Author: Mark

Like Savannah before it, I was reluctant, and therefore slow, to leave Charleston. I had enjoyed its historic charms and could happily have lingered. But I am operating to a schedule and my destination further up the coast, Georgetown, was over 80 miles of cycling away. There were puddles on the ground as I left, a sign of overnight rain. This morning the skies were cloudy and the forecast contained the threat of rain for the first time on this entire trip. It was time to move.

I paused in the old city market in Charleston to grab some breakfast, but also to get a long overdue beard trim. And then I was off, cycling up and over the Arthur J Ravenel Suspension bridge over the broad Cooper River, and then spinning off into suburban streets to avoid the larger highways. It was all very well to do on this side of the water, but modern and ubiquitous development that could have been anywhere in the USA. I was surprised after a few miles to bump into my East Coast cycling acquaintances from a couple of days ago, Emma and Sequoia. They had caught me up over my rest day and fate had thrown us together again, guitar and all. We rode together for a few miles and then parted when I chose to head away from their busier route in search of quieter back roads. A few miles later, I found the solitude I was hoping for, and I was very glad.

For the next couple of hours at least I was alone on roads that took me through endless pine woods. Unlike other rural roads in recent days, there were almost no homes along here. I felt I could have been miles from anywhere. In the middle of nowhere I came across a ruined wooden church next to which was a graveyard still in use. This was Halfway Creek Church. It was a moving spot, so quiet and removed from the busy highways and towns, surrounded by nature, and apparently half abandoned. There was nothing for miles either side until I reached a small road junction where a village of sorts was scattered. All I saw apart from houses was a small, pretty white church, an even smaller fire station house, the size of a single garage, and a large furniture store whose sign read “prices are born here and raised elsewhere”.

It was another hour before I was reunited with the wider world as my empty road reached route 17 once again. A Circle K gas station and store occupied the junction and I was ready for refuelling. While I was staring at the doughnut selection, a voice asked how far I was riding. A rather unlikely looking man, whom I would judge to be older than I am, turned out to be on his way towards Key West to start his own cycling trip. He sounded like he was an old hand at these big trips. He rode a recumbent bike, which is both lower and wider than mine. Neither of these factors sounded good for riding along the fringes of some of America’s bigger and busier highways. He said he usually has his dog with him on the bike, but had not brought it this time. He was from Ohio and had vague plans to cycle west across Florida and then up the Mississippi valley.

The weather now was sunny and hot and any sign of rain had disappeared for the moment. I had put on sun cream a couple of hours ago. But I felt an urge to finish off the remaining miles as quickly as possible, so I rode 26 fast, wind assisted miles in top gear along route 17, a broad divided highway that was mercifully light on traffic. The miles disappeared, but so too did the sunshine. By the time Georgetown arrived, it seemed wise to get inside. Sightseeing here would have to wait. I arrived dry at my Airbnb, but they were concerned about me getting caught in a storm that was apparently due quite soon. Sure enough, within the hour there was thunder and lightning and some rain. I wouldn’t have enjoyed being out in that!

After some deliberation, I have decided that this is the point from which tomorrow I will head north, away from the coast in the direction of Washington DC. I expect that to take another seven days. That feels like a milestone. I have more or less stayed along the coast, or close to it, up to this point. I’m approaching a thousand miles now on this trip so far. Tomorrow it will be April, so I have twenty days left, of which I might be cycling for fifteen. That means tomorrow I should be about half way to Boston by most measures. It still feels very far away!

I set out from Beaufort expecting another day of cycling along the shoulder of busy highways. But, not so! Today began with six miles of traffic free cycle path, and became a succession of pretty back lanes and quiet roads through more flat, swampy, forested countryside. At times I had them all to myself. It was quite a contrast to the last couple of days of riding. These long, straight, largely empty roads kept me away from the much busier main route 17, which in any case seemed to be truck-free today on the short sections I couldn’t avoid. There seemed to be very little in the way of proper settlements or services during today’s eighty miles. I was on my own.

The network of smaller roads took me past a succession of rural dwellings, but they were sufficiently spread out that rarely did you get a proper sense of arriving anywhere. The homes were mostly rather run down and many were just large trailers or mobile homes that in some cases had been extended. They didn’t lack for land, or vehicles, but together gave the general impression that this was not an affluent area. Despite the lack of a store or gas station or any other sign of community, almost all of these long roads featured regular roadside churches and chapels, sometimes as often as a every mile. They were mostly quite simple affairs, but well cared for, neat and tidy, with a large sign outside to identify one from its neighbour.

But the big revelation today was the presence of vast quantities of purple flowering wisteria all along the roadside. It was stunning. I have never seen it on such a truly magnificent scale before. There were places where it spread right up to the canopy of the tall pine trees, engulfing the trunks in colour. I’m used to seeing it around a doorway at home, or along the walls of a house. But here in South Carolina, the stuff grows unchecked. It’s pretty amazing.

I found refreshment at a couple of gas station convenience stores when I reached major road junctions, but I was almost into the US equivalent of “never pass an open cafe”. So when the chance arose I indulged in the unhealthy wares of a Circle K, with its vast array of fridges and shelves of junk food. I needed it, I told myself, and I was probably right.Things picked up a little in the last twenty miles before Charleston, as I passed through the linear town of Hollywood. I wouldn’t be fooled by the name, though. It wasn’t glamorous. And then the day ended as it had begun, with the last few miles on a linear bike path that ran right up to where I was staying. It took me through more swampy, salty, tidal creeks where people were out fishing on the fringes of the Ashley River. And then suddenly I was surrounded by the usual strip development of fast food and motels that marks the beginning of any American town, and I had arrived.

I knew that not seeing Charleston would be a huge missed opportunity so I had found a cheap motel in these unprepossessing outskirts (next to a McDonalds and across the street from a Taco Bell) and booked in for two nights. As with Savannah, I was very glad that I did. I took an Uber into the historic part of town on Sunday morning and spent the whole day there until after dinner. There was plenty to enjoy.

Charleston goes back to the seventeenth century when English settlers arrived in these shores for the first time. In 1690 the first town, Charles Town – named after the present King Charles II – was laid out on the peninsula it still occupies today. It soon became one of the most important strongholds in the American colonies. It has seen plenty of conflict over the years, being at the centre of both the Revolutionary and the American Civil wars. In the 1860s the Union lay siege to Charleston – as it was renamed post-independence – and reduced many of the older buildings to ruins. But today, there are many streets of beautiful Antebellum homes and churches, many dating back to the mid 1700s, and it has a graceful, almost timeless feel. The biggest street, Broad Street, runs right across the peninsula from one side to the other, and below this the city is exclusively residential.

It is small enough to explore on foot, and many of the buildings have historical plaques explaining their origin and ownership over the years. The great and good all lived here, including several signatories of the Declaration of Independence. Many of the home are brick built, with sweeping porches and columns along one side, and wooden shutters beside every window. The gardens the properties enclose are delightful, too, containing plants that ranged from flowering cherry blossom to palm trees. There were lots of flowers, too. It was about as nice as city living gets. Horses pulled carriages of interested visitors slowly around these streets, adding to the scene. There was nothing out of place, except for the cars parked in the streets, and I could have taken hundreds of pictures. A lot of the homes were painted in different pastel shades, adding subtle colour to the rows of homes. One particular parade of houses is known as rainbow row, but there is nothing garish about any of it. Even the smaller alleyways that run between the larger streets are like stylish London mews. I loved it.

Above Broad Street was the commercial part of the old city. Here, too, are attractive buildings, wide stone pavements, trendy shops and a Covent Garden like City Market. Nothing apart from the many spires and towers of Charleston’s churches rises above its neighbour, making it all feel like it belongs together. Anything modern has been kept at a safe distance. You get as good a sense as you can in 2025 of how aa city like this would have been before the modern era. It has had its ups and downs: not only the ravages of war, but also a major earthquake in 1886, the most destructive in the history of the eastern USA. But Charleston appears to have fallen on good times today.

At the end of my time in Charleston, I walked from the waterfront all the way north up King Street, the principal shopping thoroughfare. This marked the start of the original King’s Highway, a road ordered by Charles II to link together Charleston and Boston, by way of Philadelphia and New York. It’s route will be something close to the route I now have ahead of me, starting tomorrow. It is 600 miles from fhere to Washington DC. I hope to reach it in a week or so, before my next rest day. First, there is much work to do!

The journey from Savannah to Charleston, my next stopover, is too far for a single day of cycling. The only place of note in between is Beaufort (pronounced Byewfurt) and I was told by local folk, correctly, that it was worth seeing. This much smaller historic coastal city came at the end of the shorter of two unequal days of cycling, so I was in no hurry to leave lovely Savannah. I found a bike shop right in the old centre and called in for a couple of small items and a chat. They were lovely people and gave me some banana bread!

You can leave Savannah by free ferry across the wide river, but you can’t avoid the traffic for long. There were better and worse sections but no real respite, and in most directions there was just swamp and open water. At a supermarket half way along I bumped into a young couple of cyclists who were the first people I had met so far doing the same trip as me. They were doing it more slowly and carrying all manner of additional luxury items on their bikes, including a guitar! They were very cheerful, but they agreed they didn’t need everything they were carrying. So far we really haven’t had any hills to contend with. That usually makes all the difference. I wish them well in their journey.

I reached my motel on the edge of Beaufort in the late afternoon and ditched my bags. A fancy cycle track, the Spanish Moss Trail, passed right by and transported me easily down to the tip of the peninsula and the small coastal village of Port Royal. It was a beautiful, quiet spot with large houses surrounded by old live oak trees, and lovely views out across the lagoon towards the low sun. But best was the area just before the road reached the end. Here you could walk out across a boardwalk to view a huge rookery of wading birds that were gathering to nest in trees on small islands in an area called Cypress Wetlands. The place was alive with noise and activity. Storks flew low over our heads carrying large branches for their nests, landing next to their partner on surprisingly spindly trees that were already full to overloaded with storks, different types of egret, ibis and smaller birds. The taller trees behind were festooned with hundreds of white birds. It was truly a spectacle that I stumbled upon quite by accident at just the right time of year. What a treat. In the lake are turtles and alligators, which keep other animals like raccoon and otters away from the nests, so the site is perfect. Word had clearly got out!

I just had time to get a few miles back up to the historic centre of Beaufort, with its grand old mansions and pretty waterfront, where I bought an ice cream. As the sky turned orange, the colours were reflected in the calm water, and a large porpoise popped up above the surface to say good evening. Which all seemed highly appropriate.

I still haven’t seen a hill in ten days of cycling up the east coast of America. But today I certainly saw plenty of traffic. Sometimes, it can be hard to avoid in this country. There seem to be main roads and dirt roads, but often there isn’t much in between. Dirt roads in this part of Georgia means sand, and it can be like riding on ice, especially with my panniers. After a short experiment, I decided firmly this wasn’t an option, however much Google Maps wanted to encourage the practice. We have history. When it is good, it is a very helpful app indeed. But when it is bad, it can be horrid! I learned that fact two years ago in the deep gravel of Washington state. I don’t want a repeat.

Instead, I was resigned to more than I would have liked today cycling on the shoulder of a four lane highway. There was plenty of space for me to the right of all the traffic. We were never in each other’s way. But the constant noise is not relaxing, and the trucks – even when they give you a whole lane of space – are big and angry looking. It wasn’t all like that, but today was the first day I have had to put up with it for many miles, and it isn’t something I would choose to repeat. The stretches in between were pleasant enough, with more of yesterday’s swampy pine forests and a couple of larger towns, Hinesville and Richmond Hill.

I had an odd experience in Hinesville. I made a left turn on a suburban road, past a supermarket, then a school, and then some new housing estates. It all seemed quite normal. And then a couple of miles along the road I suddenly came, without notice, to the entrance to a military base, Fort Stewart. The road continued and a lot of the traffic did too, but it turned out you needed a pass, which obviously I didn’t have. On the map it all looked quite normal. But the guards at the gate pleasantly but firmly said I had to turn around. So that was an extra four miles I could have lived without! It was another lovely day and I didn’t really mind, except that there really wasn’t anything to tell me I couldn’t use this road – because I checked when I found myself back by the supermarket. Is that too much to ask?

I made it comfortably to the edge of Savannah and found my pleasant motel. I was still a ten minute Uber ride from the historic city centre, but it was the only affordable choice for the long distance adventure cyclist. I duly got my lift into the old part of town to get some dinner, and was pleased to discover my driver, a Jamaican, was a lifelong Liverpool FC fan with a special fondness for John Barnes. It’s fun to chat to these people. It always seems to take at least a couple of times of me saying that I cycled here from Key West for it to sink in. Not surprising, perhaps, given that I have now covered 800 miles.

I saw a line of people a block long leading to Leopold’s ice cream shop on busy Broughton Street in downtown Savannah, so after I found some dinner I returned to see why. The queue had gone at 9.30pm, so I went inside and treated myself to a double waffle cone. First, it was huge. Second, it was divine. One of the best ice cream eating experiences I have ever had, which is saying something. I slept well.

I had already planned to take a day off and see Savannah. I am so glad that I did. By day it is truly a beautiful city. Apparently it gets uncomfortably hot and humid here during the summer months; but it was perfect for me. Sunshine and blue skies, warm but not hot. The city is built around more than twenty large green squares and parks, and the genteel streets in between are shaded by huge old live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss. The mid nineteenth century houses are beautiful, with balconies, turrets and iron railings aplenty. Many squares have a pretty church or some other large civic building to photograph. Most have either a statue or a fountain, or both. There were bright pink azaleas everywhere. There is so much to admire. I wandered around for most of the afternoon and never got tired of it.

And then there is the riverfront, where old, multi level brick warehouses and a power station have now been converted into into hotels and restaurants alongside a cobbled riverfront walk. Upstream is a large, modern suspension bridge leading into South Carolina, and beyond that are huge docks. A massive container ship sailed slowly past as I watched. Inside the old power station is a full size, shiny metal cast of a brontosaurus, dominating what is also perhaps the funkiest, fossil filled hotel lobby I have ever seen.

Savannah had been on my list for many years. It exceeded my already high expectations. I would be tempted to say it has been the highlight of my journey so far. I will see it all again in the morning as I leave, and I will be sad to go. But go I must, into my third state. There is still a very long way ahead of me.

Today was my first day of cycling away from the Florida coast, and it was a completely different experience. My route took me inland a little and across an area that I think is know as the Pinelands. It certainly contains a large number of pine trees, and is otherwise a combination of sandy and swampy country alongside the long, mostly empty roads. For much of the day I didn’t really pass through anywhere of significance.

Kingsland turned out to be just a small high street on a quiet intersection, apart from the motel and gas station village by the interstate. Pleasant little Woodbine, an hour up the wide, empty highway, was smaller still, but it did have an open cafe that provided me with an overdue breakfast. They were cooking up burgers on a BBQ on the sidewalk, and the local sheriff stopped by for something to eat. He declared himself bored, and I could see why that might be. It was a quiet place. My approach to Woodbine was along an old railway trail that culminated in an avenue of live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, and then a boardwalk bridge that made it halfway across the broad, blue Satilla River before abruptly stopping.

Back on the highway and over the newer bridge, I headed on past small, run down homes with pickup trucks parked randomly outside and yards full of junk. Some of the properties were neat and tidy, but many were quite dilapidated. This was a different America. At a large intersection that made up most of the community of Atkinson, I stopped at a welcome roadside sandwich shop – little more that a shed with wooden tables outside – and fell into a long and interesting conversation with the guy who popped his head out of the small window where they took the orders. He was at least my age, was from Dallas, and had lived in various places. He had family in England and spoke fondly of past trips to visit them. But his fondest memories were of kindergarten in Japan, where he was the only child out of sixteen (he said) who was not the offspring of a US serviceman and a geisha! Besides that we bonded over British 80s bands that were his favourite music growing up, especially the Human League. He knew about several 80s bands from Sheffield and I was very impressed. It was a meeting of minds. He was also the first local person I have met who spoke openly – and disparagingly – about the current White House administration.

The rest of the journey to Jesup was long and very straight. But it passed. I counted down the mile markers and stopped every five or so for a drink and a quick rest. After five miles I met an old guy outside his house, who seemed surprised to see me and even more surprised by what I was doing. He told me to keep my door locked in Jesup. At least I think he did. He appeared to have no teeth under his droopy grey moustache. But Jesup doesn’t feel like the kind of place where bad people are. It feels like a lot of people here live under some level of constant fear. Even my exuberant Human League friend talked about there being lots of crazy people around. A common refrain I hear is “stay safe”. I’m glad people care about me, but I do feel safe, the same as I did when I cycled right across America in 2023. People seem friendly and well meaning. I hope my feelings aren’t misplaced.

I enjoyed today. The weather was about perfect for cycling, the breeze helpful, and in this top corner of NE Florida I passed through a greater proportion of natural landscapes. It continued to be flat, but there were some sweeping views across estuaries and coastal wetlands, and I even came across a large, wild tortoise by the side of the cycle trail!

Before that, soon after lunch, I picked up my first ferry of the trip across the St John’s River. Any trip is made better by a ferry, even when it is all over in less than ten minutes. Breakfast and lunch were simple but extremely pleasant affairs enjoyed outdoors, and – except for some unavoidable busy roads towards the end between Amelia Island and Interstate 95 – it was all a delight, and a slightly different side of Florida than the previous seven days. The beaches today were of the whitest sand and wouldn’t have looked it of place in the Outer Hebrides. In that department at least, Florida is truly blessed.

It has taken me eight long days to cycle from a Key West to the border with Georgia, and a new state. Already, within five miles, people sound very different. The two people who served me dinner and ice cream tonight sounded like they came from the Deep South. I hadn’t heard that twang in Florida, where more often I would be hearing Spanish, or at least accented English. There was also a warmth and politeness about these people that I liked. One waitress gave me a free bottle of root beer to take back to my motel, and the other girl made me a Dairy Queen Blizzard even though the restaurant was actually closed. I will be in Georgia for a few more days, so we will see what else lies ahead. I’m staying tonight in a motel by an interstate junction, and for the first time this trip I am surrounded by a forest of tall plastic signs, all competing to attract passing motorists to their motel, restaurant or gas station, all of which are present here in abundance. I was able to walk across the driveways to get dinner.

Saint Augustine is the oldest continuously occupied European settled city in the USA. And it is very proud of it! It was founded in 1565 and was also the site of the first Catholic Mass. The city was founded 55 years before the Pilgrim Fathers arrived in New England, and was under Spanish or British rule for longer than it has been a part of the USA. It also contains the oldest masonry building in the continental US, Fort Marcos, which has guarded the city for centuries and withstood every attack.

But there is much more to see here, and a lot of the most interesting buildings date from the late 19th century, when it was developed by Henry Flagler, a business associate of John D Rockefeller, to create a southern riviera destination accessible by railroad. His idea was a great success and there are several buildings that grace the small city centre that were for many years among the most splendid hotels of their age. They are now college buildings and the City Hall, but once played host to the rich and famous, providing the most opulent surroundings. The most flamboyant was the Hotel Ponce de Leon, which is an architectural extravaganza, with towers, a dome, courtyards and the largest private collection of Tiffany glass in the world. Tiffany himself was the interior designer. The students for whom this is now home are lucky indeed.

I walked around Fort San Marcos with the hoards and enjoyed the views of the river and the access to the sea that it protected. The Spanish had all angles covered with canon crossfire. Apparently there is also something special about the soft stone from which it is built that allowed it to withstand bombardment in times of siege.

Before Florida was ceded to the United States, this city was exchanged in various wars and treaties between the Spanish and the British, and the complete history is a complicated affair. There was much coming and going of people, including pirates, slaves, native Americans, missionaries and invading forces. Black people have lived here for centuries, both free and enslaved in parallel, and slavery continued to be practiced here until 1862 after the American Civil War. Today there was a great deal of Spanish being spoken in the streets and every information sign and leaflet was in both English and Spanish.

Overall it is a likeable place on a human scale: easily walkable with many car free streets and fine buildings. It has a lovely riverside setting with a large, many arched bridge that opens for boats to pass through, and several fine churches. The streets are also lined with live oaks, big native trees which live hundreds of years and are coated in long, wispy cobweb like strands of Spanish moss.

It was a place not to miss and I am glad took a day out to see it. It is back to the road tomorrow for my final day in Florida.

St Augustine is the oldest city in the USA. It was founded in the 1560s and it has an old world feel to its historic centre that stretches along the broad riverfront. All of this was evident as I ended my journey here today – an unusually quaint and attractive finish to another day that took me in the straightest of straight lines northbound for 67 more miles.

You couldn’t say any of that about Daytona Beach, where my day got going on this most perfect of mornings. Of all the sections of the Florida coast I have so far seen, this is probably the least lovely. It’s OK, and the firm, long, sandy beach is a delight (even for car drivers, who are allowed to take their cars on the sand!). But the architecture is instantly forgettable and it was the first place I had seen significant numbers of closed businesses. Overall you might say it was more Blackpool than St Tropez, which is perhaps why I was able to get such a great breakfast this morning at the very popular Cracked Egg Diner. It was the best cup of tea I have enjoyed all week.

As with all of the other days so far, the vast majority of the Florida coastline I passed today is heavily developed. The first ten miles or so were a succession of Comfort Inns, Holiday Inns, Best Westerns, 7 Elevens and outlandish crazy golf courses. Then for a while the buildings got smaller and retreated to the land side of the road only. I reached a more traditional seaside town, with colourfully modest residences, called Flagler Beach, where for several miles there was major work taking place to restore the sand dunes. But even near here, a lot of the beach was private, accessible only to residents via chained off entry points.

Later in the afternoon, things got very exclusive as I passed huge, gated golfing beach communities set away from the main road. It looked very nice, but I really felt I didn’t belong here, being neither a golfer nor sufficiently wealthy (not a complaint on either account, just obvious facts). There was a beautiful river estuary and a few undeveloped state country parks, and then I was on the edge of St Augustine. And a good thing, too, because I had a dinner appointment tonight with an old work colleague from London who has been living out here for the past twelve years. The power of Facebook!

St Augustine was busy tonight with visitors. We went out for food and beer and had a walk around the old streets and buildings. I need to give it more time tomorrow, because this feels like a place of some significance, not to be rushed. I may even stay another night because prices are low on Sunday evening and I should still get to Savannah on Wednesday evening from here whether I start out later tomorrow or not. It’s very tempting!

At Cocoa Beach, a large and not so exclusive holiday resort, my direct route north finally ended. Above here, you reach land belonging to NASA and access is heavily restricted. So I cycled across the penultimate bridge and headed up a lakeshore road a little inland. Unfortunately I went early, before I had reached the mainland, and managed only to reach the last of the east-west bridges as it crossed Merritt Island. This was a much busier road that bore more resemblance to a motorway. No matter, though, because as is often the case in the US, there was a frontage road that ran parallel to it, serving businesses. This was quiet and cycle friendly and served my purposes very well for a couple of miles. Then I reached a fence and signs belatedly telling me that that a bridge was out and the road was closed. Oh. Thanks for that.

There was nothing to do except turn around and ride back where I had come from. Half a mile back in the wrong direction was a marina and waterside restaurant, Dixie Belle’s Grill and Bar, and I remembered that I hadn’t really had any breakfast. I made the decision to stop and get at least some value from this frustrating detour, and it was a good move. They served up a tasty brunch while I admired all of the fancy yachts, including many smaller craft that appeared to be stacked on several levels in what I took to be huge boat warehouses! This country continues to surprise me.

I still had to ride the extra miles and put up with cycling on the shoulder alongside the trucks – and into a strong wind – but it was over quite soon. Where the roadside pavement came to a very sudden halt, I took the next turn north, which pointed me towards Kennedy Space Center. And that is exactly where, a few miles later on, I found myself, on the closest public road to the Florida coast. I got close enough to see some rocket shapes sticking up into the air, and a sign telling me the name of Astronaut of the Day (really!). I don’t know how you win that particular award, but today’s lucky astronaut was the wonderfully named Heidemarie Stefanyshyn-Piper. Luckily it was a very big sign. They had signs at the visitor entrance counting down from 10 every twenty yards or so; but my business today required me to head elsewhere. So I continued past the shiny new campuses of well known air industry names like Airbus and Lockheed, and headed west into a fierce wind towards the huge NASA Causeway bridge to take me back to the mainland and route one. Turning north again brought almost instant relief.

I felt like I had worked hard already today, but I still had 55 miles to go and it was hot. Unless I wanted to add even more miles, the only sensible route now was to stay on, or close to, route one. That made for perhaps the least scenic part of my trip so far and I pretty much put my head down and ground out the miles. There were just a couple of highlights. First, as I was getting hungry, I happened upon a small roadside beer garden. It was really just a shady outdoor bar with stools all around it, next to a small caravan that acted as a kitchen. Two young girls were running things and the customers all looked like they had arrived on motorbikes. It was cheap and friendly and served at least one decent beer and a wicked BLT sandwich. I got chatting to one of the older guys next to me, who was originally from western Pennsylvania, like my wife, Jenni. There was a mutual interest in beer and travel, and the time passed easily. We even drank the same beer: Yuengling (also from PA), which I recommend in a crisis, if you can get it. It comes from the oldest brewery in the USA.

My other highlight came in the very pleasant small town of New Smyrna Beach, towards the end of my day. In the attractive Main Street they were holding a street fair, with all kinds of interesting stalls and a live bluegrass band. It was what I think of as the best of American small town life. On a side street were the preserved petrol pumps of a classic 1960s (or before) gas station that looked straight out of a Wes Anderson movie. All very pleasing.

I arrived an hour later at my quiet Airbnb in a suburban estate in Port Orange, close to Daytona Beach. This would be my home for two nights and a day while I – and my uncharacteristically sore undercarriage – enjoyed a well earned rest and caught up on unfinished business. And then it would be onward and upward to St Augustine on Saturday.

This trip has involved a lot of cycling in a straight line, but today was about as straight as it gets. As soon as I had crossed my first drawbridge, from Fort Pierce onto Jack Island, a long, thin strip of sand dunes and mangrove swamps running north to south, I barely deviated all day. Seventy straight miles of flat now followed, a lot of which looked very similar. Every hour or so I would stop at a beach access point and see what was otherwise just out of sight. The beaches were always beautiful, with white sand, turquoise water and crashing waves. The currents are strong here and there were red flags flying today warning people of the dangers.

I found a couple of pleasant places for sustenance. One was a small beach cafe with brightly painted wooden tables and benches. The latter, on the shores of the Indian River – the Intracoastal Waterway – was a more fancy German style cafe. It all felt a little incongruous but their apple tart with ice cream and dark German beer was pretty convincing. These places came along quite rarely on a day when roadside development was at a minimum on the islands. I also stopped at a turtle protection education centre. This twenty mile stretch of beach is internationally important for Green Turtles, among others, as a nesting site and there are significant efforts being made to help them. These include a ban on artificial lights within sight of the beaches during nesting season, which starts in May. I also visited an education centre for manatees yesterday. It sits on the shores of the Indian River, closer to much greater human population and widespread boat use. Needless to say, neither of these iconic species are doing as well as they were for the previous 150 million years before humans came along. At least they have some friends.

I made a couple of new friends today, albeit briefly. First I was towed along by a local cyclist who overtook me on a very expensive bike, but not so fast that I couldn’t stay on his back wheel. He apologised for not riding further, but I was grateful for the respite from the constant sea breeze. Then, at the turtle centre, two ladies came up and asked if they could talk to me. They had seen my entry in the visitor book where I wrote “Cycling to Boston” and wanted photos with me!

The final part of my ride today took me along the first part of the “Space Coast”, as I got closer to Cape Canaveral. A large military airfield signalled the start of the much larger and busier Cocoa Beach, where I reached the end of my journey, and the end of three days and about 230 miles of cycling mostly up barrier islands on route A1A. The first half of that was notable for its conspicuous wealth. Things had now come down to a level of privilege I was more used to seeing across the USA. It was unthinkable that it would carry on forever. It still amazes me that there is so much opulence.

On a more mundane level, however, I was back in the land of fast food and I fancied a Dairy Queen Blizzard. Sadly, they were all out of vanilla ice cream, so that treat will have to wait for another time. It is one of my favourite things to eat in America, and feels iconically American. Since all food and drink is guilt free on a long distance cycling trip, I’m sure that day won’t be far away. But I draw the line at chocolate ice cream… not my thing at all!