Tent set up, I was back on the bike, and off in search of a bar to watch the European championships, England were already a goal down against Slovakia, and at risk of going out, so it seemed like some unmissable drama might unfold! Having only caught the last half hour, I was pleased when the game was forced into extra time by Jude Bellingham’s sensational last gasp equaliser, quickly ordering myself a Philly Cheesesteak, to accompany an enjoyable locally-brewed Yakima IPA, whilst watching extra time.
After a restless night, largely spent regretting my decision to bring a lightweight 2-season sleeping bag, I finally made my way out and about for the day – I was allowing myself one day of sight-seeing before getting underway, so planned on having a quick cycle around the centre of Copenhagen before jumping on the train over the Oresund Bridge to Malmo, in Sweden.
Hitting the cycle paths once more, I made for the coast, and Copenhagen’s most iconic sight, Des Lille Havrue, Edvard Eriksen’s ‘The Little Mermaid’ sculpture – whose diminutive size didn’t stop the tourist hoards visiting en masse, although it has been pointed out to me that singing crabs might make it more appealing…
Continuing inland along the side of the harbour, I noted that the word for harbour was havn, aligning closely with the name of the city, København, and also prompting the belated realisation that an Icelandic town in which I’d stayed, Höfn, was also derived from their local word for harbour.
Passing the sorry looking remains of the Borsen building, and noticing the clear path to reconstruction that was underway, I was relieved to see that not all countries treat their culturally significant buildings with total disrespect. I’d like to think that funding to restore Glasgow’s Mackintosh Art School building might be sourced eventually…
Hopping onto the train, I was quickly (and smoothly) whisked across Oresund on ‘The Bridge’ and in ‘The Tunnel’(?). I didn’t really expect to see much difference between two Scandinavian cities so close together, but I was wrong. Copenhagen had felt like a significant capital city and major tourist hub, whilst the Malmo Dock-side felt like a low-key backwater – the end of a land-mass, which I guess it was.
After enjoying a leisurely stroll around the bustling town centre, and a ‘pizza donut’, I made my way back to the train, ruing having left my phone adapter on my bike at Copenhagen station: my power bank was fully depleted and my phone was at 2%, when I returned to Danish soil once more.
The final order of business for the day was to scale the external spiral staircase of the Church of Our Saviour, but the ticket for that was on my phone, so after an extended visit to McDonald’s for some sustenance, and more importantly a power boost, I rushed over to the church, well after my allotted slot, and just in time for closing, but thankfully I was permitted access, and, making short work of the 400 steps of the tower – both inside and out – I was blessed by some stunning views.
Leaving the guest house, Karak Castle towered above me, previously a stronghold in the crusades, and later for the Ottomans. Normally I would have been keen to have a look around, but sadly I had to be underway.
While planning the trip I’d read that the reason there was no public transport that connected the whole way along the King’s Highway, was Wadi Mujib which I’d crossed the day before. I’d thus assumed that that was the only major wadi to cross, which it turns out was inaccurate. In fact, Wadi al-Hasa which I would be crossing today, actually had a greater height differential, but perhaps the gradients were more forgiving to a bus.
As soon as I dropped back down to the Highway, I pulled over and started uncoupling the chain. In diagnosing my drive-chain-based-issues I’d decided that the chain was too long. Removing one of the links caused a few more gears to come to life. Enough to be getting on with at least. Eventually another link might have to go.
The road continued to climb through the outer reaches of Al-Karak, I soon stopped at a small grocery store to buy some provisions. Chiefly some water, and a large bottle of Pepsi: It was hot today. Only 14 or 15 degrees, but the sun was low and there was only a light breeze to stifle its effects.
Sure I’d left my sun tan lotion in the bathroom of the previous night’s accommodation, I cycled through the upwards-tilted sprawl of Mu’tah looking for a pharmacy. The helpful girl in the shop tried to ascertain whether my skin was oily or dry, I looked back blankly, not something I’d ever considered while making similar purchases back home.
The road was still rising when I reached the small outpost town of Al-Hussayniyah, topping out at 1250m, I could see that the road would be dropping down into Wadi al-Hasa soon after. Turning off the main road onto the small high street, I stopped to get my bearings and was soon noticed by some young boys. ‘Hello’, ‘I love you’, ‘are you lost’? Well actually… I’m looking for something to eat. The boys pointed me in the direction of a takeaway outlet along the road, using a translator app to tell me it was 50 meters away.
Ordering a large shawarma box, the two assistants set to work. Receiving one and a half large shawarma and some fries along with some pickled veg, I was led to the shop next door to sit on their chair whilst I tucked in. It was a hearty portion and I stuffed some of the wrap and most of the fries into my panniers for later.
Reaching the top of Wadi al-Hasa, I was stunned, this seemed to be in a different league of scale than Wadi Mujib, ‘the Grand Canyon of the Middle East’. The scenery was, it had to be said, majestic.
As I dropped further down into the canyon, the dogs were out in force, a first one came along side me at speed, then, after I’d unclipped my right foot to try and fend it off with my foot, another appeared to join the chase, with only one foot clipped in I couldn’t accelerate away and in the end I was saved by a truck coming down the road behind me.
Moments later, another dog rushed out to the side of the road so aggressively that I got off and started walking, quickly deescalating the situation and only climbing back on when the dog was far behind.
Down at the bottom of the valley, I passed a small mosque, and I’d only just reached the lowest point of 430 metres when I was stopped at another police checkpoint. ‘Where are you going?’ Dana. ‘Are you alone?’ Yes, it’s just me and the dogs out here.
It was a long slow climb, the altitude increased at a glacially slow rate, the distance gained, barely at all. It was hard work in the full glare of the sun, and I was relieved when, towards the top, I was mercifully cast in shadow.
As I finally reached At-Tafilah, after 21Km in which I’d dropped from 1250 metres, down to 430 metres, then climbed all the way back up to 1250 metres again, I should have been happy to be back out the other side, but I knew the road would only continued to ascend. It’s time to let my accommodation know that I’m going to be late, I decided. 7 o’clock should be ok…
The road continued to rise and fall, up over 1300 metres, then over 1400, as the sun set, I was twisting and turning through a remote landscape a long way from the King’s Highway – which this road would lead me to again later. The dogs seemed even more ‘excitable’ at this hour and my nerves were officially shredded when a pack of 7 dogs all converged around me angrily, I stood in the middle, flinging my bike around me to ward them off, out of ideas, until a farmer came running up the hillside, struggling to get his animals under control. Exasperated, he told me to go, he’d handle it from here.
Shortly afterwards, the tarmac ran out, and as I climbed over the 1350 metre mark, up a steep slope on a stony track, I despaired, until I saw a van passing by up ahead, I knew there must be tarmac close.
As dusk fell, I dropped down a steep hill into Al-Ain Al-Baida, a man outside the mosque pointing me in the direction of the road to Dana Village, my stop for the night. Another long climb was required, though, and as I started to climb out of the penultimate town of Basira – with 6 miles to go – a loud hissing came from my back wheel. It was half past 6, I think I was going to be late, again.
No sooner had I started to remove the inner tube, when I dropped one of my tyre levers, it bounced off the cage of rocks that I was resting the wheel upon and disappeared between the rocks, never to be seen again. Luckily, I had a spare lurking in a box down at the bottom of my pannier. But I couldn’t lose another, I moved operations onto the tarmac.
Quickly I changed the puncture, with a steady stream of locals – and the police – checking to see if I was ok, I got my bike back on the road, and started on up the hill. Out of nowhere, my chain was skipping relentlessly. Before the puncture, the one thing that I could rely on was that my lowest gear was working well. Not spotting anything obvious, I was puzzling over what had changed, when two men in an MPV stopped on the other side of the road. ‘Are you ok’ the driver yelled over. Yes I was fine I replied, and that I was headed for Dana Village. ‘Oh yes, I know that place’, the man responded. ‘Maybe they can give you lift’, now there’s an idea, I thought. ‘Or I can give you lift, but it will cost you’.
Now in normal circumstances, when I was completing a significant route or challenging my cycling capabilities on a longer route, I could refuse a lift in almost any circumstances – the only time I’d accepted a lift on a previous trip, it was during an out and back extension on Orcas island in the San Juan islands of Washington State, and I justified that to myself because I was taking the ferry from Canada to mainland USA, and the ride on Orcas Island was just an additional side tour. This trip was to be an experience as opposed to a cycling challenge, ergo, I was taking this lift.
Jumping in the back, I was surprised to see that the road actually flattened off quite quickly, and the rest of the route wouldn’t have been so bad, but I knew that if I’d struggled to get my bike working at the side of the road and pedalled the rest of the way, I wouldn’t have reached my accommodation until half past 8 at the earliest, and realistically my chances of reaching Petra the next day, in time to see it, would diminish considerably. And that would be a shame.
‘Ah, the route to Petra from Dana Village is not so bad, you know, the driver said. Once you get back up to Al-Qadisaya it is all downhill or like this’, he said, while holding his outstretched hand out flat.
At the culmination of my lap of Iceland in the summer, I was asked ‘what’s next’? I quickly responded that somewhere warmer might be nice, like a winter escape to Jordan… And it might be nice, I’ll find out very soon!
Usually, when I’m planning a cycling trip, it develops gradually into a vague outline and a smattering of half-formed ideas, then I book the flights, and quickly those half-formed ideas become a plan. On this occasion, after several months of agonising over which flights to book, a sudden price drop forced my hand, and only then did I think to check out the news flash about the Gaza strip which had just flashed across my phone screen.
From that moment, an air of uncertainty hung over my planning: firstly when British Airways extended the duration of the flights in and out of Jordan, presumably deeming it prudent to take steps to avoid flying directly over a war zone; and secondly when they cancelled my homewards flight, offering up the possibility to postpone my trip until a time when the region appeared slightly less volatile. On considering my alternatives, I quickly realised that I would almost certainly end up claiming a refund on the flights to Jordan, then immediately replace them with cheap flights to Egypt, a country also bordering Israel and the Palestine Territories, but in which I had done no research at all. So, Jordan it was…
Jordan was somewhere that had appealed for many years, my interest piqued by photos of the red sandstone tombs of Petra glowing in the slowly-setting desert sun. In recent years, the country had positioned itself as a safe haven for adventure in the middle of a turbulent region, so, when I first learned about the Jordan Trail, a mixed terrain mountain biking and trekking route running 400 miles down the middle of the country, I took notice. In calculating my remaining annual leave for the year, it was clear that I didn’t have enough days left to undertake the full thing, but surely I could find something to entertain myself?
In reading about the Jordan Trail route, there was regular mention of a road, ‘The King’s Highway’, an old communication path down the spine of the country, starting in Damascus, Syria, and finishing up at Aqaba on the Red Sea. Regarded as being one of the oldest roads in the world, it was documented in the bible and dotted with Roman ruins and Crusader Castles along its length.
The 250 mile stretch from the Jordanian capital, Amman, to Aqaba appeared to have some of the most impressive landscape features, bisected by the towering gorge of Wadi Mujib, tiptoeing around the edge of the Dana Biosphere Reserve, before descending to the spectacular desert landscapes of Wadi Rum on its final approach to the sea.
Oh, and in case I forgot to mention, it passes Petra along the way..
The day started well when the campsite owner, Kathryn, brought me over some porridge and a coffee. I was on the road at 10 o’clock and had unfinished business with the climb up to Bodmin Moor.
A brisk descent through Pensilva followed and then another stiff climb up to Golberdon, where my alternative accommodation for the previous evening had been. Down and up again through anonymous country lanes, then another brake-busting descent led to Horsebridge, where a medieval bridge aided my passage to a new county, Devon.
Devon welcomed me with a grinding climb; from 50m Horsebridge to 300m and the edge of Dartmoor. Under the shadow of Brent Tor and its ancient church, I chatted to a cyclist on a few day tour around the moor, laden with four panniers and with a rucksack strapped atop his rack.
The road dropped down to Lydford Gorge, and I stopped at the visitor centre cafe for ice cream and a scone. As I sat preparing my scone on the grass, I realised that I was at risk of committing a huge cultural faux pas, by ignorantly applying the clotted cream and jam in an order wholly incognisant of the Devonian methodology. I carried on regardless, if any interested party, Devonian or Cornish, wanted to see how a scone should be prepared, this could be a lesson to them. As it happens, the right way is the Devonian way, but I’d desecrated tradition anyway by having a fruit scone, and raspberry – not strawberry – jam.
Soon there was a distinct improvement in proceedings as I turned onto ‘The Granite Way’, a tarmacked former railway bed that crept around the edge of Dartmoor for 8 gloriously flat miles between Lydford and Okehampton. The cycle path was busy with other users and one man in particular appeared to be having a tough time of it, with a fixed wheel tagalong attached to his bike, his son seemed to be having a great time back pedalling up the climbs!
After popping into a shop on the edge of Okehampton for provisions, I committed myself to aim for Crediton, another 20 miles further on. Thankfully, the road stuck to major roads to Whiddon Down, and I felt good riding the shallower gradients. The going remained good until a sharp climb a mile from Crediton, and instantly the fatigue in my legs returned. When a further 9% ramp followed shortly after, I opted to push, after 48 miles I’d given up the battle for today.
The nearest campsite was 5 miles to the East, and with no response to my phone call I headed there regardless, largely because the route looked flat. Arriving at the Langford Bridge campsite at 20 to 7, the sign stated that reception was open ‘til 7, and the campsite was largely empty, I’d found my abode for the night.
Luckily, after the exertions of the day, my dinner couldn’t be simpler, a tin of Heinz beans and sausages, and, finally, a use for the stove I’ve been carrying.
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