Bath to Rome 2025 (ebikes) – Avoiding Potholes

Hasta la Vista

It’s always fun to cross a border on a bike tour, even with a 24 hour ferry journey from Rome to Barcelona in between.

And Spain is very different to Italy.

Not just the parched, post-harvest, beige landscape but lots of other things that impact the life of a bicycle tourist.

The roads for one. They’re as smooth as silk in Spain, wide with a huge hard shoulder (emergency lane) to help us feel safely tucked away from the traffic, a refreshing change from the bumpy, narrow roads of Italy.

The drivers for two. The only other touring cyclist we met in Spain was a Canadian who literally could not stop talking in amazement about how incredibly nice the drivers were. He was blown away, completely gobsmacked!

We simply told him not to go to Italy!

Spanish drivers hang back politely, they allow a wide berth when they overtake bicycles and they give way at every opportunity. They’re right at the top of the Clare & Andy Driver Courtesy League, together with the Irish and the Dutch. (The Italians are at the bottom, with the Argentinians.)

In fact the roads are so good and the drivers are so nice that the cycling can even become a tiny bit boring … there are simply so few potholes to avoid.

And then there’s the famously late local eating patterns in Spain. A choice of lunch at three o’clock or dinner at nine doesn’t easily fit into the rhythm of a bike touring day.

But this time we switched into the culinary timezone straight away. Our ferry from Rome arrived in Barcelona at half past eight at night. By the time we’d found our hotel, unpacked, showered and changed we were wandering out in search of tapas at just after 10 o’clock. Far too late in most countries but perfect in Spain.

Having finished two previous bike tours in Barcelona in 2016 and 2021 we decided not to linger this time. After hurriedly doing the laundry and mending a puncture to Andy’s back wheel, we soon found ourselves nostalgically cycling up Avinguda Diagonal, this time out of the city.

Past experience had made us pretty nervous about escaping Barcelona, as the geography channels all the roads into two narrow valleys, one to the north and one to the south. Once again, we chose the southern route and tried to suppress the bad memories from our first attempt in 2016.

*Avoiding the busy Barcelona highways in 2016*

But this time it was a dream – cycle paths all the way, then out onto a smooth, wide secondary road up into the hills towards our hostal in La Pobla de Claramunt.

Clare was both relieved and impressed. Andy’s navigation skills must have improved a bit over the years … or more likely, they were terrible back in 2016!

This time he asked her to do just one unusual thing, to push her fully loaded bike into a lift in order to avoid a busy junction … a first for us!

Staying in a hostal in Spain does not mean sleeping in a shared dormitory with a bunch of smelly young travellers.

They are simple family run budget hotels, usually with a restaurant and other basic amenities, popular with workers but also great places for touring cyclists to stay.

*Hostal Robert in La Pobla de Claramunt*

The following morning, over a traditional Catalonian breakfast of Pa amb Tomàquet (crispy toast rubbed with garlic and ripe tomatoes, then drizzled with olive oil), Andy made a confession.

He had consistently told Clare that we didn’t need to worry about our Schengen days this year … we had loads left.

But, he now admitted that he’d left out of the calculations the ten days we’d spent cycling around the Normandy beaches in May. If we made it onto the ferry we’d booked from Bilbao there would only be one Schengen day in reserve.

And the next ferry was not until a week later.

Feeling a tiny but familiar knot develop in her stomach, Clare agreed that we’d have to crack on with some long cycling days. We might be able to turn north and explore the foothills of the Pyrenees later … IF and only IF we made good progress.

So Andy reluctantly replanned a route to follow the main roads, which were fast but dull. Even Clare started to find them a bit boring towards the end of the day, so as we neared Balaguer, our destination, she asked Andy to find a detour through the countryside instead.

Surprised but delighted, Andy soon found a way to loop around some small country roads that only added an extra 10 kilometres or so. But he might have failed to mention that some of the detour would be on ripio … the infamous Spanish gravel.

The gravel didn’t last too long and it became a glorious end to the day, the late afternoon sun warming our backs, the foothills of the Pyrenees beckoning us in the distance. A moment to reinforce the particular pleasure that only comes from enjoying a long bicycle tour together.

But the ripio came back to bite Andy when he woke up the next morning to find his front tyre completely flat, a tiny shard still embedded in the rubber. Surprisingly both our punctures have been in Spain, despite the quality of the roads!

This second puncture meant we’d now used up both our spare inner tubes in a matter of days. And there was likely to be more ripio to come.

As we wandered around the market, we were lucky to come across Cicles Perna, a tiny old-fashioned shop where several generations of the same family have been repairing bicycles since 1925.

Despite the language barrier, Josep Maria Badia Perna soon understood what we were looking for and dashed around the corner to his storeroom, returning several minutes later with a huge smile and two new tubes in exactly the right size.

Those Pyrenean foothills continued to look extremely inviting, so a couple of days later we felt we were making enough progress to swing north into their warm embrace.

We crossed into Aragon and made our way up to the stunning hill fortress town of Alquézar, whose name originates from al qaçr, the Arabic word for fort or castle.

Despite our previous travels in Spain, we hadn’t appreciated that the 8th century conquest of Hispania by the Moors had penetrated this far north, right up to the natural barrier of the Pyrenees.

There were no ancient mosques to admire but we did come across an interesting story – the legend of Nunilo and Alodia, two young women from the 9th century.

Born to a Muslim father and a Christian mother of a wealthy family, these girls were raised as muslims at home but educated in a christian school. When their parents died they came under the care of their father’s brother, who tried to force them to renounce their mother’s faith and embrace Islam instead, including getting married to Muslim suitors.

They stubbornly refused, so the wicked uncle denounced them to the governor of Alquézar who had them imprisoned, before charging them with blasphemy and then chopping off their heads.

A bit harsh!

*Nunilo and Alodia as young girls*
*Photocredit: Turismo Somontano*

That’s when the miracles started.

Left out in the wilderness for animals to eat, a miraculous light prevented any creature from touching their bodies. So their remains were dropped into a well … but the water from the well soon became known for its incredible curative powers.

This drew the attention of the Queen of nearby Navarre who snapped up the relics for the Monastery of Leyre, some 200 kilometres away. There, somewhat ironically, they were preserved in a famous ancient islamic casket that she had recently acquired as war booty.

Perhaps, even today, the people of Alquézar are still a bit sore at the loss of these bones, as their tourist information is happy to cast doubt on the efficacy of Nunilo and Alodia’s relics … or indeed any relics.

Instead of talking about miraculous cures, their information boards explain the economic importance of relics to medieval churches. The donations from grateful pilgrims were one of their main sources of income.

To attract more pilgrims and get more money, churches and monasteries had to outdo each other with ever more fantastical objects, even occasionally resorting to theft. Relics from martyrs such as Nunilo and Alodia were lucrative, but not nearly as lucrative as anything associated with Jesus.

Consequently there are hundreds of fragments from the True Cross, several burial shrouds and roughly three dozen Holy Nails spread around the world, including one we saw in Siena. In Medieval times several churches even claimed to offer a miraculous cure emanating from a piece of the Holy Foreskin, although these have subsequently disappeared.

But the tradition continues. In the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome we witnessed pilgrims queuing to receive protection from five pieces of sycamore twig, allegedly preserved from the Holy Manger itself.

*The reliquary holding five sycamore twigs in Rome*

Andy could have done with a miraculous cure from the bones of Nunilo and Alodia, as it was in Alquézar that he revealed he was suffering from problems with his feet. The main issue was an ingrown big toenail that had developed a nasty infection.

Of course, being a stoic but stubborn man, he hadn’t mentioned this painful problem to Clare until it was oozing pus and until we were in a remote village in the hills, far away from civilisation.

Trying to hide her frustration, Clare dutifully squeezed out the pus but it was clear that he needed medical attention before we could continue. Of course, this small historic village didn’t have a pharmacy, let alone a doctor.

But Andy had a stroke of luck. The lovely 2* Hotel Santa Maria we were staying at is run by Daria, taking time out of her main career as a Spanish/English translator. She explained that there was a medical centre in Abiego, just 15km away. If that didn’t work we would have to cycle on to the hospital in Huesca, back down on the plain.

So we abandoned our rest day and rode through the hills to Abiego.

It was a Monday morning, normally an exceptionally busy time for British doctors after the weekend. Anticipating a long queue, we were amazed to discover that the medical centre was completely empty and we had the single doctor to ourselves. She didn’t speak any English but a combination of Clare’s Spanish and Google Translate helped us to understand her diagnosis and treatment.

The doctor prescribed antibiotic cream and a dressing to be picked up at the local pharmacy. Only problem? It was now midday and the pharmacy was closing for a nice long Spanish lunch, not opening again until 4pm.

Nervously, we jumped onto our bikes and dashed there as fast as we could, only to find that the doctor had already called ahead … so the pharmacist had delayed her lunch and was expecting us.

What great service! And all free, courtesy of our reciprocal health cards.

A quick call to Daria and we were soon back at the hotel, Andy’s toe enjoying a room with a view, Clare exploring the village.

Losing a rest day was not ideal as, despite our enjoyment of cycling in Spain, we were both starting to feel a bit bike weary and travel weary by now.

Rome had been our destination, our target, so psychologically this part of the journey always felt like a coda, a bit on the end. The kilometres in our legs and the constant packing and unpacking of our panniers were taking their toll.

As we ate dinner in the square that evening, we reflected that most of our rest days had been spent tramping around big cities, which however fascinating, added to the cumulative build up of exhaustion. The hills in Italy were a lot steeper than we’d expected and we’d reduced our daily distances as there were so many nice places to see … which meant more cycling days and less rest days.

We’d made a rooky error of not allowing ourselves enough days off the bike for proper relaxation. You’d have thought we’d have learnt that by now!

But the ride the next day through the canyons of Guara Natural Park to Boltana was enough to give any weary touring cyclist a second wind. It was stunning, one of our best days on a bike. Unlike the Pyrenees looming on the horizon, the wild beauty of this natural park does not lie in the height of its mountain tops but in the depth of its spectacular canyons, carved out by wind and water.

In the summer Guara is a mecca for fans of adventure sports … canyoning, mountain biking, rock climbing … but also for geologists, palaeontologists and archaeologists interested in ancient cave art, of which there are many fine examples.

We were simply content to pedal gently through the rugged landscape, to enjoy the golden eagles and Egyptian vultures soaring overhead and to peer down into the deep gorges.

Eventually we stopped for a picnic lunch in the tiny village of Arcusa.

Everything was closed but it was a lovely little square for a picnic … and for a party, judging by the many murals!

The following morning the young hotel receptionist told us that he was a keen cyclist too and asked which way we were going to Jaca. He was horrified to learn we planned to stay on the main road … warning us about racing traffic, bad drivers and a long tunnel.

I go on the Cotefablo Pass instead, he said, eyeing us dubiously. Nice roads, but you need good legs. We didn’t admit we were on electric bikes.

Consulting Komoot, we discovered that the Cotefablo Pass added an extra 30km and a hell of a lot of climbing to the day. Despite her experience in the tunnel on the Gotthard pass, Clare insisted we stick to the main road this time. Andy could only agree, his toe was still quite tender in his cycling shoes.

It turned out to be an inspired decision. Obviously that young man had never been to Italy. Here in Spain, the road was wide and smooth, the traffic light, the drivers courteous and the Túnel de Petralba so good, it actually became a highlight of the day.

As soon as the cameras spotted us pedalling into the tunnel, signs popped up warning drivers of the presence of Bicicletas en el Tunel.

The speed limit was immediately reduced to 60km/hour. Just for us!!

But there was hardly any traffic anyway … for most of the 3km we practically had this light, air conditioned tube to ourselves.

It was such a nice experience that we gave the controllers a cheery wave of thanks as we rode out through the cameras at the other end. Who cares if we were only waving at some artificial intelligence?

In Jaca another restorative treat awaited us. Lis, Andy’s sister, and her husband Ian had travelled all the way down to Spain on a first adventure in their new motorhome, just to see us for a day. There is nothing so rejuvenating as a long Spanish lunch with close family, catching up on news and laughing together. It was so good to see them, a proper rest day that got rid of any travel and cycling weariness for good.

Leaving Jaca there was an abrupt change to the season when daylight saving ended, signalling the official end of summer. Clouds shrouded the mountain tops, atmospheric and wintery, the air felt sharp and cold as we descended into a wide open valley.

Our route took us past the ‘Sea of the Pyrenees‘, a large reservoir controversially created by a Franco era dam. Controversial because it flooded several villages and a famous thermal spa resort, popular since Roman times.

But this was a weekend in late October, when the reservoir was at its lowest, allowing people a brief period to still enjoy bathing in the sulphurous waters, all be it without the luxurious changing rooms, restaurant or soporific music.

Just beyond the dam was our 1* hostal in the tiny, nondescript town of Yesa. We arrived at half past three but the patron cheerily informed us that it was still early for lunch and that the best thing to do would be to enjoy their Menu del Dias before we unpacked.

He was right. With families still rolling in an hour later the food was both delicious and very reasonable, a local bottle of wine included for good cheer. It was the kind of experience you only get if you go off the beaten track a little.

And we weren’t driving … or pedalling!

After Sunday morning coffee and croissants with the locals, an unremarkable ride took us to to Pamplona to enjoy wandering around the narrow streets of this lived-in city and to marvel at the madness of the famous running of the bulls.

By now we were feeling so restored and revived that Andy was happy to throw in a final detour on our last cycling day to Bilbao.

But once again, this was a detour that Clare actually enjoyed … around the contours of the Ullíbarri-Gamboa Reservoir on lakeside trails, wooded tracks and boardwalks.

Much fuller for the time of year, this lake is a popular recreational area full of beaches, summer camps and water sports. We didn’t meet a soul, it was utterly delightful.

Leaving the reservoir behind there was one final treat in store before we could celebrate the end of our journey outside the Guggenheim museum … a 15km descent down into the Nervión river valley towards Bilbao. Equally delightful and a wonderful finish.

As has often happened on all our bicycle tours, we were incredibly lucky to dodge the rain. Threatening all day, it poured down in a torrent just 15 minutes after we were safely tucked up in our hotel room.

*Celebrating outside the Guggenheim before the rain*

The famous Guggenheim properly lives up to its reputation, both the building (one of the most important architectural designs of the late 20th Century) and the impressive art collection, which is often on an enormous scale.

*Maman by Louise Bourgeois … a tribute to her mother, a weaver. Strength and protection, yet vulnerable and fragile.*

*Puppy by Jeff Koons … a West Highland terrier carpeted in bedding plants. Dignified, optimistic, sentimental.*

*It took us a while to work out what this one is. It’s Soft Shuttlecock by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Brugge. Recreation in a cultural space.*

The Guggenheim makes Bilbao worth a visit on its own but the special Basque culture adds to the charm, especially as it has a surprisingly English twist.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries British ships would bring coal to Bilbao and return with iron and steel. In those ships came thousands of miners and engineers, many of them from north-east England, many deciding to stay, many passionate about the sport that had by now become so deeply ingrained in working class culture … football. Students from Bilbao travelled in the other direction to study and they quickly grew to love the game themselves.

Thus in 1898 a group of British migrant workers and returning Basque students founded Athletic Club (using the distinctly English spelling instead of Club Atlético). The football club has since become unique in the world for only signing players who have been born or developed in the Basque region, through its cantera (meaning quarry) of youth development and a deep talent spotting network in grass roots football.

Despite this self imposed constraint, Athletic Club is proud to be one of only three clubs (the other two being Barcelona and Real Madrid) that have never been relegated from La Liga, the top league in Spain. Champions 8 times, they’ve also won the Copa del Rey (the Spanish FA Cup) on 24 occasions, most recently in 2024.

The connection between Athletic Club and their English roots remains strong, with a special bond developing between their fans and those of Newcastle United after a match in 1994. Athletic won the game in Bilbao 1-0 for a 3-3 aggregate scoreline, winning the overall tie on away goals.

But immediately after the final whistle the Basque home fans invaded the pitch, not to make trouble, but to applaud the Geordies and then went on to entertain them late into the night. They were so kind. They laid out the red carpet for us and wouldn’t let us buy a single drink, reported one grateful Newcastle fan, I came back with as much money as I went out with.

This was all to repay a favour.

Apparently, some Athletic supporters had missed their transport back to Bilbao from Newcastle a couple of weeks earlier after the first leg. They had been put up by a family in Newcastle and the story of the warmth of Geordie hospitality had made its way back to Bilbao.

It’s an unusual friendship that endures to this day.

*Las Sirgueras by Dora Salazar, a tribute to the 19th century ‘rope girls’ who pulled boats up the river whilst the men were away at war*

As we weren’t wearing the famous black and white stripes of Newcastle United, we were happy to pay for our own celebratory drinks.

Celebrating boarding the ferry the next morning, just the one day inside our Schengen limit.

Celebrating that this was genuinely the end of our bike tour with no pedalling needed through two damp, cold November days to get back home from Portsmouth.

Clare’s brother, Matthew had kindly offered to meet us off the ferry in his campervan and even drive us back to Bath the following day. We stayed overnight with Matthew and his wife Nicola at their lovely home in the New Forest, enjoyed a delicious roast chicken dinner and, once again, felt rejuvenated by the warm embrace and easy conversation of close family.

From Bath to Rome (and back) we have pedalled 3,291 kilometres, our second longest bike tour.

It was also our 10th year of meandering slowly around different parts of the world on a bicycle.

In those ten years we’ve pedalled for just over 24,000 kilometres or just under 15,000 miles. 60% of that distance was on our faithful Ridgeback touring bikes, 40% on our new Cube e-bikes. We’ve climbed 229,000 metres which is roughly 26 Everests. We’ve ridden on 366 days, a leap year, with nearly 1500 hours in the saddle, cycling across 22 different countries on 5 continents.

On the ferry back to the UK, we decided that maybe, just maybe, this is the right moment to hang up our panniers and do something else instead. Whatever happens we have already made different travel plans for 2026, so we won’t be re-hitching our panniers to our worn out bike racks until 2027 at the earliest.

Like a sportswoman reluctant to retire from the sport she loves, that last day of cycling to Bilbao was enough to make Clare fall back in love with bicycle touring … so she is the one who is now pushing for more adventures.

She says there are a lot more iMax views from our handlebars to enjoy.

She’s suggested more Spain. She’s also suggested Slovenia and Central Europe.

But she’s given Andy an ultimatum … two months and 2000 kilometres is the absolute maximum!

If we do decide to hang up our panniers, then this is also our last Avoiding Potholes blogpost.

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for following us through these little adventures, for all your comments and words of encouragement. We hope you’ve enjoyed it at least half as much as we have!

So … Hasta la Vista (until next time). Probably … possibly … who knows?

Clare and Andy

Bath to Rome (and back)

3,291 kilometres pedalled

31,146 metres climbed

173 hours in the saddle over 68 days

2 punctures, 1 broken seat post, 1 new set of brakes

La Dolce Vita on Two Wheels (almost!)

Is there anywhere more perfect for a bicycle tour than Tuscany?

Riding through the famous rolling green hills, dotted with vineyards, olive groves and cypress trees makes it difficult to imagine that there is.

It’s difficult to imagine when pedalling slowly through yet another atmospheric village.

Or when marvelling at the renaissance art and buildings in a city like Siena.

Yes, Tuscany is the sweet bicycle touring life … the dolce vita on two wheels.

Well … almost … there’s always a but!

Rather than take the direct route to Siena, we decided to swing eastwards to San Gimignano and into the Chianti hills. It proved to be an inspired decision as the next two days were amongst our favourites.

Sunny but unseasonably cool we had the ferociously steep hills to keep us warm.

Chianti had a surprise in store … it’s covered in trees, lots of trees. The canopy of oak and chestnuts are punctuated by olive grove polka dots, stripes of vines and blocks of farmhouses guarded by rectangles of tall poplars … a tapestry in every shade of green.

White ribbons of the famous Strade Bianchi (white roads) are then woven through this tapestry. Made from fine crushed limestone and beautifully groomed in this part of Tuscany, they led us from one hilltop village to the next.

Our favourite stopover was Castellina-in-Chianti, a village with a single narrow street clinging to the ridge of a hill, full of ancient houses, restaurants, gelaterias, delicatessens and wine shops.

*Trying to select a vintage in Castellina-in-Chianti*

Whilst in Chianti it would have been rude not to stop at a vineyard to learn a little about the history of the wine … and, of course, to taste it.

As far back as 1716, Cosimo III de’ Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, decreed that only wine produced in a tiny area around Castellina could use the Chianti label, a state of affairs that happily continued until the 1930’s.

Then the Italian government of Mussolini decided to expand the Chianti region in order to export more wine around the world. Chianti became ubiquitous … cheap, poor quality plonk sold in those squat waxy bottles that were covered in a wicker flask and used as candle holders in every Italian restaurant. Ironically, the straw flask is called a fiasco in Italian.

As far as the winemakers around Castellina were concerned it was indeed a fiasco!

They fought back, launching Chianti Classico with very strict regulations on the grapes, the location of the vineyards, the type of soil and the winemaking techniques. The result was a wine of much higher quality that could be sold at a premium price, labelled with the coveted black rooster to separate it from the rough stuff.

*Tasting the difference between Chianti and Chianti Classico*

It was easy to tell them apart!

Sadly we could only try a couple of vintages as we still had to pedal to Siena that afternoon.

*Arriving in Siena, post Chianti tasting*

Siena would be a highlight of any visit to Tuscany.

To make it even more special we happened to be there during one of the short periods each year when the floor of Siena Duomo (Cathedral) is uncovered.

No other building has a floor which matches the scale and artistry of this one. Taking five centuries to complete, fifty six panels of marble mosaic inlay illustrate scenes from the bible but also from Greek and Roman mythology.

*Siena Duomo Floor Photo Credit: Siena Duomo*

It covers the whole floor of the cathedral. The effect is breathtaking!

The crypt of Siena Cathedral is also remarkable. This underground chamber was covered in religious paintings in the second half of 13th century before being abruptly sealed and filled with sand and earth.

Only re-discovered in 1999, those centuries buried underground have preserved the paint perfectly. This means that visitors today still get to experience the bright, vivid colours that the artists originally intended.

The lower part of the paintings are covered in graffiti, scratched into the limestone plaster. This can only be graffiti from people living between the 1280’s when the painting were made and the 1350’s when the crypt was sealed and filled with sand.

It feels as if those people are calling out to us across the centuries … I’m alive. I’m here. I made this mark … look, this is my hand!

As usual with a museum or cathedral, the exit is through a gift shop. But only in an Italian cathedral does a gift shop look quite like this!

So why is Tuscany the dolce vita on two wheels (almost)? What’s the almost? What’s the but?

Well … it’s the roads … they really are as bad as their reputation.

And it’s the drivers. Italians are normally the warmest, friendliest people but put them behind the wheel of a car and they turn into crazy, impatient monsters.

The roads feel like a bumpy obstacle course. As a cyclist, you can’t afford to drop your guard for a second.

At any moment you might have to weave between the cracks. Or swerve to avoid a sudden pothole, or a tree root, or a deep manhole cover, or all manor of debris.

Which is a dangerous game as the roads are also very narrow and you probably have an impatient monster revving up behind you.

To be fair the bigger the vehicle, the more courteous the drivers are. Trucks and vans are fine. What you really have to watch out for are the crazy monsters nipping around in their Fiat 500s!

This means that for a bicycle tourist, Tuscany charms and terrifies in equal measure. We’d love to come back and explore more of the area but perhaps we’ll stick to four wheels next time … maybe hire a Fiat 500 and become crazy monsters too?!

Since leaving Pistoia we’ve often been guided by an ancient pilgrimage route called the Via Francigena. It was an important medieval road for pilgrims travelling to Rome from as far away as Canterbury. Today, it’s still popular as a long distance walking and cycling trail, especially the section that runs through Tuscany.

*We saw lots of people walking the Via Francigena*

In turn, the Via Francigena often follows an even older Roman road, the Via Cassia, built to connect Rome to Florence. And the Via Cassia has since been used to plan the route of a major regional road.

For a touring cyclist this means the choice often comes down to a gravel track on the Via Francigena or the busy main road.

Clare hates gravel. Andy hates main roads.

Something had to give!.

After a long climb up to a hilltop village called Radicofani for lunch, it was perhaps not Andy’s best idea to avoid the main road by choosing a long gravel descent down the other side.

This was not the same smooth gravel that Clare had enjoyed in Chianti. Much steeper. A lot bumpier. Very deep in places. Great for mountain bikers, not so great for touring cyclists. Lots of opportunities to skid and slide.

And it lasted 20 kilometres!

Clare was not impressed. I didn’t spend hours struggling up that hill just to come down this ridiculous gravel. It’s so dangerous!

Predictably, about halfway way down there was one skid and slide too many.

Andy promised to take the road next time.

But the next day he pushed his luck even more by trying out a section of the original Via Cassia, still with the paving exactly as it was in Roman times.

It was even slower going but fortunately we both enjoyed the privilege of riding across the same stones that had carried the sandled feet of so many Roman legionaries marching off to yet another war.

There was one last treat in store before reaching Rome … the Bolsena and Bracciano volcanic lakes, both very pleasant escapes from the rough and tumble of the city.

We even enjoyed Lake Bolsena so much that we stayed an extra night.

This meant that despite Rome being our destination, despite pedalling over 2500 kilometres to get there, we ended up spending just one day in the eternal city.

As well as the lake we had simply enjoyed Italy and especially Tuscany too much, slowing down, eating up the days we’d planned for Rome.

It proves yet again what Clare is always telling Andy … that a bicycle tour is about the journey, not the destination. Plus this was our third visit to the eternal city.

Getting into Rome gave us one final challenge, and it wasn’t only to dodge the crowds at the Colosseum.

Knowing that the Roman drivers are at yet another level of craziness to the rest of Italy, we decided the best way to enter the city would be along the River Tiber cycle path.

To get to it we had to cross the Veio Regional Park first, famous for its Etruscan ruins and slightly infamous for controversially reintroducing three packs of wolves into a park that is so close to a major city.

Komoot (our mapping app) guided us into the park on a nice road to start with. But that road became a track and then the track turned into this …

Whilst Andy was wondering how Clare might react, he came face to face with a wild boar just by the water. They stared at each other for a minute before the boar snuffled and quietly went about its business.

That was enough to convince Andy that crossing the muddy stream was a bad idea. The only alternative was a farm track blocked by a roped up gate that displayed this warning sign …

The sign explains to potential visitors that dogs are used to protect the sheep from the wolves. If a dog was to charge at us, we should not throw stones but walk away calmly.

Clare voted with her pedals and quickly headed back to the busy main road.

But Andy convinced her that if he could be Top Dog in Romania last year, he could still be Top Dog here. But even he had to admit … pedalling slowly across the field and up the hill was pretty nerve wracking. Fortunately the sheep and the dogs were in another field that day.

From the top of the hill it was a lovely cycle down to the river on some nice country roads and an even better ride along the best cycle path we’ve come across in Italy, all the way along the river and right into the heart of the city.

But once we reached the centre of Rome, we couldn’t escape. We were trapped on the Tiber by some very steep steps.

So we just kept going and going and going … until eventually we found some shallower steps.

So how to enjoy just one day in Rome?

First to celebrate completing the 2,541km journey with our bicycles outside the Colosseum!

Then to revisit some old favourites … the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, Campo del Fiore.

Then to enjoy one of the main attractions that we’ve somehow managed to miss in the past and take the senators walk down from the Palatine Hill to the Forum, following in the footsteps of Julius Caesar, Cicero and Augustus.

Then to revisit another old favourite and enjoy a gelato from Gelateria Della Palma, where they bamboozle you with over 150 flavours. No visit to Rome is complete without it.

*Sharing the experience with some gelati loving nuns*

And finally to do something new by paying our respects to Pope Francis, who died earlier this year, at his final resting place in Santa Maria Maggiore.

Rome has been a pilgrimage destination for centuries, many journeying to the eternal city on the Via Francigena. If all roads lead to Rome, perhaps all bike paths eventually do too.

So it’s a fitting end to this e-bicycle tour through England, France, Switzerland and Italy.

Accept it’s not the end. We still have to get home!

Now, where does the ferry to Barcelona leave from?

Clare and Andy

Bath to Rome

2,541 kilometres pedalled

22,656 metres climbed

135 hours in the saddle

Those of you who love pasta may have been wondering where the pasta porn pictures are? After all, the opportunity to enjoy a mid-bikeride pasta lunch is one of the reasons we rode to Italy in the first place. So don’t worry … we’ve saved the best till last …

A Path less Travelled

If it’s snowing at the top of the Alps it’s likely to be raining in the Italian lakes.

Sure enough, the heavens opened and the rain poured immediately after we’d crossed the Gotthard Pass on that idyllic sunny day. A blizzard closed the pass for a week.

Feeling very lucky, we holed up in Verbania on Lake Maggiore watching the rain bounce off the cobblestones. It was a perfect opportunity to catch up on laundry, write a blog post and, of course, to start eating pasta and drinking wine.

Then we moved the short distance to Lake Orta for another couple of days, a much smaller lake, less visited and a great tip from our friends Neil and Claire. They were right, it’s a beautiful and peaceful place made all the more mysterious and atmospheric by the rain clouds rolling down the mountains.

If Lake Orta is a hidden gem amongst the Italian lakes, then Orta San Guilio is its crown jewel. Built on a small promontory jutting out into the lake it’s considered to be one of Italy’s prettiest villages. Sitting in the main square whilst gazing across to the tiny island of Isola San Guilo felt like being part of a classic Italian movie set.

But we didn’t just sit in the square, watching the world go by.

We took the five minute boat ride across to the island.

We had a pleasant evening stroll around the promontory until it was interrupted by a thunderstorm of almost biblical proportions.

And we walked up the hill to wander around the Sacro Monte di Orta, a series of 20 (twenty!) chapels that tell the life story of St. Francis of Assisi. The first chapel was built in the late 1500’s but the complex was not completed for another 300 years, each one becoming bigger and more flamboyant over time, as if the benefactors were trying to outdo their predecessors in the eyes of God.

*One of 20 Chapels at Sacro Monte di Orta*

A guide in one of the many churches we’ve since visited in Italy explained the importance of art for religious propaganda in the Middle Ages. Sermons were preached in Latin (effectively a foreign language) and as most people couldn’t read, they learnt about the bible and the Holy Catholic message through art instead.

It was very easy to see how that happened at Sacro Monte di Orta. Frescoes on every wall surface set the background for life size figures acting out the story, each tableau created by an artistic master. It held our attention, so it must have been incredibly compelling in a world before magazines, cinema, television and the internet.

A break in the weather presented the opportunity to ride the 100 kilometres from the lakes down to Milan, following the Naviglio Grande (the Big Canal) for much of the way. You might think we were a bit fed up of canals but this was a particularly impressive one, some of the locks designed by no less an architect than Leonardo de Vinci.

Initially dug by hand as far back as the 12th century, it was enlarged from the 14th century in order to carry huge blocks of pinkish white marble needed to build the massive new Duomo di Milan (Cathedral). The marble travelled roughly the same route as us, all the way from a quarry near Lake Maggiore.

Nobody would describe Milan as being on a path less travelled, especially during Milan fashion week. The city was jam packed with fashionistas as well as tourists.

*Fashion week made for some interesting people watching*

We were even treated to an impromptu fashion show right outside the Duomo.

There’s no doubt that the Duomo is immensely impressive. Built over five centuries and not officially completed until 1965, it’s the 5th largest cathedral in the world with a capacity for 40,000 people and a world record number of statues … a staggering 3400 of them gaze down at all the visitors.

The Duomo is flanked by the other great cathedral in Milan … the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, a cathedral of fashion packed with luxury brand boutiques.

*Inside the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II*

Sadly, we couldn’t squeeze any luxury items into our panniers, so we had to keep our credit cards in our pockets.

As we left Milan, the sun briefly came out again. Turning to look back, there was a thick ribbon of white snow covering the Alps, yet another reminder of our good fortune.

For a couple of days we pedalled gently across the Po Valley, a huge fertile plain that runs across Italy from the Western Alps to the Adriatic Sea and is home to a third of the Italian population.

We paused in the delightful town of Piacenza where we spent a lovely evening with Erica from Nuremberg, a fellow touring cyclist who is also heading to Rome. It was great fun to talk bicycle touring for a bit, comparing notes on the most useful bits of kit and laughing about squeezing everything into two panniers.

The following night we stayed at a small family vineyard just outside the town of Reggio Emilia where they proudly grow Lambrusco. Now we are of a British generation that is forever biased against this wine, considering it a cheap, sickly-sweet drink from a 1970’s party, alongside Babycham or some fizzy beer from a Watney’s Party Seven.

But it seems Lambrusco is much better than that. It’s delicate. It’s dry. It can have a delightful aroma of orange blossom, violets or watermelon. It pairs particularly well with beef and lamb or with spicy Thai and Indian cuisine. And it’s recovering from the tarnished 1970’s legacy … as the Milan fashionistas would say “it’s having a moment”.

Over the next few days there was little else available so we threw ourselves into Lambrusco country with gusto, whatever we were eating.

Were we convinced?

Honestly … it’s pleasant enough but, nah … it’s still a fizzy red … which somehow just seems wrong!

Back in our formative years, when we were both just starting to dream about exploring the world, an inspiration for both of us was the travel writer Eric Newby … A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush (1958), Slowly Down the Ganges (1966), The Big Red Train Ride (1978) amongst others.

Our favourite was Love and War in the Apennines (1971) in which he described escaping from a prisoner-of-war camp near Parma during WWII, then hiding from the Germans in the very same hills we were now cycling through. There he was helped, at huge risk to themselves, by the local mountain people and in particular by Wanda, a young Slovenian lady and her father. Predictably Wanda and Eric fell in love. Less predictably they found each other after the war and remained happily married, travelling together on all their other adventures.

We thought a lot about Eric and Wanda as we pushed our way up through the hills, moody with mist, coated in sweet chestnut trees, remote farmhouses illuminated by a shaft of light from the heavens.

Of all the mountain ranges we’ve now cycled through, the Apennines are the steepest. They’re brutal, steeper than the Alps, steeper than the Pyrenees, steeper than the Andes.

Now we know you’re thinking we have nothing to complain about … we have motors and batteries to help get us up steep hills.

But as you watch your remaining battery percentage collapse before your eyes, there is NO WAY you can accept that riding a heavy e-bike up 15% inclines on rough roads is an easy option.

It’s still brutal!

We may not have needed the same life saving protection that was given to Eric Newby, but feeling as exhausted as our batteries, we were very relieved to be welcomed into the warm hospitality of a family run mountain B&B near Zocca. It’s since become firmly established as one of our favourite lodges from this trip, a simple but comfortable room and a cavernous restaurant warmed by a pizza oven and an open barbecue, dripping with large joints of meat.

The family invited in two bedraggled cyclists without a murmur and then encouraged us to stay on in our room until the following afternoon to wait out the last of the rain.

Hearing we were travelling to Zocca, the lady in the Lambrusco vineyard had become very excited. You go on Zocca? she said, it’s the home of my favourite singer. He’s Vasco Rossi. People go to Zocca from all over Italy. They hope to see him. Perhaps you will the be lucky ones!

Vasco Rossi is indeed a big cheese in Italy, with 30 albums to his name and regularly selling out stadium tours. But not everyone is going on a pilgrimage to Zocca, it turns out Italian fans either love him or hate him. As one critic put it …

According to his fans, he’s Bruce Springsteen, Freddie Mercury and Michael Jackson rolled up into one musical genius. According to his detractors, he’s just a sleazy package of average Italian mediocrity.

As we’ve been lucky enough to visit Florence several times over the years we decided to take the path less travelled on emerging from the Apennines, and go to Pistoia instead … Florence’s little sister.

There might be a reason why it wasn’t visited very often in the past. For much of its history, Pistoia has been reviled as a dangerous, aggressive place.

The city’s metalsmiths were as famous for their daggers as the Pistoiesi were for stabbing each other.

The city reputedly lent its name to the Pistol.

Michelangelo even called the Pistoiesi the “enemies of heaven.”

The most notorious incident of the Middle Ages happened when a massive feud that turned Florence into a war zone for centuries allegedly started in Pistoia.

Two boys were playing with wooden swords when one of them was inevitably hurt. The father of the perpetrator told his son to visit the family of the injured boy to apologise. But the victims father became so incensed that he took out his dagger and promptly cut off the boy’s hand, shouting that “Iron, not words, is the only remedy for sword wounds!”

Tough judgement.

One thing led to another and before long it had snowballed into a much bigger battle between the Guelphs who supported the Pope in Rome, and the Ghibellines who wanted an independent Florence city-state.

Thousands died … no wonder Pistoia became so notorious.

That dangerous history might be responsible for keeping people away as today there are very few tourists in Pistoia and barely any hotels. Which is a shame as it’s a charming typical Tuscan town, full of interesting renaissance buildings, lots of art and the best Gelateria!

‘The Visitation’, Mary visiting Elizabeth, in glazed terracotta by 15th century artist Luca della Robbia

For bicycle tourists seeking the path less travelled, Pistoia was a perfect stopover and introduction to Tuscany.

So, as we enjoyed our gelati in the square, we could start to dream about the path ahead … rolling Tuscan hills punctuated by poplar trees and topped by medieval hilltop villages.

After all that’s the Italy we’d pedalled across half of Europe to explore.

Clare & Andy

Bath to Pistoia

1,991km pedalled

15,471m climbed

105 hours in the saddle

The Joy of Swiss Precision

It’s not every day that a touring cyclist gets the chance to descend a 19th century cobbled road from the top of a famous Alpine pass, dropping 1000m over 15km and swooping around 37 hairpin bends.

Almost alone in the wild, rocky, mountain landscape.

Under a deep blue, cloudless sky.

This is the Tremola … the historic old road that runs down the southern side of the Gotthard Pass in Switzerland. Opened in 1830 it quickly became a vital trading route for horse drawn wagons and carriages travelling between Northern and Southern Europe.

Today the Gotthard Pass is still a major transport axis but most of the goods and people are carried through three huge tunnels, each one the world’s longest at the time of their construction.

The 15km Gotthard Rail Tunnel (1882) still carries regular trains.

The 16.9km Gotthard Road Tunnel (1980) for freight and fast traffic.

And the 57km Gotthard Base Tunnel (2016) for fast trains.

Most importantly for touring cyclists there’s also the Gotthard Pass Road (1977), which opens for tourist traffic in the summer and is preferred by road cyclists going down the hill, as their tyres are too narrow to bump down the cobbles.

So we practically had the Tremola to ourselves. With only red-faced road cyclists coming up the hill plus the occasional curious car or motorcycle for company.

Normally, touring cyclists hate cobbles! Rattling over them at the end of a long day, they shake your weary bones to the core as you search an historic town centre for your night’s resting place.

But these are Swiss cobbles!

Even in the early 19th century, the Swiss builders had placed the neat square stones so carefully and precisely together, they still made for an incredibly smooth ride down on our strong, thick tyres nearly 200 years later.

The ride up the north side of the Gotthard Pass hadn’t been quite so much fun, and that was nothing to do with the elevation!

We had left Basel just three days earlier on another glorious late summer day, cycling across picture perfect countryside on picture perfect back roads and cycle paths to the picture perfect city of Lucerne and then onwards around the picture perfect lake.

It was stunningly beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.

We stayed overnight at the Beau Rivage, a slightly faded small hotel on Lake Lucerne where Queen Victoria had once rested her weary head.

Leaving the hotel the following morning, the box of Swiss delights became even more sumptuous as we slowly pedalled around the contours of Lake Lucerne before stopping for a coffee in the small lakeside town of Brunnen.

Switzerland is a fascinating country. A small, landlocked oasis of peace, prosperity and neutrality in the heart of Europe, still with four official languages (German, French, Italian and Romansh) and as many distinct cultures.

It really is as clean, efficient and precise as its reputation.

*No wonder the cycle paths are so clean*

*Which means lots of people regularly cycle in Switzerland*

A strong economy and consistent current account surplus, plus a growing reputation as a safe haven currency in uncertain times have dramatically strengthened the Swiss Franc in recent years. Before the 2008 financial crisis £1 would buy a British traveller 2.4 Swiss Francs, now the two currencies are nearing parity.

That has made Switzerland draw-droppingly expensive for that British traveller. Fortunately the country is quite small so it didn’t take us too long to cycle across it!

Clare likened Switzerland to a super-premium IKEA … it’s good quality, it all fits precisely together, it works efficiently and it looks nice … if a tiny bit lacking in character.

But you have to understand how it works.

*Deep, precise, safe, unique electric plug sockets*

Finishing our coffee in Brunnen, we were surprised to join a long traffic jam full of vehicles travelling from Zurich and funnelled onto a single lane road to get up to the tunnel or to go over the pass.

It must have been incredibly frustrating for the motorists, we heard it was taking over 4 hours to get through.

Fortunately for us there was a nice cycle path so we glided past all the traffic trying not to look too smug.

Perhaps we hadn’t properly understood the way Switzerland works as we’d found ourselves being forcefully told off quite a bit since arriving in the country. Clare generally prides herself on being a stickler for rules but even she was told off three times in one day in Basel.

So we were a little nervous when a smiling policeman flagged us down just as the cycle path became a pavement. A pavement which was then blocked by a sign that forced us briefly onto the road in order to manoeuvre our big, heavy bikes around it.

Nein, nein, he said, ist verboten.

Andy smiled back and apologised for not speaking German.

No good, he said, not allowed.

Oh Entschuldigung (sorry), said Andy thinking we weren’t allowed to cycle on the pavement after all, we go on road.

The policeman pointed up the road. OK later, he said, here no good. Too dangerous.

Andy looked up and saw that the pavement was indeed outside the protective cover of the half tunnel that the traffic was crawling through. Ich verstehe (I understand), he said miming rocks falling down, bang on my head.

The policeman nodded sagely.

Danke schön, we waved and joined the traffic queue on the road.

The policeman now became quite animated. Nein, nein, nein, he shouted. Verboten! Verboten! You must go here … pointing at the pavement.

It felt as if the language barrier was just a tiny bit too big to explain that the only reason we’d moved off the pavement and onto the road (for just one moment) … was to get around his bloody sign.

As we set off again on the pavement, once again serenely passing the traffic queue, we were sure that we could hear him chuckling away to his colleagues almost as much as we were. Dummes Englisch Radfahrer!

Shortly after that another cycle path emerged to help us climb the mountain, which only served to increase our sense of superiority.

As usual on a climb, Clare shot ahead. Since we’ve acquired our e-bikes she’s become so much faster at going uphill than Andy, enjoying the significantly better power-to-weight ratio that the motor gives her, even in a lower power setting. Andy is now habitually huffing and puffing in her wake, trying in vain to stay close to her wheel.

But near the top of the climb he found her forlornly contemplating a problem … the cycle path was closed, blocked by a rockfall. We had no choice but to join the busy road through a long tunnel.

The only thing that touring cyclists hate more than cobbles is a road tunnel. Quite rightly we’re normally banned from entering them, but even if we are allowed in, we’ll do anything to avoid one … especially if it’s going uphill, especially if there’s a lot of traffic.

Because Clare was so much faster than Andy, it was difficult to use our normal busy road formation, Clare in front, Andy behind and slightly outside her. So Andy went first setting a slow but steady pace.

The road through the tunnel was very narrow, the drivers were clearly not expecting to find us in there and many of them must have been feeling exhausted by the long traffic jam they’d endured. Probably quite irritated too by the sight of smug cyclists cruising past them on the pavement all day.

Several sounded off their horns in frustration and we had a few close shaves as they squeezed past.

Then a car got too close and brushed against Clare’s pannier knocking her sideways.

Luckily she still doesn’t clip in on both sides on a climb … even after all the thousands of kilometres of bicycle touring she’s done. This meant she could quickly put her foot down and recover her balance, instead of sprawling into the road. Phew!!

*Clare’s tunnel, you can just see the rockfall on the cycle path*

We emerged to find another access point to the cycle path. It was still closed but this time we didn’t care.

This path took us through the Schöllenen Gorge, the greatest engineering challenge of the Gotthard Pass and the reason why it wasn’t used in Roman times, until they eventually managed to build a bridge across the gorge in the 13th Century.

So important was this bridge to complete the trading route that it marked the beginning of the long period of prosperity for the Swiss Confederacy. Prosperity that has ultimately led to it becoming such an expensive country to visit today.

We recharged overnight in the spa and ski resort of Andermatt, ready for the final push up to the pass itself the next morning and then the joyful descent down the precisely laid cobbles of the Tremola.

It was another beautiful sunny day.

But the receptionist at the hotel gave us a wry smile. You must get down quickly, she said, snow is coming.

And she was not wrong. The unusually early season snow arrived the very next day and once it started, it didn’t stop for a week. We later met touring cyclists who were forced to take the high speed train through the big base tunnel to reach Italy, missing the Gotthard and Tremola experience all together.

A massive pothole avoided! How lucky were we!

*Clare being careful to follow the rules on the final ascent to the pass*

*At the top … and into Italian speaking Ticino*

The Gotthard Pass also marks the border between German speaking central Switzerland and the Italian speaking canton of Ticino.

*Map showing the main languages spoken across Switzerland. Photo credit: Wikipedia*

Despite not actually leaving Switzerland, it was amazing to see different road signs, advertising for Trattorias and Osterias and to hear people chatting away in Italian, rather than German. The food definitely improved, with delicious pastas and risottos replacing cheese fondue or wienerschnitzel. But it was still just as expensive and the road surfaces were still super smooth.

The following day we crossed the border from Swiss Italy to Real Italy halfway around Lake Maggiore.

The changes were immediate. Manhole covers were no longer precisely flush with the road … instead they were deep, hazardous pits. Houses looked like they needed a lick of paint. There was the occasional piece of rubbish on the street.

But … the pasta was now a reasonable price, so was the wine, so was the gelati. And there was a lot more vibrancy on the streets, a lot more life, a lot more noise.

*What else would you do first when you cross the border into Real Italy?*

It did feel a lot more real and we immediately loved it.

After all, we had just pedalled across half of Europe and over the Alps to experience Real Italy on a bicycle.

Andiamo! … Let’s go!

Clare & Andy

Bath to Verbania, on Lake Maggiore in Italy

1,480km pedalled (920 miles)

11,792m climbed

78 hours in the saddle

River Deep, Mountain High

If your dream is to slowly pedal a bicycle beside a winding river on a soft early autumnal afternoon, watching a grey heron in graceful flight ahead of you, waving to a passing riverboat and crossing from one side of the river to the other on a tiny bridge … then Eastern France is the right place for you.

Since arriving in Honfleur at the mouth of the Seine, we have cycled besides twelve rivers or their accompanying canals, in order to reach Basel just inside the Swiss border.

As well as La Seine we’ve pedalled alongside L’Ourcq, La Marne, Le Petit Morin, La Vesle, L’Ornain, La Meuse, La Moselle, La Moselotte, La Lauch and L’Ill before reaching the grandaddy of them all, Le Rhin (known to us as the Rhine and an old friend from our ride through Germany a couple of years ago).

The French waterway network is the largest in Europe with over 8500km of navigable routes. Whenever a river is too shallow or too dangerous, they built a canal next door. Today, it’s still possible to travel across France by boat from the Mediterranean to the English Channel or out to the Atlantic.

*We were turning right to Epinal. Turn left and in 353kms you can be in Lyon, canal paths all the way!*

The first waterway of our journey, the Canal d’Ourcq, made it incredibly easy to escape Paris, as we picked it up just 3km from our hotel.

This canal was commissioned by Napoleon, not this time for transport, but in order to keep the city clean. It still supplies about half of the 84 million gallons of water needed to flush out the city’s sewers, gutters and parks every single day.

Leaving the Ourcq, we then followed the gentle curves of the Marne for the next 150 kilometres, winding through Champagne country to Épernay and onto Châlons-en-Champagne.

It was fascinating to see just how many Récoltant-Manipulants are making the famous fizz … small grower producers creating their own single vintage, each with the coveted RM symbol. This is to distinguish them from the major Négociant-Manipulant (NM) houses who buy their grapes from multiple sources so lack the individual vineyard expression that makes a RM champagne so special.

As we pedalled past the rows and rows of vines, we couldn’t help noticing the rose bushes at the end of each one. Roses are particularly sensitive to the dreaded powdery mildew, so act as an early warning system for this greatest threat facing every RM, as it can destroy the whole precious crop if it’s not treated quickly.

We’ve always found French food to be surprisingly lacking in vegetables, so we book apartments as often as we can to cook up a hearty veggie meal. But it was also a real treat to stay in two small family run guesthouses where the hostess provided an evening meal … a delicious tiny peak into French home life.

Powered by this home cooked food and starting to feel fitter now that we’re a couple of weeks into the journey, we’ve increased our rides to between 80 and 100km every day.

Which is a good thing as, to be brutally honest, the rivers, canals and empty French countryside can get a bit samey after a while.

After leaving Champagne, we cycled through part of ‘Le Diagonale du Vide’ (the Empty Diagonal), a huge slice of France with a dramatically low population density, stretching from the Spanish border in the southwest to the Belgium border in the northeast,

*Le Diagonale du Vide, between the dashed lines. Photo Credit: Wikipedia*

There are many reasons why this empty space exists in such a rich, cultural country.

These include the mechanisation of agriculture which led to less rural jobs, the appeal of metropolitan cities and a worldwide human desire to live within driving distance of a coast.

But the biggest reason by far is the huge death toll these areas suffered from in both the Napoleonic Wars and the First World War, which permanently diminished the population.

For modern day touring cyclists there is one very serious consequence of this empty diagonal … nowhere to stop for a coffee!

As we pedalled through village after village we couldn’t find a single shop, bar or a quaint riverside cafe. There’s simply not enough people to sustain them.

And as any cyclist will tell you … there’s nothing worse than no coffee stops.

*No cafes, so the locals have resorted to vending machines*

Fortunately we knew what to expect. We’d cycled through a different part of the empty diagonal before … on our way to Barcelona in 2016.

Clare knew how important it is to pick up a baguette before the Boulangerie closes at midday, she knew she should carry a bit of butter, a slice or two of ham, a piece of fruit. Then voilà, as if by magic she produces the perfect picnic lunch … a delicious Jambon Beurre sandwich to be enjoyed on a bench in a churchyard.

Despite the lack of coffee stops, there is one major compensation for the touring cyclist from the empty diagonal … the extraordinary quality of the country roads and cycle paths, even when there are so few people to use them.

They are simply amazing.

Perfectly smooth, not a pothole in sight, they’re just right for sticking on a podcast, putting you head down and belting along as fast as you can for 100km a day until you reach somewhere that’s a bit more interesting, somewhere with a few cafes.

For us, that somewhere was the Vosges mountains. The range of mountains that lie between Lorraine and Alsace, a region of France that was disputed with Germany for centuries, changing hands many times. It is amazing to encounter so many German place names and traditions (such as bierkellers) in a French province.

We were both looking forward getting up into the forested hill sides, although we knew that our day in the Vosges would involve two substantial climbs with over 1500m of climbing. It would be a test for our legs … and more importantly a test for our batteries.

Initially we nursed the batteries carefully, turning the power off on flat sections and then tackling the first climb in a low power setting. But less battery power meant more leg power.

The hard work on the first hill allowed us to ramp the power up for the second steeper climb, safe in the knowledge that we had a lot of downhill to come towards the end of the day.

It was a Saturday so it was a popular riding day for cyclists. But not only for cyclists … it was popular for motorbikes too, roaring around the switchbacks and over the tops. There were so many bikers that the local Gendarmes were out in force running speed checks and checking papers. It felt like being buzzed by a swarm of wasps.

We reached the ski resort of Jungfrauenkopf (Virgin’s Head) looking forward to the long descent to Jungholtz where we were staying.

But we had only freewheeled for a few metres when Clare heard a nasty noise coming from her back wheel. Stop!! STOPPPPPP!!!, she yelled.

Andy stopped.

My bike’s gone badly wrong!

Andy took a look. The brake disk pads were loose and the holding pin was missing. Then one of the brake pads fell out … not good news at the start of a 1000m descent.

With lots of motorbikes buzzing past there was nowhere safe to stop and Andy was simply feeling too exhausted to take the back wheel off and remove the rest of the mechanism by the side of the road.

Start going down the hill slowly using just the front brake, he suggested, and I’ll watch you carefully from behind. But I’m afraid we still have at least 25km to go.

Clare started going slowly for about 500m. The noise was very loud but it felt a better when she sped up a bit. Soon she was up to her normal descending speed of 40-50km per hour.

That left Andy desperately trying to work out whether she was in any danger. Could the brake spring jam the disk mechanism? he wondered. Surely not, it’s too flimsy. And it’s the back wheel, not the front, so the worst that could happen is she’ll slide to a halt, not be thrown over the handlebars.

Clare made it safely, though noisily, to the bottom. She had 17% battery left, her lowest ever.

Why did you go so fast? asked Andy, feeling very relieved.

You told me I still had 25km to go … and I just wanted to get there!

*Our lovely family run hotel in Jungholtz*

There was no chance of finding an open bike shop the following Sunday morning so in the comfort of the hotel car park, we took the back wheel off and removed both the spring and the remaining brake pad. Clare would only have one brake for the flat ride to Basel that day but at least the noises had stopped.

*Arriving in Basel – this bridge looks out across 3 countries … France, Germany and Switzerland*

On Monday we found a bike shop in Basel. But not just any old bike shop. This was a proper Swiss bike shop with a massive range of parts, a huge workshop and prices to match. Clare’s rear brake was soon replaced, which was just as well with the Alps looming ahead.

*Not just a bike shop … a Swiss bike shop*

Basel itself was a lovely place for a mini city-break in the middle of a bike tour.

We enjoyed the free trams.

We enjoyed the free water fountains dotted throughout the city.

Many of these spout mountain fresh water from the mouths of mythical basilisks. Half cockerel, half serpent, they’re the guardian creatures of Basel. Filling your water bottle can be a dangerous exercise though … as the legend tells us a basilisk can kill you with just one look in your eye.

*Clare is not risking catching the basilisk’s eye*

We also enjoyed the work of a couple of quirky modern artists, thanks to some recommendations by our friend, David.

An exhibition by Vija Celmins, known for her meticulous paintings of natural phenomena such as the ocean, night skies and deserts.

*This Vija Celmins painting of a stony desert made Clare feel relieved she hadn’t chosen to cycle in Morocco after all*

And a museum celebrating the work of Jean Tinguely, famous for his kinetic sculptures … machines built from bits of old junk that move and make a noise.

So how are we getting to the Alps from Basel?

Yes, you’ve guessed it … we’ll be following the rivers again. First the Ergolz, then the Aare, the Tych and finally the Reuss.

After all, they’re pretty good mountain guides!

Clare and Andy

Bath to Basel

1129km pedalled

7923m climbed

59 hours in the saddle

Ooh La La

What do you do when you’ve finally achieved your dream?

When we last posted in November 2024, we had just cycled across Europe from Bath to Istanbul, the bicycle journey we’d been dreaming of ever since we first clipped into our pedals back in 2016.

But, much to our surprise, we found ourselves wanting more. We weren’t done with bicycle touring yet, especially now that we’d discovered the extra joy of e-bikes.

Clare was dreaming of an African adventure to Morocco. Of ticking off another continent.

Having enjoyed a taste of Italy on the way back from Istanbul, Andy’s head was full of pasta lunches, cold Italian white wine and delicious gelato.

*Memories of Tagliatelle with Black Truffles*

So we checked out Morocco first. Yes, said Andy having researched possible routes, it’s do-able and the mountains will be fun. But honestly, the rest looks a bit boring … there’s an awful lot of stony desert. Please take a look and see what you think.

So Clare checked it out too. Great for a cycling holiday in the Atlas Mountains, she thought, but it doesn’t really look so appealing for a long distance e-bike tour. Too many hot dusty roads, too much busy traffic, some big gaps in accommodation. Plus some female touring cyclists do talk about getting a bit of hassle.

The pasta and wine lunches started to look a bit more tempting for her too.

So right now, we’re back on our e-bikes and are intending to pedal from Bath to Rome.

It’s still quite an adventure … over 3000km through England, France, Switzerland and Italy. Over the Alps as well.

And back through Spain. As we can’t fly home with e-bikes our return plan is to take a ferry from Rome to Barcelona, cycle across the foothills of the Pyrenees to Bilbao, then jump onto another ferry back to Portsmouth.

Before embarking on such a long trip, the bikes needed a full electrical check-up and a proper service. We took them to Tom at Green Park Bike Station who did an excellent job … he is highly recommended to our Bath based readers. And it was just as well we did, as Clare’s Bosch power control unit turned out to be faulty.

Imagine if that broke down while she was crossing the Alps?

After a very dry summer, the weather broke just as we were about to depart, with bands of rain coming in from the Atlantic fuelled by the remnants of Hurricane Erin.

We were lucky to dodge the showers from Bath to Winchester where we enjoyed an evening catching up with Ian and Nicola, old friends from when we lived there in the 1990’s.

Leaving Winchester Andy had forgotten that Komoot (our navigation App) has a deep mistrust of roads it thinks might be busy with traffic and will reroute us away from them at every opportunity. Often this means directing us down a narrow, rutted track when there’s a perfectly nice minor road nearby.

When we’re bicycle touring he checks this carefully every day. But we weren’t yet in the swing of things so Andy was out of practise.

We found ourselves pedalling up a steep, narrow, stony walking path with thick brambles on either side … just to avoid a roundabout. A roundabout we knew was totally safe for cyclists.

Just over half way up, Andy ducked under a leafy branch hanging across the path. But it wasn’t a leafy branch, it was a thick bough, which knocked him on the helmet and sent him tumbling violently sideways into the prickly brambles.

He managed to clamber out with only a few scratches but his bike was less lucky.

The twisting fall had snapped something inside his suspension seat post which was now moving alarmingly from side to side. No matter, said Andy, I’ll sort out a replacement in Portsmouth before we get the ferry.

We arrived at the hotel just as the rain set in. Leaving Clare behind to enjoy the warmth, Andy set of to explore the bike shops of Portsmouth in search of a new seat post.

Unfortunately they did not cover themselves in seat post glory …

Number 1 said he’d had a recent run on seat posts and didn’t have the right size. Helpfully he gave Andy a note of the size (27.2) … so he could find it elsewhere.

Number 2 was also out of stock of 27.2’s (but he might have had some larger ones?)

Number 3 had a 27.2 (hurray) but then told Andy it was the wrong size when he tried to fit it. Andy actually needed a 30.9 … but he was out of stock of those.

Number 4 was closed for his holidays (fair enough).

Number 5 didn’t have a 30.9 but he did have a 30.8 which he reckoned would be alright. He then broke the existing tightening bolt but managed to find a replacement at the back of his drawer.

Job done … but it was a very wet and bedraggled Andy that limped back to the hotel 2 hours later.

The next afternoon, after a pleasant ferry crossing, we were happily cycling along the Normandy coast from Ouistreham to Honfleur when Andy felt his saddle suddenly give way beneath him as it sank into the frame of the bike. He stopped to raise it, tightening the bolt as hard as he could. A few minutes later it happened again, then again and again.

The trouble was Andy’s bottom was acting like a pile driver with every bump he went over.

So he started riding as lightly as he could on his saddle, standing up over even the tiniest of bumps, avoiding every pothole as much as possible.

It was an obstacle course … and it was surprising to find out just how many bumps and cracks there are on an apparently smooth road.

Honfleur, on the Seine estuary, is a gem. Ports don’t come any prettier. Colourful half-timbered houses jostle for position on the quays, alongside art galleries and restaurants.

That night Andy read about a hack for sinking seat post syndrome, a little piece of electrical tape to provide more traction plus some duck tape to create a ridge.

This was great news as tape is an important spare part for any touring cyclist so we had plenty of it with us.

But all it did was change a sudden saddle drop into a slow sinking feeling on what turned out to be a long and challenging ride from Honfleur to Rouen. It reminded Andy of riding his old Raleigh Chopper bike as a kid!

For much of the day we followed the Routes des Chaumières (the Thatched Cottage Route) through the delightful Normandy countryside, each cottage topped with that unique local tradition …. a line of irises to take up moisture and help bind the thatch together.

Then onto the Seine à Vélo, a cycle path that follows the river around it’s huge, sweeping bends, crossing over from time to time. Many cargo ships ply this part of the Seine so bridges are rare and in their place are several little free ferries called bacs.

Our route included three bacs and meant we could cut across some of the biggest bends. But when we arrived at the first bac it was closed because of an ‘operating incident’, back as normal tomorrow.

No matter … it was only a 10km deviation to get the next bac further upstream. That was closed too. Now it was 30km to get around the next bend. At least the sun was still shining.

Disconsolately we pedalled on and soon reached a point where we had a choice between a rough river path or a short but precipitously steep hill. There was a local man walking his dog. He pointed to the hill, shaking his head.

Vous n’y monter là-haut, n’est-ce pas? (You’re not going up there, are you?)

Même les cyclistes français ne font pas ça! (Even French cyclists don’t do that!)

Without admitting that she was riding an e-bike, Clare gave him a cheery wave and shot up the hill.

Ooh La La! he exclaimed, clearly impressed. He peered at Andy suspiciously … et vous?

As discretely as possible, Andy switched on turbo power and selected his lowest gear before staggering slowly up the 20% hill. Expecting to hear the man’s surprise at the extraordinary strength of British cyclists, all Andy got was …

Anglais, votre selle est trop basse! (Englishman, your saddle is too low!)

When Andy reached the top, feeling somewhat exhausted, Clare quietly admitted that she hadn’t even used turbo … Ooh La La! indeed.

To our great relief the 3rd bac was working but as we cycled to Rouen, the heavy rain eventually caught up with us. As Andy was sitting so low on his bike, a small, stagnant pond started to appear in his lap. He was sure he could see a couple of tadpoles frolicking around.

The next morning, we took Andy’s bike to an excellent Rouen bike shop. They explained that Portsmouth Number 5 had done a botch job, not only was the seat post too small but the bolt he’d used was also the wrong size.

The French mechanics carefully replaced the seat post with exactly the right size, added a brand new bolt and coated it in friction paste for extra grip before testing it carefully to make sure it would hold. It might have been a lot more expensive but it was a much better experience.

After Rouen, our next stop was Giverny, the small village where Claude Monet created his home of 43 years, together with a truly remarkable garden that includes the famous lily pond that he then proceeded to paint over 250 times. The garden was just as stunning as the paintings, even on a cloudy day.

On previous visits to Paris, we’d always thought that Versailles was too far out of town to include on our itinerary. But this time we’d be cycling right by it so it would be rude not to stop and take a look.

As well as the staterooms and the famous hall of mirrors, we particularly enjoyed seeing Little Trianon, Marie Antoinette’s refuge from the stifling formality of court life. And the Queens Hamlet, a peculiar play-farm she had built to recreate the charms of rural life with a windmill and a dairy sitting right next to her salon and boudoir.

Having read in the newspaper that Paris mayor Anne Hidalgo was working hard to clean up the city, improve air quality and make it cycling friendly, we decided to ride through the city centre, rather than give it a wide berth.

And the first signs were encouraging … well marked bicycle lanes, even on the busiest roads.

Andy persuaded Clare to join him on a magical mystery tour of the famous sights on the way to our hotel.

She enjoyed cycling around the Eiffel Tower.

She didn’t object to the incredibly long queue to see the newly refurbished Nôtre Dame.

She even enjoyed cycling up the Champs Elyesees.

But when she started following Andy around the chaos of the Arc de Triomphe at rush hour, she decided enough was enough!

There are lots of people on bicycles in Paris, she thought, but only one of them is trying to ride around the biggest, busiest roundabout in the world. My crazy husband!

Paris did have one sting in the tail. For the first time in 10 years of bicycle touring and over 300 overnight stays, our Paris hotel charged us for bicycle storage. Quite a whack too … €17 per bike per night, adding up to €68 for a couple of nights.

Everyone we’ve mentioned this to gives a little Gallic shrug and says That’s Paris … but should they really get away with stuff like this, just because it’s Paris? We managed to negotiate the rate down by half … but even so!

By far the best bit of our short stay in Paris was the late night show at the Moulin Rouge.

It was 90 minutes of magic, a whirlwind of feathers, sequins and legs from the incredibly professional dancers, interspersed with strength, virtuosity and humour from their guest artists. And the main highlight? The iconic, timeless Can-Can!

As they might say in Paris … Ooh La La!

Clare and Andy

Bath to Paris

507km pedalled (350 miles)

3,735m climbed

28 hours in the saddle