Author: Mark

I’ll be honest, this isn’t a journey I have made before, nor even contemplated. But to recapture my straight line from New York to Dull, I needed to find a way to arrive on the west coast of Scotland, ideally the island of Islay itself, and preferably by surface transport. Which is exactly what I did. The fact that I did it on the last possible day of the year made it more pleasing, for sure. The fact that it was a nice day even more so. And the fact that I got a bonus afternoon in Belfast, a city I have somehow missed until now, was the icing on the cake.

Jenni and I left Keflavik airport within 30 minutes of each other but flew to different destinations: she to Manchester and I to Dublin. I seamlessly transferred myself, with my bike still bagged up, onto a fast, cheap bus to Belfast within minutes of clearing immigration and rebuilt my bike in Belfast bus station, as you do. It’s a tricky business; but I’m getting more practiced at it now. Somehow I managed to fit the bike bag in my panniers along with everything else, and off I went.

The weather in Belfast was beautiful, which was almost certainly my fault, because apparently it hadn’t been. I spent most of my time exploring the waterfront development leading up to – and beyond- the Titanic exhibition. It’s really well done and lots of people were out this afternoon enjoying the warm sun and posing for photographs in front of the iconic building. Behind it they have marked out where the Titanic was built, along with its sister ship, and you get a real sense of size. I didn’t have time to do the exhibition justice, so I didn’t try. Next time. I feel sure Belfast has plenty more to offer on a longer visit. But I got a nice flavour of the place and I thought it felt generally like somewhere on the up. Right next to the Titanic are the film studios where Game of Thrones was made, and all along the waterfront are a series of stained glass murals depicting different aspects of the saga. With the sun behind them, they shone brightly. It added to the interest and provided a modern twist to a place mostly celebrating bygone history.

Then it was time to jump on a train and head north just over an hour to the pleasant town of Ballymoney (whose station has a brilliant modern foot and cycle bridge that should be more famous), where I stayed the night at a very pleasant BnB. The owners were surprised to learn of the ferry I was taking the next morning, because they knew nothing of it. But they obliged me with an early breakfast so I could cover the 15 miles of pleasant, green countryside to the small port of Ballycastle in time for the 9.30am departure to Port Ellen, the last of the year.

It was a lovely morning to be out, and it seemed odd to be back on the left of the road, riding among tall, green trees and lush fields surrounded by thick hedges. I had one extra treat this morning – quite unplanned and directly on my route. On this lovely clam morning, I found myself cycling through the Dark Hedges, a lane of trees made famous by Game of Thrones. Already at around 8am there were people out with cameras and tripods. It is quite an evocative place; but don’t make a special journey just to see it, unless perhaps you live in Iceland, where there are almost no trees at all.

The small passenger ferry arrived, one passenger got off and three of us got on. My bike was strapped to the back, out in the air, while we sat inside in some comfort. We began by passing Rathlin Island, Northern Ireland’s most northerly point, which lies six miles off Ballycastle and is inhabited by about 140 people and tens of thousands of sea birds. It is surrounded by high cliffs and I saw many sea birds flying out over the sea, including gannets and razorbills.

Then we got out over the open sea and it got a wee bit choppy. The little boat would often slam down off a high wave onto the water below. I found it easier to close my eyes. But after an hour, Islay loomed large and we pulled into the safe haven of Port Ellen harbour, where we unloaded and I sprayed down my bike with fresh water. It seemed none the worse for its ordeal.

Port Ellen’s low whitewashed buildings are arranged prettily around a crescent shaped bay. It was quiet this morning, so I didn’t hang around. I was back on my line from Boring to Dull and there was something of great interest to me a mile up the road: Laphroaig Distillery, one of eight (soon to be more) whisky distilleries on Islay, all of which produce some of my very favourite whiskies in the world. If there is a whisky heaven, I was about to enter it.

to be continued…

Iceland in September is really not a safe, sensible or enjoyable place to be riding a bike across the remote, windswept Sub-Arctic wilderness. I have learned that this week; but at least I gave it a fair try. It was a battle and the Icelandic wind won!

It now falls to me to take a few days out, soak in some of Iceland’s many geothermal pools, and consider alternative ways from here to complete what I set out to do. There are, of course (and always were), many plausible routes from Boring to Dull. Here are a couple that were placed “on the table” this week for consideration:

1. Jenni offered to drive me and the bike across to the far eastern corner of Iceland, to connect with the weekly ferry to the Faroes and pick up my original plan. That would leave me kicking around with not much to do out there for five days until the ferry departs on Wednesday night, while she drove another 700km alone, all the way back to Reykjavik for her flight early on Sunday morning. A kind offer but a non-starter.
2. I could take an internal flight from Reykjavik to Egilsstadir, in the far east of Iceland and pick up my original plan (as above). Again, I would have spare time but at least I could spend it somewhere like Reykjavik.

These two options got me thinking why I chose that route in the first place. I had wanted to reach the Arctic Circle, which is at the top centre of Iceland, and it seemed sensible to keep going east from there. The opportunity to ride a ferry is always attractive to me and the weekly connection fit well with my schedule. I have never been to The Faroes, so I was curious to visit. But that was where it fell down, because I still had to take a flight to get from The Faroes to Scotland and the options were limited to Edinburgh twice weekly (which took me past Dull without stopping). Plus, it would mean more days to kill in uncertain weather and I would have to depart in the same place in The Faroes as I arrived. It never felt quite right.

I concluded that all of this was unimportant if I could find a better route. Since the only other way off Iceland would be on a plane, I found a list of everywhere you can fly to from Keflavik international airport, ideally the same date (1st October) and time as Jenni. She is flying to Manchester. Half an hour earlier is a flight to Dublin, in Ireland, the only landmass in Europe south west of Scotland. Interesting…

If you draw a straight line across the Atlantic on a map from New York City to Dull, it passes just above the coast of Northern Ireland and hits the west coast of Scotland around the beautiful island of Islay, famous for its peaty whiskies. A little research revealed to my surprise that a passenger ferry – the Kintyre Express – sails four times a week from Ballycastle on Northern Ireland’s Antrim coast to Port Ellen in Islay. Well, it does in the summer, at least. The last sailing date of the year is 2nd October. Coincidence? I think not.

Now it was a case of joining together the dots and working through the logistics. I am happy to say that this journey is possible – just – in the time available to me, and I have made all the necessary bookings. All being well, I will pick up my straight line to Dull in exactly the right place and arrive from the Atlantic, by boat, heading in from the south west. I may be a tad delayed by Islay’s enticing distilleries; but I now have a route from here to Dull that is both interesting, varied, meaningful and true to the spirit of my quest. It feels right. After slowly crossing Islay there will be three more cycling days, reaching Dull around lunchtime on the 6th October, a little earlier than originally planned. But that is a good thing, too, because my son is flying to Japan for five weeks early on 10th October, and I would like to see him before he goes.

So everything is back on track and it feels like a perfect way to end this adventure properly. Bring it on.

After yesterday’s frightening ride over the high plateau in brutal winds, it would have been very easy to pull the plug there and then on cycling in Iceland. This was serious stuff. But the new day arrived with the bluest of skies and a sun that felt almost warm. I had to ride. We had booked to stay the night in Blonduos, the next town up the ring road and another fifty miles north east from our farmhouse stopover. Once again, there was very little in between except empty road, mountains and water. But sunshine can transform a place from foreboding to welcoming, and after a fine breakfast, I was glad to be setting out again on two wheels in this magnificent landscape.

After passing the turning for the Westfjords peninsula (with its main settlement, Isafjordur signposted just 333km away!) I spent the next hour riding briskly along the northern shore of the Hrutafjorder, looking across at tiny settlements and out to sea past towering headlands. The field were a vivid green by the water, which in turn took on a bright blue reflection of the sky above. It was very beautiful. The road was pretty quiet this morning. I even saw two serious looking cyclists heading the other way, enjoying the wind at their backs. The wind, incidentally, had not gone away with the dark clouds of yesterday. It had stayed around to make me work for my miles; but so far it was blowing at an acceptable level, I felt, and I saw no reason to let it put me off.

I had arranged to meet Jenni after twenty miles, at the first petrol station, for brunch. The internet promised waffles in a small cafe, which appealed. In the event, the cafe was about half a km off the main road in a tiny village by a river, called Laugerbakki. I spotted the flags and turned off to check it out. It was closed! Jenni had missed it altogether but we made contact and agreed to meet at the next one, another nine miles away. That was the last opportunity before Blonduos. It’s remote out here.

I started climbing out of the river valley and saw her driving the other way, so I motioned ahead and she nodded. Half a mile later I was at war with the wind. The sun still shone brightly; but the next stretch of road was suddenly and unexpectedly exposed and I was taken straight back to yesterday’s woes, sun or no sun. Once again I was riding at 45 degrees, fighting to stay upright, and trying not to be blown into the path of oncoming lorries and buses, which would momentarily block the wind and then suddenly slam it in my face at twice the force. I braced myself each time. It was truly scary.

Jenni overtook me and pulled in a little ahead in a side road. I paused. We looked at each other. “Do you want to stop?” She asked. I knew I did really; but pride and the apparently ridiculous idea of quitting in this amazing sunny weather got the better of me. It was six more miles to the lunch stop. I opted to continue and she drove away. I was on my own again.

The next six miles were no fun at all. If I needed a reminder of how I felt yesterday, here it was. This was simply too windy to cycle safely, let alone enjoy it. Imagine adding rain to this as well. If I couldn’t manage the elements under clear skies, there was no way I could imagine surviving everything else Iceland might throw at me. This was no place to be on a bike adventure. Not in September. Not here. And especially not with the mountainous country that lay ahead for many more days. There was absolutely nothing to gain, and much to lose, by trying to be a hero. It was time to stop.

And so, in the calm shelter of the North West Hotel’s front door, I climbed off my bike for the last time in Iceland. I knew I had made the right choice, the only real option, and I immediately felt better about the world. Lunch was very enjoyable (Icelandic lamb soup again for me!) and I got into the passenger seat of the car afterwards and enjoyed every minute of the next 25 miles to Blonduos through stunning, but very exposed scenery. Glistening rivers wound their way through wide valleys towards the sea, while mountains looked on from a distance. It was all glorious out of the wind. I could enjoy it again.

Blonduos

I should point out that this is not the end of my adventure. Dull will still be reached, by bike, in an appropriate manner. I’ll be working on that, so watch this space. Adventures like this are punctuated with big decisions and the need to be flexible. It is all experimental and you learn something every day. Today, I learned not only that Icelandic wind and cycling do not mix; but also that Jenni and I could now enjoy a much needed holiday together. In Iceland. In many ways, that is as positive an outcome as I could wish for. We are also free to pursue the best weather available, which is easier said than done. Every piece of tourist literature warns you always to check the latest weather and road advice on safetravel.is and conditions are very localised. It can all change at the drop of a hat. After an enjoyable swim and a soak in the hot tubs in Blonduos, we checked the forecast. If I had the slightest doubt about stopping my cycling in Iceland, this made my decision cast iron. There was, to say the least, a lot of weather around!

My new plans will unfold in the next day or so and I will share them as they form. I will consider all options and stay true to the original idea of Boring to Dull. Something beautiful will emerge. And in the meantime, we are heading back to Reykjavik tomorrow to see what the south of the country has in store for us. If I’m lucky I might even manage to get my hair cut. The last time that happened, I was in Seattle!

After overnight rain, the Icelandic day began with bright skies and the prospect of a dry window for cycling my next 50 miles. The tall range of mountains to the east of Borgarnes was clearly visible, unlike at the end of my ride yesterday, and I felt ready for another bracing day in the saddle.

My ride today would take me north, straight along the next piece of the ring road, through nowhere very much. This is barren, empty country. There was a small place, Bifrost, 20 miles ahead up the road, and then nothing. It promised a petrol station and a hotel and I envisaged a warm lunch. There was a cold breeze from the north east again, due to increase in strength during the afternoon, so I needed to get on with it. There wouldn’t be much else to stop for in any case!

As it happened, there was another petrol station after just nine miles, and by the time I reached it I was ready to stop. Never pass an open cafe. So I paused gratefully for coffee and a hot dog and sat inside for twenty minutes. It was a wise move. The next hour to Bifrost was more of the same open highway with farms dotted around and a scattering of summer houses just off the main road. The remote, square buildings of Bifrost University were incongruously set against a spectacular mountain backdrop that had been visible for miles and I could see the flags of the petrol station fluttering at the top of a hill past the main settlement. I decided to get the hill done before I stopped and was rather crushed when halfway up the stiff climb a small sign for the cafe had a big red cross through it. Agh!

Expecting nothing else all day, I turned around and absolutely whizzed back downhill with the wind pushing me all the way. It was a reminder of what l was up against. I followed the signs to the Bifrost Hotel and restaurant to find it looking decidedly not open today. I could get into the hotel porch area out of the wind, but no further. It was all a bit eerie, like a ghost town. I ate the sandwiches I had with me and got going again back up the hill.

All around this area the road passed through a lava field. It was fascinating and rather beautiful to see how the plants and lichens had begun to reclaim it. This created a bizarre juxtaposition of soft autumnal colours on stunted trees and bushes among a wasteland of sharp, black rock, with small craters rising above on one side and a broad river plain on the other. It looked like nowhere I have seen before.

A few miles later I passed a sign in Icelandic that appeared to be warning me about the section of road ahead, which, whatever it was, would last for 37km and reach 407m. I reckoned I had about 37km left to ride. I passed through gates that could be used to close the road and over a cattle grid into a bare, uninviting, upland world. The settlements died away and the road followed a river valley with waterfalls, then ramped upwards onto the high plateau. I could see the headlights of cars miles ahead. It was a lonely world.

And then the wind really got going. Sometimes it was a wall into which I was riding directly. Sometimes it came at me from the side. Always it was brutal and often it was quite frightening. I began to wonder seriously whether it would blow me off my bike, or into the traffic. At times I was leaning close to 45 degrees into the wind to stay upright. It was a battle. There was nowhere to hide and nothing to do but continue. I stopped to put on my rain coat as the dark sky began to spit occasional raindrops. My hands and feet were starting to feel the chill of the wind. I have said many times that I am only interested in continuing with my adventures if they are enjoyable. This, most definitely, was not. Far from it, in fact. I was learning about September Icelandic conditions the hard way.

Eventually I reached the highest point and then the road began to swoop downwards away from me. I could see a long sea inlet far below in the distance and I knew that was the end point of my ride today. No more climbing. If I could stay on my bike, I would get there. Soon after that, a car pulled in ahead of me at a roadside pull off. It was Jenni. I stopped and spoke through the window. She looked alarmed. Even driving a car in this wind was not easy. I could have bailed out right then; but I chose to see the ride through, since it was dry and I had five miles of straight downhill. I could see my destination. I told her to put the kettle on for me.

I finished the ride quite quickly, all things considered, and collapsed into a chair at the farmhouse BnB where we were staying. Two young Colombians were running the place and helping on the farm. It’s a small world! I warmed up with several cups of tea and a hot shower and felt much better. This is the dangerous part, when you start to forget just how unpleasant your experience was. They say the same about childbirth, I am told.

A short distance up the road was a large petrol station with a restaurant and we decided comfort food was in order. You can’t beat a large bowl of piping hot Icelandic lamb soup, and my spirits were significantly revived by the time we were settled back in our comfy room for the night. Jenni had had a lovely day swimming and visiting stunning waterfalls in the lovely autumn surroundings. Had it really been so bad?

We awoke to a dry, breezy day in Reykjavik, with just a hint of blue in the sky. We were staying in a very central small apartment. The temperature was a steady 8 degrees C and the breeze was from the north-east, into my face. But it was manageable. Two thirds of the entire population of Iceland live in the Reykjavik area, so it has big, busy roads, new buildings and issues for cyclists like any other capital. However, it was simple enough to take to the waterfront cycle path, past the fancy glass Harpa concert venue, and then branch off from there, by the small White House where Reagan famously met Gorbachev.

My next cycle path headed north out of town in the direction of some of the faster growing satellite settlements like Mosfellsbaer, which was signed all the way from Reykjavik. This helped me a lot and avoided some of the worst stretches of Iceland’s Ring Road, which travels right around Iceland, and would mostly be my route this week. The trouble is there are so few useful roads here that almost everyone ends up on this same road. So all afternoon, after the bike paths ran out, I was squeezed into the side of the main highway with plenty of fast moving traffic for company. There wasn’t typically much of a shoulder, so I tried to make myself big and visible. Progress was steady.

After a couple of hours, I met Jenni at a prearranged lay-by and we put the bike in the back of the car. We were half a mile from the long tunnel under the large Hvalfjordur, and bicycles are banned. The alternative was a 30 mile detour around the entire fjord to the other side, and I didn’t need that. The tunnel bores deep under the neck of the fjord, curving steeply down underground for a couple of miles before bottoming out and climbing steeply up again. It was certainly no place for cyclists.

We popped up on the north side of the fjord and turned left to visit the nearby town of Akranes for lunch, which we enjoyed in a petrol station cafe, something of an Icelandic tradition. It wasn’t bad either. The rest of the town was pretty deserted this Saturday lunchtime. Then it was back on the bike and away into the moderate breeze under greying skies to complete the journey to the small town of Borgarnes, reached across Iceland’s second longest bridge (neither long nor spectacular) over another fjord. The town sits prettily on a small peninsula, surrounded by water and mountains. It is also a major stopover for vehicles moving up and down the ring road, with gas stations and services aplenty. My last visit here was in a January 2022 for a COVID test to get permission to fly home after an extended family New Year adventure in Iceland. We all passed, luckily, 10 out of 10 negative results. How times have changed.

Our room for the night was a few km beyond Borgarnes and it seemed to take ages to get there in the drizzle that was now starting to fall. We headed back into town for a swim at the open air heated pool – a key part of Icelandic culture that you can find in every town and village – but it was about to close for the day. Luckily we found an alternative only 10 minutes away across the fjord and apparently in the middle of nowhere; but it was all the more delightful for it. We swam in the mostly empty pool and soaked in the warm hot tubs along with a couple of local families. We were last to leave as it was getting dark. The group of locals consisted of at least eight adults and various children, including a tiny baby in a pram. The adults took it in turns to each walk the pram around the perimeter of the pool before parking up and getting back in the hot water. In this manner the work was shared, the socialising was largely uninterrupted and the baby remained quiet. Iceland benefits from seemingly unlimited supplies of geothermal hot water and uses it to heat all its buildings and generate all its power. It has a very low man-made carbon footprint. In return, it has to respond to periodic, hard to predict, volcanic eruptions. But it makes for great swimming and bathing all year round in every part of the country.

And that was my first day ever of cycling in Iceland. It wasn’t at all like cycling in the USA in September and the rugged, bare scenery was mostly dull today under the grey cloud. For much of the day, far to the west, I could make out the snowy glacier-capped the summit of Snaefellsjokull volcano at the far tip of the Snaefellsnes peninsula, about 50 miles away. It appeared to have its own microclimate and the white snow was reflecting the sun that I wasn’t getting any of. Not today anyway. What would the Icelandic weather lottery throw at me tomorrow?

After an epic six week ride across America, and a fabulous crescendo in New York City, I have moved on to somewhere really quite different in every sense. I am now in Iceland, a country that tectonically sits partly in America and partly in Europe (which seems fitting for this adventure). Culturally, Iceland belongs to the Nordic world. Meteorologically, it has its own unique set of rules and the weather will be a major factor in how I approach this part of my journey.

Keflavik

In theory, my loose plan was always to cycle across the north of Iceland, starting in the capital Reykjavik, and crossing over the top of the country, via the Arctic circle, to reach the Eastern coast, from which there is a once weekly ferry to the Faroe Islands. These latter locations would be new to me (I have seen the top and bottom of Iceland to about halfway across from Reykjavik before, and loved it); but I am fully aware of the luck required to reach the ferry without running into weather wholly inappropriate for cycling. It is late September and I guessed and hoped that might be early enough to make a safe passage. But my usual golden rule will always apply: if it isn’t enjoyable, I will stop. There are other plausible routes to Dull and I am not so wedded to this option that I can’t be flexible if needed. So, fingers crossed.

Keflavik

I am also delighted to be sharing some of this part of my adventure with my lovely wife Jenni, who has had to do without me for three long months (and vice versa). She arrived a few hours before me and I found her asleep in the Airbnb near Keflavik Airport after my own arrival at 4.44am (just after midnight New York time). Jenni has rented a car, which is brave since she doesn’t particularly like driving even at home, and she will provide me with valuable support for the first week of my endeavours. We sensibly took a day out from cycling in Reykjavik upon arrival – long enough for me to wonder if I had anywhere near enough warm clothes! Hmm. This really will be different.

Just occasionally on a trip like this, you get to cycle somewhere truly exceptional. Today was such a day, as we made our way along the last thirty miles of the Empire State Trail. It took us along the west side of the entire length of Manhattan Island to the very bottom tip, and the conclusion of my coast to coast cycle across America.

I cannot often have felt such a sense of excitement from the saddle of a bicycle. It was the most glorious day and everywhere around us was buzzing with energy. The Hudson River looked magnificent to our right, while the tall buildings of New York City just kept getting taller by the mile.

It was hard to keep your eyes on the busy trail, with all of the accompanying obstacles: other cyclists, runners, food delivery people undertaking us at speed on their e-bikes. There seemed to be more of everything here. More noise, more people, more things in the way, and more incredible views left, right and ahead of us. It was an assault on the senses.

In front of a huge aircraft carrier, The Intrepid, moored by the pier at the end of 46th Street, I heard a familiar voice calling out “Uncle Mark”. It was my eldest nephew, Sean, out on a street rental bike to meet us and ride the last few miles together to Battery Park. What a great way to finish, in the company of a close friend and a family member under the warm autumn sun.

Sean showed us the 9/11 Memorial at Ground Zero. I had not seen it before and found it very moving. It was a tremendous task to create something simultaneously big enough, sombre enough and also very beautiful in commemoration of all of those who died that terrible day. But I must say, they got it just right for me. The memorials (one for each tower) are holes in the ground, each apparently occupying the footprint of the missing building. All around the huge square is a railing of marble with the names of the deceased inscribed. Over the railing, water cascades inwards into the deep hole from all four sides, and on into the ground. Like many people, I vividly remember watching those live images on television, and the plane crashing into the second tower. It was a day that changed the world forever. I hadn’t stood here since the memorial was completed. I am glad I saw it.

And then, just a short distance further on, under the glinting spire of the replacement One World Trade Center, we reached the end. The Statue of Liberty rose into view on the horizon, surprisingly small and far away across the blue water. In front of her lay Ellis Island, the gateway to the New World for many millions of immigrants whose journeys over the Atlantic ended here. These historic potent symbols of a new beginning for so many, today represented a triumphant end for me, and a passage to another phase of my long journey home. It was amazing to think that the whole of the breadth of the USA lay behind me. Three and a half thousand miles of pedalling had brought me here in 45 days. Wow!

And then it was time to leave. I had a wife waiting for me in Reykjavik and a train to catch to a plane. It was time to go through the New York metro to Grand Central Station, employing the considerable height and strength of my lacrosse playing nephew to help my bike up and down the steps. My brush with New York City had been fleeting but magnificent. I will come back, just as I have visited several times before. It is unique. A fitting way to end an epic six week journey from the Pacific to the Atlantic coasts of this enormous country. And a journey I will never forget.

Today was my last full day of cycling across the USA, so how fitting that it was another beautiful, crisp, sunny day of blue skies. Autumn was in the air, but only just a hint. It was basically perfect. For so much of this trip the weather has been remarkably good. I doubt I have ever lived through a more consistently lovely summer. Today it meant that we enjoyed New York State somewhere close to its very best.

It did no harm that we were treated to seventy miles of continuous off road cycling through woods and past gorgeous lakes, all with a smooth, sealed surface. There were other cyclists and walkers about, but not too many to get in our way. Progress was easy and mostly flat along old railway tracks. The signage was largely excellent and we wove our way from Poughkeepsie through quite hilly, rural country to the east side of the Hudson Valley. Unusually today, we didn’t actually see the Hudson River; but it was all a delight nevertheless, in a less dramatic way.

No particular moments stand out above any other. It was all good. We found a small town, Brewster, for lunch at just the time we were getting hungry, and enjoyed corned beef eggs Benedict to a soundtrack of Latino music. Later in the day, with an hour to go, we passed through the pleasant Yorktown, with its old train station and open green spaces, adorned with many flags. Here we found another cafe for ice cream and some incredibly refreshing Brazilian lemonade. You should try that. I’m certainly glad we did. It made for a suitable final refreshment stop of this American adventure, the last of many that have varied enormously. Nothing quite replicated the classic British tea room experience, because not much does; but there were many highlights and something always turned up, even in the most remote and unlikely of places, and I took advantage as much as I could. It really is an important part of these adventures!

The leaves on some of the trees were beginning to show their fall colours, especially in some of the more swampy sections where there were some vivid reds and oranges already on display. This spectacle will only improve as the month goes on, but it was lovely to get at least a taste of it.

You felt you could while away many a day with this kind of cycling, and in a way that is exactly what we had done for a week. It wasn’t all the same, by any means; but taken as a whole, the Empire State Trail is a remarkable cycling experience of more than 500 miles of level, well signed, cycle friendly pedalling, and a fabulous resource that New York can be proud of. We began up near Buffalo on the Niagara River, bordering Canada, and ended today just 30 miles short of the bottom tip of Manhattan Island, a manageable morning’s work to tackle tomorrow. There’s nothing like having a good plan; but it’s even better when that plan is executed pretty much to perfection!

We crossed the mighty Hudson River twice today. Each bridge must be getting on for two miles long. It is a serious business. There aren’t many bridges, but happily we did a much better job today at staying on the wonderful Empire State Trail, so there was no problem being stuck on the wrong side. The first crossing was on a road bridge heading west into a headwind, over to historic Kingston, in the early afternoon. That took us high up in the middle but drops down to the bank at either end. The second crossing was even better; but since it ended the day, I’ll leave it to the end of this post.

We had the sunny weather back today and got away rather sluggishly from our stunning Airbnb in Hudson. Just down the road I got a puncture, which set us back another fifteen minutes. But after that the Empire State Trail took us along delightful, quiet back lanes and through affluent, historic villages. In one, Germantown, there was a cafe too inviting to ignore. A couple of mature lady cyclists were there, too, and we conversed at some length, as well as consulting over seat height and making a correction for one of the ladies. They were locals and told us that not so long ago Hudson was a town their parents would not have allowed them to visit. Apparently whales would be floated up the Hudson River here from New York, over 100 miles away, for processing. That chapter has been closed; but I did see a couple of whale weather vanes on now very respectable buildings.

We cycled down through the very pretty grounds of Bard University to the bridge and over to Kingston, where a large creek joins the main river. Here is a wonderful old waterfront, with yachts and a large wooden galleon moored in front of old, restored warehouses, all under the gaze of two high road bridges suspended across the inlet far above us. It was the perfect spot for a late lunch on an outdoor terrace above the water, and we enjoyed some excellent salad while we watched the ducks.

Thereafter the route climbed up the hillside to join an old rail trail through woodland and over wooden trestle bridges spanning smaller – but still substantial – rivers below. And so this continued for a couple of hours.

It was great riding in a peaceful setting, albeit quite a big loop away from the Hudson. But it brought us back in the most spectacular fashion when suddenly we arrived at the entrance to the Hudson Walkway and found ourselves in the company of many local folk, out for an evening stroll or run, bike ride or Segway. They were all here to enjoy the pedestrian bridge that crosses high above the river to Poughkeepsie, far away on the east bank. It was once a railroad, but now offers non-motorised traffic a beautiful view up and down the river and across at the slender road suspension bridge to the south. On this sunny, calm evening it was a fine place to be.

Our hotel was another five miles along the trail, saving us some cycling miles tomorrow. I have one more full day to cycle along the Hudson, hopefully bringing me into easy range of Manhattan Island on Thursday morning. After six weeks of cycling from Boring, Oregon, I am tantalisingly close to the Atlantic!

No sooner had we all learned how to say “Schenectady” than we were heading off along the Mohawk River on a circuitous path towards the state capital of New York, Albany. It was a drizzly departure, and the grey, damp conditions continued for much of the day. I really can’t complain though, since this is only the third day out of 41 that I have seen even the lightest precipitation- and considerably more days than that if you count back before I started cycling. It has been a glorious summer wherever I have been.

Albany

In this weather there were not many photos taken and few stops made. But it wasn’t unpleasant or lacking in interest. Albany turned out to be much larger and older looking than I had expected. It sits right on the Hudson River, which the Mohawk River had joined, sending us emphatically in a southward direction towards New York City. This is a seriously large body of water with big boats on it. There are not so many bridges, either, which became an important feature of our day a little later on.

After 30 miles we were ready for lunch in Albany and found a wonderful example of an old fashioned American style diner. It was just what we needed and we happily sat there until all the chairs had been placed on the tables, long after finishing our omelettes, fried potatoes and toast. I had my first marmalade in many weeks, which made me happy.

Up there somewhere was our route. We missed it.

We easily regained the riverside bike path but somehow missed the fact that the Empire State cycle route crossed over the only bridge – I’m not sure how that worked, since it was a freeway – and continued on the east bank of the Hudson. Instead we began riding along the western bank, through the industrial port area south of downtown, and only realised the error of our ways when we were several miles down the moderately busy road. A decision was required and I made it. I’m not one for turning around and retracing my steps and I could see the exciting prospect of a ferry ahead if we went this way, which swayed me. Simon graciously went along with my choice.

It continued to be moderately busy for perhaps another half an hour and then, mercifully, and for no obvious reason, all the traffic melted away and we enjoyed a delightfully quiet, undulating ride down the Hudson valley, past a series of large and characterful homes set in green countryside. The drizzle came and went.

No ferry today

A little after 5pm we reached the small, pretty town of Athens, from where Google Maps told us there was a ferry that would cross directly to Hudson, on the opposite bank, where were staying tonight. Perfect. Only it never came and a phonecall revealed that it only runs at the weekend! Not so good. In fact, we could see a bridge a little further downstream and it was less than an hour round trip to cycle over it and back up to Hudson. The crossing of the “Rip van Winkle Bridge” was quite exhilarating, and we arrived at a delightfully appointed Airbnb in an old parsonage in Hudson just ahead of the ladies with our bags and our dinner in the support car. And thereafter unfolded a most enjoyable evening of eating, drinking and card-playing, and general agreement that in other circumstances we would happily stay longer in this wonderfully furnished, arty 3 bedroom apartment.