‘Hope is a waking dream.’
Aristotle
I was well aware that camping was likely to be challenging after so long sleeping in a double bed with many pillows and a generous duvet. I had thought the ten days with my daughters might act as a kind of boot camp, even allowing for the fact that our tent was roomy and well equipped where my new sleeping arrangements are rather more basic. But it’s taking a while to adjust.
In planning this trip, I’d spent many a happy hour looking online at equipment that might mitigate the worst impacts of sleeping out at night and especially sleeping on the ground. I’d found a self-inflating mattress, bright orange and ghoulishly shaped like a coffin, but immensely practical, requiring no air pump, nor the terrifying head rush I might suffer from blowing the thing up myself, and packing down to almost nothing when deflated.
The excitement at finding the mattress led me naturally to a tent billed as self-erecting. Now you’re talking, I thought, and if I could hear Kenneth Williams from the Carry On films guffawing in delight at the notion of anything ‘self-erecting’, I didn’t hesitate. I would be moving often on this trip, and the image I had of myself making camp in minutes and packing up just as quickly in the mornings was worth every penny I paid to make that come true. These items were not luxuries, just damn good planning.
Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I need scarcely say that a self-inflating pillow was next to arrive in the post. Then there was the solar light that would hang from the apex of the tent at night and permit me to read as long as I wished, then charge itself during the day, strapped to the trailer with its starfish arms to the sun. There would be no need to worry about charging my phone either. That would plug in to a folding panel that would also adorn the bike as I chewed up the kilometres, carefree and with very little to do other than pedal, admire the scenery, and think great thoughts.
And yet, despite these innovations, camping remains, well, camping. The last two nights, I’ve arrived just as the welcome cool of the evening is coming on and the sweat of the ride brings a slight chill to my body. The weather has been hot, and the sun a constant, so it’s a relief. The paths are only partially shaded and I slow noticeably when I hit a patch that gives me a break from direct sun on my back. Then, Ill stop to drink water from the bottle strapped to the rear rack with a bungee and always within reach. I’d read that in these sort of temperatures, two litres a day was a minimum, and I’ve made an effort to keep hydrated, though the water is lukewarm and a little unpalatable. I wear a bandana around my neck as sun protection, as a sweatband, and partly because I have the absurd feeling it fits the ideal in my mind of the seasoned long distance traveller.
I’m only averaging thirty kilometres a day. Despite my sedentary life at home, I could do more. My muscles are not complaining as much as they might, the route is flat as a pancake and there are sufficient hours in the day. But this is not a race and I like to take my time. I stop for coffee whenever I stumble upon an inviting café, and yesterday, I took a first swim in the ocean, which was marvellous. Just knowing this is the Atlantic Ocean stretching west to the Americas inspires awe. The heaving breakers underline the vastness that lies beyond and gives the ocean a mighty quality that is thrilling for a man used to the south coast of Britain and La Manche, the English channel as we call it, where you’re aware the landfall on the other side is only tens of miles distant.
There’s paperwork to do when you arrive at a campsite. And there are chores to do. I have to clear the ground of pine cones and rocks, hang a washing line from tree to bike to dry your sweat-soaked clothes,