Reflections
Reflections
Day 1 — Amsterdam to Katwijk (56.8 km)
Excitement washed over me. I couldn’t believe this was it, finally the trip is now. Am I actually doing this?? I carried my bike outside, strapped my tent. I remembered everyone telling me “it’s fine to not do it anymore, no shame in backing out.” Some part of me wanted to listen, what was I thinking anyways? I’ve never done this before, worst yet, I’m going outside without my jacket, for at least a week. I’m always prepared if I go near the block: warm, spare tissues, and maybe a mint. What’s about to happen now?
Worst yet, I didn’t have insurance money for the trip - by which if it all went down, I could book an Uber or a hotel for the day, take a train and call it quits. Everything I owned that month I spent on preparing for this trip. It was scary, but I did it anyways. Not because I was brave, but because it was such a crazy idea that I had to do it. It was one of those fantasies that hits your mind - inspired by movies and stories, my excitement trumped any rational fear I had. No amount of YouTube videos would make me fully ready, I just had to go with it, and ‘Vaya con Dios,’ as the Spanish say. I trusted that whatever happened, I’d just let it be - and if for some reason I do want to quit, I can turn back, no commitments.
In reality, I knew deep down that once I ventured outside there was no realm in which I could simply turn back. Even though I said it to feel okay and reassure loved ones, the anticipated shame I would have from turning back would have been overbearing. So I just started, one pedal a time. I was high on euphoria - daring out into the world: a young graduate with no care in the world. I had done my fair share in the 22 years of life on Earth, and now this was my first true test. My first challenge beyond a school or work setting. Am I a man who will commit or chicken out?
The weather was spectacular. Sunny, clear skies. Everyone was wishing me good luck, and the music was hitting just right. I felt like a champion. Destination: Hoek van Holland. Where am I staying there? Maybe find a camp, or do some wild camping. Mind you I have no idea what a camp really is, nor am I even sure how to set up my tent. But that resistance would not trump my excitement, we’ll figure it out once we’re on the way. We just have to get started first, otherwise I’ll never do it.
Had I tried to figure out all the details, dates, and journey before buying that bike or ordering the gear, this trip would be a figment of my imagination. There was no time to think. I just had to jump and trust that I’ll float… and I did!
As I cycled past the dunes, pretty landscapes, and euro cyclist routes, I found a campsite to my left. I decided to check it out and get an idea of what I should be looking for when I arrive at my destination. It was a great spot - 16 euros a night. Ridiculous I thought, I’m better off wild camping.
But in reality, there was no potential camping spot on my way. I realized it’s getting late and I was still far from Hoek van Holland, so I decided to set camp. As I checked in at the reception I met a cyclist outside - my first social interaction. She was also setting camp there, “I think we cyclists are in the same area,” I said, “so I’ll see you there.”
E— was sweet. I fumbled my tent for 40 minutes until she stepped in to help: we got it set up in 5 minutes. The camp was near the beach. She was going for a dive and asked if I’d join. The weather wasn’t cold, but I knew the Dutch coast is always freezing. She said she did it the previous day and loved it - so no harm in checking it out.
She was a breathing coach and helped me monitor my breathing as we stepped in the sea. It was cold but it was all so beautiful. As if someone had taken out a script to write my first cycling day and filled it with sentimental interactions. After 5 minutes of fearful swimming with jelly fish, we went up to a restaurant, and I had my first good meal of the day: a fresh Poke bowl. “I like listening to podcasts as I cycle, but I started trying to listen to nature. It really is beautiful to cycle without earphones,” E— advised. Though I agreed in spirit, my times without my air pods came only when my phone’s battery forced me to set it aside.
Sticking by the grand script, the weather was scenic. A cool breeze singing holiday tunes in the beach hit us. In some moments in my shorts looking at the sunset, I forgot I was here on a cycling trip. It felt like a vacation by a tropical beach. The cold Dutch weather plucked me out of those dreams and it was time to head back.
Talk about perfect - wow what one day outside of my comfort zone can unlock.
Day 2 — Katwijk to Stellendam (68 km)
Struggling to pack my tent for the first time, a kind gentlemen taught me how to do it in no time. Unfortunately, I forgot my bike keys inside so I had to do it twice, but I could not let frustration set the intention of my day. Everyone there had breakfast in their cute pots, with coffee and oats. My “Don’t overthink it” self did not pack any cooking gear. I was the only odd one out.
No time to waste. I cycled again, destination Brouwersgracht. Finally passing by The Hague, I made my first Albert Heijn pitstop. I had my breakfast of the day: peanut butter and bananas in tortillas. Food on the road hits different. True there is no aroma nor kitchen warmth. But the act of sitting in the bench, spreading my sandwich and being present with every bite. Embedded in the context of an adventurous (and tiring) journey, the mere anticipation of each bite was enough to make it a fine dining experience.
I stopped once more in Hoek Van Holland for a 2.5 euros coffee - I had a rule to ensure no coffee I consumed was overpriced. In hindsight I should have constantly fuelled with coffee, but this challenge was integral to the aura of the trip.
After crossing a certain threshold of beautiful dams connecting the various parts of the Netherlands, I was inundated with swathes of farmland. It was pretty and charming until it was not. Time stopped, my earbuds annoyed my ears, and the head-wind struck. No matter how much I pedalled, the destination remained far. I was parched - but I had another “right to water” principle by which I would only drink from free sources of water. When opportunity allowed earlier, I timidly asked people enjoying their terrace if they could fill my bottles with tap. But now it was all empty. I was famished, but there was no time to stop and eat. It was late. I had to get to my destination. My body gave in, but worse than that my mind was not too far off either.
I was far from my intended destination, so I decided to settle for the closest camp. With no time to rest nor energy to pedal, I had to walk the last 3 km. It was a farm that offered camper vans a place to stay. I worried the reception was closed, but a Dutch slim farmer walking in his socks came, “yeah, sure. You could stay. Let’s say 8 or 9 euros? Here, give me 11 and I’ll give you two coins for the showers.”
It was getting dark and there were no cyclists around to have a chat with. It was me and a few family vans a bit far off. The bathrooms were horrendous, with spider webs occupying every corner. Lacking toilet paper, I decided to leave any business in that department for the next day.
I could not find any nearby restaurants. I walked to the vending machine, only to be frightened by what appeared like ghosts. It was dark. I decided to go to my tent and sleep instead.
It felt as though someone had taken the grand script from yesterday and turned it all upside down. It was ironic how radically opposite those two days were. Being able to zoom out, I grounded myself in the process, recognizing that it’s not supposed to be a linear adventure.
I slept better than the previous day as I learned that I could control the air in my pillow - and because my body was torn down by two days of intense cycling. Despite that, it was always a pleasure waking up in a tent’s environment. It’s fascinating to be in a vacuum of nature: the light, the sound, and the breeze all dictated by the wild. At the same time, I dreaded the process henceforth: washing and brushing my teeth in the camp bathrooms, packing my clothes, deflating the mat, and closing the tent.
Day 3 — Stellendam to Middleburg (62.3 km)
I managed to make me two sandwiches for breakfast, but strangely the peanut butter dried my throat; so I had to make do without it. Thus far, my nutrition entailed a poke bowl on my first night, three peanut butter wraps my second day, and a few granola bars throughout. Fortunately, my destination wasn’t too far today. In fact, I was supposed to arrive to Middleburg on my second day, but the journey took longer. This meant that I should press on and eat once I was there. I cycled through many windmills and took my first ferry. I was now living the dream: very far away from Amsterdam and aboard a ferry, on my touring bike!
I passed by endearing Dutch towns. This time they were different, not farmland, but ‘boutique’ towns. In one of their stands you could pick up your fruit and pay for what you took online - an honour system. Arriving to Middleburg afterwards finally made it all worth it.
An exquisite city with a clock church and quaint architecture. I finally saw an Albert Heijn, restaurants, and people all about. My favourite part: the town square had a peaceful stand for Gaza. This is it Suleiman, the script is turning back, we just had to go through that land of no man in between. I loved the camp, especially after yesterday’s farm. They had charging stations and clean bathrooms. 16 euros a night, so worth it.
Best of all, it was still early. I set up my tent, showered, met fellow cyclists for a chat, then cycled light and clean into town. I found an Italian restaurant and ordered a pizza. I was so happy yet distraught from the previous day, so I decided to enjoy my pizza while watching a show on my phone. It was a moment of bliss I wanted to have for myself - and I delighted in every second of that hour.
Day 4 — Middleburg to Bruges (Belgium; 49.2 km)
Another short cycling day. Today I finally get to cross the border. A fellow cyclist, D—, offered me some advice. Seeing I had no cooking gear, he pressed on me the need for proper nutritional intake. He was right - whenever I had my granola bars I felt my energy dramatically increase. But a big challenge of this trip was that I wanted to curb my spending, particularly as the down costs of the trip were already high. So I foolishly refused to buy any more protein or granola bars.
Choosing to revel in this town once more, I went to eat before commencing my journey. As a pizza lover, I had it again for breakfast alongside a warm cup of coffee. Today, I was properly rested and fed for my trip.
Crossing to Belgium, I expected a dramatic line or a sign to signal my victory lap, but there was none. I only realised it when my network stopped working for a minute. I noticed the landscape was different from the Netherlands. I can’t describe it, but it felt as though the grass was “greener” on this side. Perhaps the trees are what made it look elegant. It was a straight road between farms, with houses every now and then. I stopped at a busy café for water, and the waitress did not hesitate to fill my bottle.
I felt proud to have crossed the border. I must admit I had doubted myself the last nights. I couldn’t afford for the script to go bad again. I was not properly prepared for this trip. Sure, I could do it. But at what cost? I fantasised about my bed. My couch - I could be ordering a pizza right now and watching a movie.
Indulging myself last night in Middleburg, I checked train times to Amsterdam. I could have left in the morning and made it back by afternoon. I could make it all go away. Again, deep down I knew I wouldn’t do it. But that inner voice lingered. In some pervasive instances, I wished someone would just steal my bike and gear, forcing me to go back home.
When I crossed the border I had a moment of triumph against that voice. I was ecstatic that I did not give in. But ironically, the voice grew louder as the more I cycled away the further home was. Beyond Middleburg, there weren’t realistic train options back to Amsterdam. It whispered: be rational Suleiman; let’s do one day in Belgium then make an Irish exit. Sometimes I cussed the voice, and other times it overpowered me. Suffice to say, the trip was not supposed to be rational. Rather, it was an opportunity for me to face discomfort. Because of my excitement over logistical preparation, I was able to stop thinking and listen to my nerves instead. Some of that was ego, excitement, and embarrassment over what quitting would mean. They propelled me forward when the circumstances cautioned me to adjust and took priority over the thinking self.
So with each pedal came a decision to ignore that voice, and little by little I began enjoying the breeze of the moment. Good music, sunny skies, and Belgian canals.
Bruges made it all worth it again. Having set up camp early, I had the opportunity to walk around the picturesque scenes. It was a mini-Amsterdam, only so much more beautiful. I had a unique handmade pizza by the kindest of staff - a characteristic of all Belgians I met this trip. I bought a waffle and sat by a bench in the square. Having no care in the world beyond that piece of desert, I found myself in a moment of bliss.
Both my nerves and thoughts went quiet. There was only the present moment. I knew that this trip was meant to be. Regardless of how well the script turns out to be each day, I would always have moments like these to bask in the glory of the journey. No money in the world could purchase this experience. That moment and others like it, in which bliss overtakes all signs of agency, only came to me when I stepped outside of my comfort zone: in the café after the cold swim; in Middleburg enjoying my pizza; or now with my waffle.
Day 5 — Bruges to Bray Dunes (France; 61.8 km)
Middleburg then Bruges were relatively short cycling days. The camps were superb, and I properly dined in both cities. It initiated a needed reset. Today, I was excited to hit the road: first I would get to meet a friend along the way; and second, I would cross the border into France.
Despite cycling from Amsterdam, we managed to have a smooth meetup. The schedule worked out and we met in Oostende. I appreciated the chance to socialise again. Beyond meeting E— on my first day, there weren’t any meaningful conversations I had. It was refreshing to do an activity unrelated to cycling: exploring the town, lunch, and ending with a Belgian waffle. L— was a gracious host. She showed me around and treated me to snails - something I never expected to try in my life, not least on a cycling trip. It was also my first time hearing Flemish, a lyrical synthesis of Dutch with a French classy accent. This showed me how possibilities can materialise from spontaneous endeavours. It’s like reading a great book: it’s not only a linear development but it extends branches for you to discover interests you never knew about. A character mentions a town, or an author’s tangent sends you to an entirely new world.
Being socially and nutritionally charged, I bid L— farewell and cycled straight into France. On the way I made sure to appreciate the Belgian towns, but as the sun crept away they felt gloomy and grey. It was late, but I needed to “cross the border” to checkmark that win for the day.
I wasn’t seeing any fountain waters past the Netherlands, so in France I broke and bought my first (plastic) water bottle. There were several farms with horses on the way. I was too tired to appreciate them, but in retrospect I wish I had.
In De Panne, there was a municipal camp that looked full of life. There were two coastal camps with people in swimming suits and cheery summer looks: it looked like it was going to be a great day. I was met with a large sign, “no availability”, but I decided to call nonetheless. After a number of hung up calls I noticed the language barrier was an issue, so I managed to translate one phrase with my dying battery: “Velo a la camp, sil vu pleit.” But none would have me. The past 4 nights I randomly picked a camp and found a place, but the rules of the game changed in France. There was one camp left in the city that didn’t answer the phone. A couple saw me staring at the camp’s gate, and I told them I was waiting to see if I could enter. As luck would have it, it was the owner. Many of the camps’ receptions close by 18:00, but this was small enough that the person lived there. We had a nice chat and he gave me ample space to set camp. He even gave me a tip on which shower to enter to get the best flow and heat, “we just installed that shower.”
The scenario today almost took a downturn, but luckily we managed to keep it neutral. The morning was great, but the camp was gloomy and in the middle of a suburb town. Cycling to the centre to have dinner was scary: it was dark, and I had to pass by bridges and a park’s alley. There was only one place open that looked like a cafeteria. I ordered a steak sandwich with fries. I heard multiple bangs and my heart raced, cycled all this way to meet danger in France. But it was just fireworks. The municipal camp was celebrating an anniversary with a show. All the fun was there. The people in the restaurant left to catch the show. I was sat there eating oily fries and decent meat. I’m ashamed to admit I felt despair as I cycled to the camp. I missed life and home. The good camps I stayed in were lively enough to feel like there was a community. In this one it felt like I was all alone. The accumulated stress of the week wanted to catch up to me. But I managed to stay grounded recognising the fact that not all days were supposed to be great. Some were destined to be, and some weren’t. That’s life. All I could do was stick to the schedule and try to be stoic about it. Most importantly, it was still a good day, and I gained the milestone of “cycling to France.” True, maybe I should have stayed in Belgium, but it is what it is now.
Day 6 — Bray Dunes to Wissant (91.7 km)
The longest day yet. Writing about this now I’m surprised it is only all in day 6. It felt like three days in one.
Heading out of the ‘rural’ camp, I cycled a long way to Dunkirk. I was excited to get away from this province and reach the charming parts of France. The areas in the border between Belgium and France were gloomy, as though a ghost town that neither screamed Belgium nor France. It was a sign of the uneven development I forget existed in Europe - not every place is Paris. Arriving at Dunkirk was a milestone as I had reached somewhere notable. “Hey, the city named after that Christopher Nolan movie,” I joked to myself.
Dunkirk was a wasted detour with no scenes nor a bite to eat. Because it was a Sunday, most of the places in the square were closed. I continued to Calais. It was an enjoyable cycle as the whole architecture was visibly different from the previous two countries. The urban look took precedent over the Western European style. In a way it was less intimidating, making me feel as though I was close to home. Not everything was expensive or unique, in a strange sense it felt like it was no longer “cold.”
Struggling to find food options, I stopped by a Dominis on the road. It was cheaper than the Netherlands. I savoured each slice by a bench until a bee buzzed me off.
Calais was just the sight I needed after the long journey. The day before had been rough and I wanted to escape that limbo between Belgium and France. I met a square full of flower decorations. I took a minute to appreciate it: this was my original destination. Having arrived in Calais, I now completed my trip. That voice in my head that kept calling me an imposter throughout suddenly went quiet. My nerves calmed. I did what I said I would do. I kept my word. You wanted to give up, but you didn’t. I respect that a lot, Sully. Well done.
That only lasted a moment. There was no cathartic relief. The town was pretty but not extravagant, and besides, my actual destination for the day still lied ahead. But it felt good - the exit option had finally opened up.
It was here that I felt my ‘third day’ of day 6 start. Dunkirk then Calais was already a long journey of cycling, pedalling, and more cycling. It was a mundane route.
All of a sudden, after leaving Calais I found myself in highways with cars racing past me. Some of them had bike pathways that would abruptly disappear then resume. But I reached a point where there was no bike paths left. I managed to navigate the road, teetering on the edge of the asphalt and erring on the side of the grass. I then reached my first uphill battle: a two way ‘highway’ up to Cap Blanc-Nez, a viewpoint I had been urged to visit. It was cold and windy. Eventually, the incline became steep enough that I could no longer pedal with all my gear. I walked my bicycle instead, imagining myself as a traveller of the past, leading his horse on a long journey. I walked with faith and silent prayers: there was nowhere for me to go except directly in the path of the cars. Drivers had to wait for the lane to clear before they could pass me. I grew anxious about my effect on the traffic ecosystem as we reached a curve in the climb.
By the grace of God, I made it to cap Blanc-Nez in one piece. I had reached the summit of my journey, both literally and figurately. If anything screamed out “you made it” in this trip, it was this stop. A magnificent view of the Ocean.
An Italian couple were taking photos: “I want the exact same photo as her, please!” Only at this point, and with this photo as proof, did I genuinely feel my imposter syndrome burst. I was no longer faking this journey. I followed through my commitment and was rewarded with a commemorative photo.
It was getting late, but I kept ruminating that the stop was worth it regardless. I mounted the bike, only to find myself in a downhill road with several curvatures and cars. No single pedal from my end would have made a difference, all I could do was control the brakes. It was exhilarating, but I forced myself to focus and slow it down as much as I could, “no unnecessary risks.” I was frustrated my navigation app would take me through this route. I guess there was no other way because the town was literally by the ocean. Just before Wissant, there was a picturesque small town. It really was the business of movies how charming it is. If not for this bike trip I doubt I would ever set foot here. The camp there was full. It looked amazing and I wanted to stay there so bad. I tried calling, but no one would answer. I heard a Dutch couple leaving, and fought every urge to not tell them I also came from the Netherlands “like you guys”. Though I do enjoy solitude, small talk sometimes is nice to get the system running at capacity. I continued to Wissant, 20 minutes away.
To my dismay, the two camps in Wissant were also full and would not budge on providing with any small space for me to stay in. My phone was about to die, and my power bank had little battery left. I started to panic, asking around if camps existed perhaps beyond google Maps.
I tried to be cool and collected as I explored my options. There were a few camps scattered within a huge distance from the town. They didn’t look reliable, with most not answering the phone. I entertained the thought of sitting at the bench there for the whole night. Maybe even dozing off while clutching my important things. It would be bothering but I would have an excuse to just rest and eat now, then I could leave by sunrise and get a headstart to Amsterdam. I sat there for a few minutes, but then rationality got the best of me. Who was I kidding to stay out in the cold for a whole night in a random bench. I wanted to cycle back to Belgium and gain the night to make headway to reach home. But again, knowing how I fumble basic arithmetic when lacking sleep, I decided against this. I thought about wild camping, but made an excuse against all potential spots I found.
Finally, one of the camps I kept trying answered my call. They had space. It was late but she said she’d wait for me to get there. I bought a pain-au-chocolate and started pedalling like my life depended on it. In a strange turn I took, I found myself in a farm.
A few metres in I found a hole swallowing the path. I braked. Picked up my bike and carried it over. I cycled a bit, only to find a sign that says do not pass. It is now 30 minutes away from sunset, low battery, and I am somewhere away from civilization. I can try going back but I already put in costs into entering this bloody farm. I carry my bike and go into the empty farms near it. I struggle to cycle on the soil ridges separating the fields. There is no path, but I follow the general direction the map points to. I found a camp and I rushed to get there.
It wasn’t the place I called, but if they’ll take me at least I can have shelter. It was a field with many RV vans. And she had a home at the helm of it. It looked as though it was a cartoon set: the house had red carpets and warm lights. a lady came out with her dog. “I’m sorry we only have place for RV vans. You see, we don’t have pee pee stations and usually campers leave it messy.” I was desperate, “Please, I have no place to say. If I need to do anything, I promise I’ll only do a number one and go far away from the camp.” She looked at me hesitantly, clearly wanting to help me out. We agreed that if I couldn’t find the other camp I was going to, I could come back and she would take me in.
I rushed again, finally on a proper road now. It was a steep incline again, but I had to pedal through. It slowly drizzled. The night followed. Freezing. Low battery. And praying that it will work out.
I’ve been privileged that when things don’t usually go as planned, something either always pulls through or the worst is not really the worst case at all. If I’m worried about a paper’s deadline, deep inside I know that regardless of how stagnant my progress is, by the time that deadline come I will have it ready. If I’m late for an event, it’s okay. Here for the first time in my life if things don’t go as planned, I’ll be out on the wilderness with nowhere to go. My faith in it “should work out” was starting to waver.
I witnessed cute gazelles jumping through but had no time to appreciate them. I pushed through until I finally made it. The place was real. The lady was sweet. But victory felt like defeat.
I entered a compound that led to various paths. It felt like a maze as I frantically gasped trying to pick a direction. I called and she kept repeating “wooden house.” I looked for wood even in the brick houses but realised that couldn’t be it. I kept straight until I reached what looked like the heart of the camp: a wooden grand house. This camp was like no other. It looked like the place where Alice in the Wonderland was before she got lost. There were rabbits jumping around - trees and cabins. It looked like a human-made forest with bushes for trees. There were cabins and houses with pathways. It was surreal.
But I must admit, in the moment I only had contempt. It was a long journey full of doubt and exhaustion.
There was no time to think about how tired or hungry I was. I had to rely on my flashlight and set camp before it poured further. Having finally set everything, I went to shower, only to find the bathrooms were terrible and had no toilet paper. There was barely space for me to lay down my clothes in a clean corner. But worst of all, a helicopter sounding bug - I think a beetle - entered the bathroom and would not stop moving. A couple entered the bathroom giggling throughout. They were having so much fun, when they heard it, they finished brushing their teeth and galloped out romantically. I was miserable. It’s funny how one situation can be similar yet be interpreted differently. I froze, then decided I could not shower comfortably with it whizzing through. I left back to my tent. Little did I know - I underestimated how bad sleeping in my own sweat was.
It was freezing, so I prayed inside my tent. For the first time I slept without showering. One would think in the wild it doesn’t matter as much - but it lingered on my mood. I slept with my legs at a slope - there was no light nor time to look for flatter ground.
I couldn’t afford to waste my battery. I had to discipline myself not to use my phone and simply ‘be’. I don’t know if it can be characterized as being in the present moment, but all I found then was dread. It became crystal clear: the next day I will start going back home. The covers under my bed. The warmth. Tv. It felt like a dying man’s wish, and I pledged to honour it.
I was awoken by the jingle of a truck. “In the morning we have croissants and bread coming in,” the lady’s voice from last night echoed. But I missed it by just a minute. I preferred staying hungry and appearing nonchalant than rushing there awkwardly. In retrospect, this farm had great charm. It would be the perfect place to spend a day in seclusion by nature, go for a walk, read, and enjoy a certain ‘medieval’ atmosphere.
But alas, all I could feel then was a longing to get home. I was stressed, and I don’t blame myself. But I really wish I took time to appreciate the place and the journey. And I bet this is how I would look back on my current days too. Stressed about mundane issues that in the future I would wish I took a moment to appreciate. I still feel empathy for that day’s Suleiman and recognize it was stressful, but I also know some of that was self-imposed - nothing a deep breath and five minutes to oneself can’t fix.
Day 7 — the return, Wissant to De Panne (79.5 km)
I wanted to arrive Amsterdam that instant. Unlike the games we play or the places we visit nearby, there was no ‘quit’ button. Going back would be a journey on its own. I decided the most effective way to reach back would be to cycle to Middleburg and take the train from there.
I tried using Google Maps today instead, hoping I would avoid the highways. I did, only to be met with closed off farms instead. There were several inclines I had to walk rather than cycle. Nonetheless, I managed to make good headway. I was starving but there was no time nor place to press pause. Eventually, my phone died and I had to rely on signs and strangers to guide me to Dunkirk. I had to stop by a McDonalds - the only option available - to charge my phone and navigate. Funny enough, while there my jumper got stolen, so I had to layer up with a sweater instead.
I pressed on till I crossed Belgium. There was no way I would stop just short and have to go to the gloomy camp in Bray Dunes again. In De Panne, I found a wonderful camp. I was about to badmouth Bray Dunes for not having camps only to realise the receptionist was from there. It must be cool to work in Belgium and go back home to France at night.
I set up there, showered and left to the town’s centre. I was already in a jolly mood. It was early and I knew that I had somewhere nice to sleep at. Most importantly, I finally had clean bathrooms again. I was unstoppable. The rage from yesterday washed away. The script was back to normal.
With my phone charged in the centre now, I ordered a pizza and watched a tv show episode on my phone. It was another blissful moment where I was finally clean with a semblance of normalcy again. Tomorrow was clear: I would have to push then I could be home and comfortable by midnight. I could see my house - I could almost touch it.
Day 8 — the final stretch, De Panne to Amsterdam (101 km)
It was windy today, but nothing was going to stop me. I was in the best mood because now I cycled with a purpose: reach the comfort of my own bed and seal this journey shut.
Finally learning about the importance of nutrition, I stopped by Lidl and bought two croissants and a smoothie. It was one of the most memorable breakfasts of my life - it felt like the first supper, divinely ordained yet only the beginning. Breakfast on the road is a rare and exquisite experience. I continued unimpeded apart from one last stop in Belgium. I was on schedule and knew a coffee would come a long way.
I stopped by a terrace, saved my seat and went to the restroom. As I came out, I saw a Belgian couple hesitate, wanting to sit outside but confused by my bag on the last table. “Please, feel free to join me if you want to sit outside,” I said. We drank coffee and exchanged our life stories. Again, I noticed the power of socialising, where a newfound form of energy bathed me. Particularly when meeting kind people - I could hardly contain my smile afterwards.
We did not exchange contacts. But I gave them my address in Amsterdam. We agreed if they ever found themselves in the city, they ought to knock on my door. If it’s meant to be, I hope to meet them again one day.
I pushed on my journey. The weather was a breeze, with an exceptional view along the Damme canal in Belgium. I had that feeling when everything connects in life, and you’re forced to stop wondering and express gratitude for this beautiful life.
Hunger caught up to me. But there was no time to stop and eat. Admittedly, I wanted to savour my meal till I reached home, and not rush a meal without fully enjoying it. At one point near the edge of Belgium, I had to walk my bike. I ran out of energy. I reached Breskens in the Netherlands and waited for the next ferry. There I met three hardcore road cyclists. Two of them travelled from New Zealand to the UK. They had a two-month holiday and cycled from the UK to France, and were on their way to Amsterdam. One was a French women smoking cigarettes and charging her bicycle’s battery - she had a cargo that she pulled with her bike. I was able to recommend the camp spot I stayed at in Middleburg, hence doing my fair share back to the cycling community.
As we reached Vlissingen, I cycled to the beautiful town of Middleburg. It was early evening, but I was worried. My heart was already home, I could not imagine having to set up my tent again and then journeying on in the morning. A train passed by, but the conductor said they don’t accept bikes. He said the next train would. I was comforted by seeing a few people with bikes as well, so I went and stood next to them; praying I can get on the train and arrive home.
The train reached, and victory was near: the bike signs were on the appropriate doors. I entered, took a relieving breath, and was finally still again. I chatted with a couple that rented electric bikes and did a day trip in Middleburg via train. As I reached Amsterdam, I cycled back home, stopping at a Subway to buy a sandwich. I unpacked, showered, and sat down. As I promised myself in the first day when I was fantasising about calling it quits, I opened the Tv and enjoyed my sandwich. I then had a long night of sleep and called this journey a success.
This trip taught me a lot about a debate I constantly have with myself on the value of finding meaning in the journey as opposed to the destination. I hope to share my thoughts about that in relation to the trip in the next article, soon.