Tag: thorn brevet

Day 2: Praesto – Puttgarden

Distance: 53.46 miles

Time: 5:00

Average Speed: 10.7 mph

Elevation Gain: 1,018 feet

Arriving at Praesto campsite, at 20 past 8 in the evening, I was a little concerned to find that the reception was empty, especially as I’d read a recent review that seemed to suggest that the site looked like it’d been abandoned. It certainly looked a bit dated, but there was a mobile number to ring for check-ins, so I gave it a call. No such number. What was the area code for Denmark? +45? I tried removing the initial zero and adding the +45, still no such number. Yet to be defeated I checked on Google Maps, and got a different number there, with the site number starting +45 instead of 045. This time lucky, a voice appeared on the line, communication was non-existent, but ‘I’ll be right there’ was tagged on at the end.

The site was gorgeous, large pitches – with picnic benches – nestled in amongst the trees. Sadly it looked like it was rarely used anymore, and the facilities had seen better days. Luckily as there weren’t many people around, it gave me ample opportunity to do some battery charging in the kitchen area, and that was a definite advantage.

Making it out of the door this morning, at the slightly more respectable time of 11:30, I popped into Praesto’s cute little town centre, set back from a small marina on the lake. After picking up a few supplies from the Netto supermarket – also one of my preferred suppliers in Iceland – I set off, westwards into the wind.

Back at the 151, I turned south, the brisk crosswind taking the edge off the heat generated by the bright sunshine, the road rising and falling along a constant bearing until Orslev, where the road veered west in the direction of the 3 km Storstrøm Bridge, that connected the tiny island of Masnedo – itself joined to Zealand by a short causeway – with the more substantial Falster, from where I’d catch the ferry to Germany.

I layered up and took on a little fuel, before setting off on the bitterly cold crossing. Glad to make it across, I was less pleased when the road I was expecting to take was closed for extensive roadworks, requiring me to take a substantial dog-legged detour via the small town of Norre Alslev. Stopping for an ice cream from the local petrol station, and sitting a while outside a large church, I readied myself to tack back into the wind once more, rejoining my original course at Oster Kippinge, before crossing a double lift bridge over the Guldborgsund, the small village of Guldborg straddled the river, with harbours on either side, and was part nuclear dystopia, part artists’ haven.

At 5 o’clock, I had my last stop of the day – and Denmark – at a pretty harbour at the end of the canal in Sakskobing. The sun was fighting through the clouds as I sat on the terrace outside Cafe Da-Vinci, waiting for a substantial plate of Nachos that comfortably fuelled me for the final 20 miles of the day.

Arriving into Rodbyhavn at half past 7, I quickly picked up some supplies at Lidl before making for the ferry terminal, and If it hadn’t been for the 48 crossings a day on this route, I might have worried about when the next ferry might be. As it was it was the worst-case scenario, I’d just missed one and the next would not be for another 45 minutes.

Once the gentle one hour crossing was over, I rushed the short distance to the Puttgarden campsite, arriving just before the 10 o’clock check in time, and able to do so over the phone. I was very glad I’d brought a few euros from home when I was required to pay in cash, putting my campsite fee in a postbox by the entrance.

Des Lille Havrue

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.

Are you ready for another adventure?

Am I ready for another adventure is perhaps the more pertinent question…

Before I’d left work on Friday I was asked where I was going on holiday, and for once I was at a loss. I was just about to start two weeks of annual leave, and I currently had nothing planned. What I did know was that – having looked at the forecast – staying at home would likely begin with good intentions to cram in all number of hillwalking and cycling trips, and end with me watching Wimbledon while looking forlornly out of the window at the rain.

But, having successfully completed challenging and logistically stressful tours in Iceland and Jordan in 2023 and backed those trips up by visiting Egypt earlier this year, my mental stamina was feeling somewhat depleted, and I was keen to not have to worry about flying home with my bike on this occasion.

So, the hunt was on to find a flight to somewhere that would be within range – after two weeks of cycling – of a ferry back to the UK, and preferably in a country I’d never been to before. Copenhagen was looking like a strong contender, and, when I mentioned my plan to the sales assistant in Halfords – while picking up some bike supplies – and he said that he loved Copenhagen, that he’d been before, and was going back in a couple of months, that was good enough for me.

Then, when he told me that Malmo in Sweden was only half an hour away by train, and I could add a second new country into the equation, that was the deal sealed completely!

The King’s Highway: The Aftermath

Having not eaten a great deal all day, I stopped off for a post-sunset late lunch before heading to the hotel. Ordering falafel, hummus and fries, I was slightly overwhelmed by the amount of food that arrived. How could I finish all of this.


As I ploughed through as much as I could – to avoid looking too wasteful – I looked up the bus times between Aqaba and Amman, and realised that there was one leaving shortly, at half past 6 in the evening. That was in ten minutes time, did that mean the ticket office might still be open?


The overall success of the trip could depend on this moment. I’d seen anecdotal evidence online that the JETT coaches might accept bicycles without the need for a box. I hoped so, as that was my masterplan for returning to Amman, to pick up my bike box and fly home.


Discovering that the bus station was only 5 minutes away, I raced over, and was relieved to be allowed in. The attendant confirming that I could indeed travel with a bike and booking me onto the bus at 11 am the next morning. All the way back to the start for 10 JD, and in 4 and a half hours.


After a pleasant breakfast at the Bratus Hotel, a new build just on the edge of the town centre, I made my way to the bus. All that was required was for me to remove the wheels and place the bike in the storage lockers with all the other luggage. I then boarded a very full bus, I was glad I’d booked.


Following the rapid transit along the desert highway, and a short pedal down into the centre of Amman, I returned to the hotel. I didn’t recognise the man at reception, and he seemed quite sceptical about my ad-hoc booking that had been cobbled together the week before. Possibly conceding that I may be telling the truth, he checked me in.

Wandering through a busy downtown bazaar, I stopped at the barbecue restaurant Shahrazad for a fine mixed kebab. Having felt comfortable at arriving back in Amman after my time travelling through the country, I was reeling again at the reaction I’d had at the hotel, and what this meant for my airport transfer the next day, I had no idea.

After a restless night during which I was sure that there would be no van coming to pick me up, I got up before my 5 am alarm, and watched the road outside the Roman Theatre from my window, would there be a taxi if I needed one, and could I possibly fit my box in the back? It seemed to me like 6 am on a Sunday morning was a problematic time to find a new solution.

When I checked out, shortly before 6, another receptionist seemed even more dissatisfied with my claim that I’d already paid, than the one the day before, repeatedly asking how much I’d been charged, and seeming to think that I should have paid more, perhaps because the listed room price on the wall behind him was 35 JD a night, whereas I’d reserved the first two nights online, before I’d arrived, at 32 JD in total. Did the ‘manager’ who’d served me the week before even work here at all, or was it an elaborate hoax?

But then, at 2 minutes to 6, a van pulled up, and it was the man who’d collected me from the airport a week prior. ‘You’re lucky, he’s usually late’ joked the front desk receptionist, as he held the door for me. I would be going to the airport after all, what had I been worrying about…

Arriving at the airport, at just gone half past 6 in the morning, I now had plenty of time to spare before my 9 o’clock flight, the morning’s stress levels slowly starting to dissipate. Now finding myself flush with the money that I’d kept back in case I needed to make some alternative last minute travel arrangements, I decided that there might be just enough time for one last Shawarma for the road. And, maybe partially buoyed by the now almost certain success of my trip, but even from an airport fast food counter, before 7 in the morning, it tasted pretty good.

Thanks for reading,

Michael