s car! You’re in the right place. Let me call him.” came the message minutes later.
Eventually, a sleep-glazed man answered the door, apologizing profusely. He ushered my in.
“Let me take your bags” He attempted to lift the heaviest one, not fully realising how heavy it was, and he slipped across the floor and hit the wall, as the bag nearly outweighed him.
“No, it’s ok, I’ve got it, I’ve carried it this far.” I took my bag, and gave him my backpack, as he showed me upstairs to my room.
A deep, dreamless sleep was the perfect end to this monumental day.
