Stretched out along the hills and valleys of southern England, from Farnham in Surrey, via Canterbury, to Dover in Kent, the North Downs Way is a classic British national trail.  131 miles long, it follows paths, trackways and roads trodden through millennia.  First by prehistoric peoples.  Then by drovers and traders, avoiding the toll roads, and pilgrims hastening to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Thomas à Becket.  Now, the route is the preserve of walkers and day trippers keen to see some of the best scenery in England.

All of the route is easy to get to from London on the train, so I have decided to hike the length of it in sections, taking advantage of the mild and sunny autumn.

On the sunniest day of our cycle ride through Wales, we took a day off the bikes and went for a walk.  It was such a beautiful morning, we kept walking.  Gradually the path got steeper and steeper, and we climbed higher and higher.  

Finally, almost by accident, we were at the bottom of a steep scree slope that led to the summit of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon).  We paused for a while on a ridge with a view of the pretty lakes below and watched military helicopters circling in the valleys below us.  Then, full of nerves, we pressed on.

Despite our friend’s dog continuously scrabbling around above us causing tiny landslides to rattle past, we made it, with great relief, to the top.

There’s a lot to love about Glastonbury festival.  And for me, there’s nothing better than being able to sit in the sunshine on the hill, looking down on the colourful flags and crowds, listening to the hum of over a hundred thousand people having the time of their lives.

1,400 miles after packing up our bicycles and pedaling off south, we came to a halt in St Augustine, Florida.  It’s been a month of contrasts.  From rain and cold and epic thunderstorms, to clear blue skies, wind relentlessly in our face for days on end, and finally, sticky, sweaty, heat.  From hills, to plains, low lying barrier islands made only of sand, and finally the swamps.

It’s good to call it a day and park up our bicycles for the last time, on the balcony of the Pirate Haus hostel.  The last week it had been getting too hot to ride comfortably and the roads in Florida have been packed with giant articulated lorries that don’t mind driving very close indeed to cyclists.  Florida looks like it’s going to be fun, but it’s time to switch from the bicycles to a hire car.  It’s been a brilliant ride.

We’ve officially entered Alligator Country.

We spotted this beast in a swamp about 20 metres from the road. It must have been four or five metres long. It looked primeval. It circled slowly in the water beneath us, checking us out. Probably calculating whether it could be bothered to get up onto the bridge and attempt to turn us into lunch…

I cycled away, resolving to examine the borders of the road ahead of me even more carefully as I went. And even more concerned about our chosen route into Savannah later, called ‘Alligator Alley’.

The first shots of the Civil War were fired in Charleston, when the Confederates, incensed at a Federal fort sitting as an ‘alien presence’ in their harbour, shot at the Union ship, Star of the West, trying to resupply the fort. Little did they suspect that they had fired the starting guns of one of the bloodiest conflicts of the nineteenth century.

While the Confederates won an early victory here, ultimately they and the evil institution of slavery they supported were doomed. The North had too many men, too big an economy, and following Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, right on their side.

Now, the guns are silenced and the only people in Confederate uniforms are the horse and cart drivers. Charleston has become a beautiful, relaxed, little tourist trap. We wandered around the antebellum mansions with their double height porches, enjoyed the shade of magnolia trees, and ate ice cream in the sunshine while we watched a broken fire hydrant set off a spectacular impromptu fountain in the streets.

Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard, was a notorious English pirate who operated in the Caribbean and off the coast of what were the North American colonies.

Although he tried to go straight, taking the king’s pardon, marrying, and laying low for a while. It seemed that pirating ways were just too appealing - and in the end he went back to them.

After a particularly notrious several day pirate party hosted by Teach in the Outer Banks, the colonial authorities decided that enough was enough, and arranged for the navy to seek him out and kill him.

He died, after a spirited resistance, on Ocracoke island. But his memory is kept alive in this tasteful museum… Where his final stand has been modeled in - Playmobil…?

Check out my cyclists’ tan. My arm is a completely different colour from where I’ve been wearing my cycling gloves…

Lovely…

Sometimes when you’re cycling, you see something in the road up ahead that causes a slight degree of trepidation.

The Outer Banks are a gorgeous, thin, line of barrier islands off the North Carolina coast.

Basically sand banks, they feel temporary, shifting, impermanent - even though there is history at the northern end, where heavier than air flight was invented by the Wright Brothers in Kitty Hawk.

We camped amongst the dunes on Bodie Island in a beautiful National Parks Service campground. The guy who ran it claimed it was the best job he’d ever had - and I can understand why.

For our first day’s ride out of Richmond, just for once, we had it easy. The wind was behind us, the trail was (relatively) smooth and we flew through the 49 miles much quicker than we had anticipated.

I had the luxury of cooking dinner outside the tent before it got dark and watched a blazing red firestorm of a sunset over the beautiful Chickahominy river.

From my research in the USA, and in south America before it, I have established that dogs don’t like bicycles.

There must be something about the size, shape, or speed of a bike that really sets a perro’s hunt, run, attack, kill, reflex off. Even the most docile dog can suddenly transform into a hurtling, barking, in the road ahead of you, running at you from the side, trying to bite into your leg, baring teeth you didn’t realise even fit into that sized head, menace.

What sixth sense allows them to identify a bike coming towards them over hundreds of metres distance when they can quite happily leave pedestrians and motorists alone? How do they know to target your leg and not the front wheel? What has the bicycle ever done to them that they are so upset about?

I am now beginning to understand the likelihood of attack and relate it to the scenery I’m cycling through. In general

If you are in a central urban area, you can relax
If you are in a very rural area with no buildings, or a national park - low incidence
If you are in the sort of very smart village that wins prizes for flowers, no problem
Oddly enough, if you can see a danger - beware of the dog sign, usually you’ll be fine

But if you are on the urban fringe or in a small village - look out
If you are coming up to a tatty house or trailer, doubly look out
If there’s no evidence people are at home, or if there are just small children playing with a dog outside…

I think we’ll be cycling through quite a lot of that…

On our way back from visiting the sights in DC the sun finally came out and it looked regal and imposing. Just how they had intended it to be I suspect.

It’s incredibly spaced out. It takes ages to walk from the White House to Congress.

And even longer to then leg it from there to the station when you realise you’re about to miss your train back to Baltimore…

Our guidebook says you can’t help hearing the West Wing theme tune playing in your head when you see the White House.

Perhaps the lawn wasn’t closed off for repair when they saw it. And maybe it didn’t have this proud looking duck in the way.

I found myself thinking about that sequence from Independence Day more…

These stars originated with German farmers and were initially built into the fabric of wooden barns across Pennsylvania.

Cycling through Lancaster county we began to see more and more of them.  Attached to houses and to barns, painted in stars and stripes, shining in silver, arranged in small constellations.

I was fond of this quietly rusting specimen I found at the top of a steep hill, and grateful of the chance to stop cycling for a few moments to take its picture and catch my breath.