Tag: Scotland

Norway 2025 Day 2: Sletta – Leirvik

Distance:

43.6 miles

Time: 4:45

Elevation Gain: 2,900 feet

There had been, what could only be described as biblical, showers overnight, and although I’d been hiding away inside the campsite seating area for the most part, it was an excellent test for my new tent. I had bought a Big Agnes Copper Spur earlier in the year, and as it was almost a kilo lighter than my previous tent, I had brought it along – despite being skeptical about its poor weather performance.

Well, now it had had a significant test, rain couldn’t really get any heavier, and the gusting winds had been fairly fierce too, and it had held up well.

Although the severity of the showers had dropped a notch or two by morning, a few showers of what I categorise as Pacific Northwest, rolled on through, sudden heavy and brief.

Leaving the campsite in the dry, it was raining again by the time I cycled back up to the main road. I was dismayed to find that the petrol station in the tiny settlement was shut, as it was a Sunday it would have been one of my few opportunities to stock up on supplies for the day.

Drawn in by the cafe sign outside the village’s impressive church building, I ventured inside. The lady running the small cafe and gift shop, only had coffee and cake, so that would do for starters. She quizzed me on my trip and hoped for good weather on my behalf, before drawing a blank when trying to think of campsites I’d be passing on my route. I was beginning to think that they might not be as easy to come across as I’d hoped.

Settling back into my rhythm, I pedalled along the 565 as it meandered along bays and hopped over islets in the North Sea.

Taking my chance for some sustenance at the XY petrol station in Mastrevik, the burger and fries I had there was one of the few opportunities to fuel I found all day.

Another opportunity, after 17 miles, was on the first ferry of the route, between Leirvag and Slovag. Whilst the motorists stayed in their cars, I found a small self-service cafe and indoor seating area. Quite well appointed for a 20 minute crossing.

Exiting the ferry terminal on road 57, I was hatching a plan. This road led all the way to another ferry terminal at Rutledal, 20 miles away. The cycle route seemed to start off along the road for the first 10 miles or so, before taking a route three times as long for the last part. There were four reasons I could think of for them not using the 57 the whole way: there was a tunnel you weren’t allowed to cycle through, it was too busy, it was prohibitively hilly, or the alternative route was unmissably beautiful. So, I looked up the tunnel map, and there was no tunnel, it was a Sunday and the roads seemed reassuringly quiet, I’d take any hill over travelling 3 times the distance, and no level of beauty was that unmissable. Decision made.

As it happened, my new route suited me nicely. After a steep climb out of Nordgulen, the road rolled past a pair of stunning lakes surrounded by steep-sided mountains, and as the road reached the end of the valley, I could feel it trending upwards, the road rearing up steeply away from the lake, the car-and-a-half width surface barely wide enough to fit my bike alongside a passing car. But, soon I was up and out and the road traversed an open col before plummeting down towards the sparkling sea, and at 20:45 I made my second ferry of the day.

Norway 2025: Who Needs a Seat?

As the plane came in to land, I was struck by the sheer quantity of trees that surrounded the Oslo area. Already I knew that the landscape here was going to look vastly different to that of Scotland, where much of the native forest has long since been wiped out.

After exiting the plane, and collecting my baggage, I was relieved to see that my bike box and pannier, which had been in the hold, looked like they had had an easy time of it, so I was feeling confident that I’d have my bike built up in no time and very soon be on my way into Oslo on the train.

But then, on trying to pump up my tyres, the unmistakable sound of gushing air accompanied every stroke, and no matter how hard I tried, the tyres wouldn’t firm up.

Localising the air’s escape point was impossible over the noise of the Airport’s air conditioning, so it was only after realising that both tyres appeared to be similarly afflicted that I realised that it might actually be the pump itself that was faulty, its hose having burst during the flight.

My luck was in, just across the concourse was another cyclist, Kevin, in the painstaking process of putting his bike back together, 30 hours after leaving Edmonton, Canada. He was soon to set off on a 4 month journey crisscrossing Norway all the way north to the Nordkapp. He had been learning Norwegian especially, and the first stage of his expedition would see him travelling west to Stavanger to see the launch of a recreation of the first boat to safely cross to the Americas.

While gratefully using Kevin’s pump to restore some utility to my bike’s wheels, I asked if he was all set. ‘Do you not see something missing?’ he asked. Well you don’t appear to have a saddle, I commented… It transpired that his bike box had been searched before his final flight from Hamburg and whoever had searched the box had forgotten to reinstate his seatpost and saddle when they closed it back up. At least all I needed was a new bike pump.

Significantly later than I’d hoped, I arrived at Oslo train station with a fully operable bike and plenty of equipment, all that was needed now was for me to reach my campsite on the outskirts of the Norwegian capital of Oslo, a journey of some 6 miles, according to Google maps. The small detail I’d missed was that the campsite was situated at 200 metres elevation, and somehow 6 miles became 8.

Arriving at the campsite at after 11 pm, I had the comfort of knowing that I had already checked in online and had the number of my pitch already. On arriving at the site, though, I discovered that the non-electrical pitches weren’t numbered, and when I worked out which plot was mine, it was already taken by a campervan. Well, there wasn’t much for it but to find the nearest available pitch and set up for the night.

Day 11: Amsterdam – Amsterdam and beyond…

Distance: 7.19 miles

Time: 1:11:20

Average Speed: 6.0 mph

Elevation Gain: 69 feet

To paraphrase the Beautiful South, it could be Rotterdam or anywhere, and for most of my route, I assumed it would be Rotterdam ferry terminal at which I’d finish my ride, but on getting the tram into Amsterdam, for a wander around, last night, it felt like this was where my route would finish. It could be Rotterdam or anywhere, but actually, it had to be Amsterdam. Copenhagen – Amsterdam, great capital cities of bikes, canals, culture, and gateways to the world.

Besides, Amsterdam was a ferry port from which I could take a ferry back to the UK, I just wasn’t, because of the additional cost. To all intents and purposes, my cycle would end in Amsterdam.

But there was the small matter of completing an international parkrun to contend with, and for that, there was only one contender. Zuiderpark parkrun in Den Haag – very popular with those chasing a parkrun ‘alphabet’. So, I was heading for the train.

It was a cold wet day on the campsite, I was hopeful that the rain might stop before I packed up my things, eventually giving in just in time for the campsite’s 2 o’clock check out time, then setting off in the direction of the Van Gogh museum.

Having gone to the trouble of locking up my bike, removing my sodden waterproofs and swapping my socks and shoes, I made to queue up outside, only to find that the Gallery was sold out for the day. I wasn’t too disappointed as I’d been before, so continued on my way to the station, passing Anne Frank’s house – the exterior now invisible because of a new museum facade built around it in 2018 – and Mannekin Pis for, allegedly, the ‘No.1 Holland Fries’, en route.

It was still raining when I arrived in The Hague, exiting the station and heading across town to the hotel, finding the typical maze of cycle paths, I tried not to block the way whenever I stopped to get my bearings – not something I have to worry about when using cycle paths back home.

I was staying at the Hoevevoorde Hotel, a bit out of town, but only 1 mile from the start of the Zuiderpark parkrun. Hopefully, I could make that distance by 9 o’clock the next morning.

Cycling over, it was easy to find the start area, close to a large sports centre. The course itself was an extremely flat and almost round two loop course, it would have been a perfect course for a parkrun personal best, had it not been for the almost 600 miles of cycling my legs had endured during the past two weeks.

As it was, I set off near the front of the 125 runners, setting a pace that felt tough but sustainable, before picking it up a little on the second lap and finishing in 20:54, in 16th place. I was very satisfied with that and glad to have finally ticked off my first international parkrun!

Afterwards, I chatted to a local man, Michel, who had just run his first parkrun, achieving 20:09, which he was very happy with, and another, Rob, from Clapham who was a serial parkrunner, and had just finished cycling from the Netherlands to Czechia the week before. It had been his first tour, but he had been with his partner – from The Netherlands – who he had met whilst he was working at a hostel near Loch Ness and she was cycling the, 7000 km, North Sea cycle route. A route she was still to finish.

Having checked out of my hotel, I visited the Mauritshuis museum in town, which contained fine works by a long list of Dutch masters including: Rembrandt, Rubens, Anthony van Dyck and, famously, Johannes Vermeer.

After that, I was back on the bike, and left with twenty miles or so to reach my final destination, the Rotterdam ferry terminal, where I hoped to catch the overnight boat to Hull from where it would be a few short train journeys home.

Dawdling through Delft, where its 1679 windmill was in operation as I passed, I was soon counting the minutes as I realised that there was another ferry standing in my way, between Maassluis and Rozenburg, on the way to the port.

Now needing to push on to make it to port with the allotted 1.5 hours before the crossing, it was one last 12 km time trial to go, before arriving to join the back of a long queue of cars and campervans waiting to board. There had probably been less of a rush than I’d thought.

Finally through passport control, all that was left was for me to board the ship, up on deck 7, and necessitating an 11 % gradient ramp, an actual climb, and the first time on the entire trip that I’d needed to change down to my smallest chainring.

Day 9: De Krim – Lelystad

Distance: 65.59 miles

Time: 5:38:21

Average Speed: 11.6 mph

Elevation Gain: 201 feet

Sitting eating dinner at a picnic table, outside the barn in the campsite, one of the site’s other inhabitants sat down on a chair behind me – at the doorway to the barn – smoking tobacco, and tried to engage me in conversation, in Dutch. With me having little to offer in that regard, the man seemed to get frustrated and walked off, before returning shortly after to try again.

Eventually, with communication proving problematic, he pointed to the wispy grey clouds overhead and gave his head a little shake, before heading off in the direction of his tent. Wait a minute, what about the clouds?! I found out soon enough.

Two hours later the two of us were cowering in the barn, as a torrential downpour battered off the corrugated roofing, bright flashes of lightning bursting through the skylights.

The man pointed at my watch, wanting to know the time. Flashing the screen in front of him, I could see it read 22:30. A puzzled look came over the man’s face, half twaalf, he said, before quickly correcting himself, half elf, he said with an air of satisfaction. It was my turn to look puzzled, in German elf was 11, surely it would be the same here? A quick Google search furnished me with the surprising conclusion, in Dutch it was half elf, half before 11.

The storm having blown through during the night, the new day brought with it blue skies, and a stiff breeze restored to antagonistic status.

I made the short journey along to the local Co’op to pick up some milk to have with the remains of the granola that I’d been carrying for the last few days, before getting back underway on the silky smooth cycle-path, past the Lutten water tower, and through the trees at Stegeren, before crossing the Vechte river, in Ommen, and turning down the lovely riverside path, past De Konijnenbelt windmill, and beautifully positioned campgrounds – across the river from the town.

With optimism, I left Ommen, hoping to make it the 17 miles to Zwolle, before stopping again. So much for that, when not 4 miles gone by, ominous clouds formed in the sky. The rain came down quickly, and hastened me in, to Herberg De Klomp, in Vilsteren, for lunch on a whim.

Sated by the ham and cheese crepe with sugar syrup on top, I pushed on, making it through Zwolle as quickly as I could, despite the super-complicated cycle network trying to throw me off track: deliberating at the bottom of a bridge, as to whether I was to cycle over the bridge or go through the tunnel – which started alongside – I finally decided on taking the bridge before realising that they both finished at the same spot, anyway.

Once over the Katerveer II bridge, I took the road to Oldebroek, before turning north towards the lovely little town of Elburg, with its moat and city walls dating back to the 13th century.

If I would have been satisfied with 50 miles for the day, I’d surely have turned back to the campsite that I’d just seen outside the town and wandered into one of these bustling bars on these old cobbled streets, but the forecast was rain, and now the sun shone, so I supposed I’d better make hay, before the rain came along.

Luckily, the campsite in Lelystad had had the courtesy to provide the reception opening hours on their website, so I had until 8 o’clock, it was 10 past 6 now, and it was 17 miles to go. A 66 mile day, with a headwind to boot, that would do nicely, and even better, because I’d now be within 40 miles of Amsterdam. I’d have cycled from one great city of bikes, to another.