Introduction

After 2 weeks of catching trains, cycling, and going around various festivals and cities, I found myself in Berlin. I'd always planned on being in Berlin at this time; I was supposed to catch one last train on from there to visit Auschwitz and then cycle home to London. What I hadn't planned on was being there with only 40 euros, no shoes and no bike.

The dream looked unlikely, however I had a 'plan' as to how to get a new bike so the venture could still at least be possible.

The below is a journal of sorts that I have been writing throughout. I would say it has been the only thing keeping me company through this whole trip, but this would be a lie as I am also with Richard Dawkins. Richard Dawkins is the name I have given to my Casio SA-47, a mini keyboard with over 180 inbuilt tones and patterns. He is pretty sweet.

I realise this is quite long and self-indulgent at times, but I've had a lot of time on my hands, so yeah, feel free to read or ignore it. I will add more as I get further and have the time. Please send me a reply if you like, I'd love to hear from you.

The story starts in Berlin, so here goes:

1. Thanks Mum

A ringing phone wakes me up and the sight of a call from mum brings me more joy than usual. This is not to say that I don't enjoy talking to the woman, but I figure rebellious youths (/disorganised idiots) such as myself will always associate calls from a parent with being in some kind of trouble. Indeed just as a parent will most likely associate a call from a child on holiday with an imminent dent to their bank account.

She'd missed one such call the day before, but she knew the deal. All parents know the deal; no child has ever called from holiday just to tell them that they are battered in Pacha in Ibiza and that they wish they were there. No, they call because they've fucked it.

I answered the phone and entered the usual half-baked formalities I am accustomed to with such parent-directed pleas for help, "Hey, how are you? I'm good, yeh, you're good? cool, cool, nice weekend? yeh, me too, cool, so yeh, listen um.... I need money, help and love..." I wince as the what we both know to be inevitable request comes out, "but mainly money" I stress.

I told her that my bike had been stolen in MELT! festival and I told her that this would make it difficult for me to complete my cycling tour of Europe. Though I'm sure the latter part she could've probably worked out herself. I told her that it was my birthday coming up soon. I asked her if I could buy myself a new bike for my present.

The blabbering continued, before she interrupted and calmed me with just a few words as she's always had a knack for. She told me getting a bike sounded like a good idea and would make a good birthday present. I told her I loved her, hung up, gathered my mountain of possessions (which somehow failed to include a pair of shoes), my 40 euros, and left the Hostel feeling incredibly excited and happy by the prospect of a new bike. It was on. Thanks Mum.

2. Shoes

Two weeks of wearing no shoes can begin to take its toll even on the best of us, thus it should not be of too much surprise that after two weeks it had begun to start taking its toll on me. I found a robust splinter lodged firmly into one of the most pressured areas of my foot. With every step it got a little deeper, with every step I limped a little more, and so with every step the next step got a little shorter.

Given the escalating nature of this detriment, a clever man naturally would've taken it upon himself to treat himself as early as possible. A clever man would've got the splinter out, disinfected the wound, put a bandage around it and a clever man would have kept it clean, especially if such a man were to know that he would be without shoes for 2 weeks while cycling 1800km across Europe.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that I am not a clever man, but I did not do this. At all. I figured finding a bike was most important, I figured finding the bike would be easy, I figured a splinter is just a splinter, and I eventually figured that I suck at figuring. Besides, at first it really wasn't too bad; I could move about and it wasn't too painful, I was still with one friend so he could help carry my stuff and I was a tough cookie, or I at least thought I was.


The search had started well enough, we managed to visit two bike shops in 2 hours. However when you know nothing about bikes, it turns out that it's quite hard to make a decision. We walked a good few more kilometres to try and find the third, finding it quite depressing when it seemed to not exist. My friend had to leave for London at this point so left me with my 7 different items to carry. My foot was becoming really sore, while every finger belonging to each of my hands was now locked in different roles carrying my luggage. I needed a bike. I was so sure that once I had it everything would be ok. I would be able to put all my bags on the back, I would be able to use my hands again, I would move around the city as I pleased, I would be free.

Unfortunately I wasn't able to find one in another location far out of town so I hobbled back to the train station central and set up my sleeping bag on a patch of grass outside some houses in central Berlin.

The humming and buzzing of the trees and plants gently awoke me in the morning. The buzzing got louder, at which point I remembered that trees don't buzz and turned my head to find a massive lawn-mower tractor thing driving straight towards my head. I jumped up in my schlafensaccen (sleeping bag) and saw the Gerrman driver laughing at me. Not the first German to laugh at me in these last few days, and I very much doubt the last.

I spend another day trying to find a bike and failing, I can't walk anymore. I'd borrowed a needle and a lighter off a dutch man the day before to get out my splinter, but had not cleaned it afterwards and was still wearing no shoes as I tramped around Berlin. It was no doubt very infected and aggravated now. I kept dragging myself round looking for a bike, I could barely move, and I felt like that guy in 'the void'; a movie which depicts a man who breaks his leg on a mountain and drags himself many kilometres to his camp without food or water. Though this isn't perhaps quite as bad, I still feel sorry for myself. Eventually after lots of failed bike shop visits to far away areas, some near-crying, further naps on the street and a ton of will power, I manage to carry myself to the last bike shop on my list.

The owners are impressed with what I am trying to achieve. Being keen cyclists themselves, they give me a 30% discount on everything I buy and Mum convinces me to use the euros I have saved to get some shoes. I think about it, but firstly smash the shit out of a burger King. I get some shoes from the 1st ever Adidas store (uber cool) and very happily mount everything on my bike and freely cycle to the station to board a train to Poland. A bunch of Germans start a conversation with me on the train. They see what is wrong with my foot and are a bunch of hypochondriacs and tell me I will probably die. Typical Germans. Before I know it one of them has his plastic gloves on (I have no idea why he is always carrying them) and is popping the wound while I lay on the train floor, biting down on my bicycle chain, spluttering out mumbled profanities and stern, manly growls of pain. 

3. The Fear

I have a few euros left from my Mum and I decide to spend it on a night in a Polish hotel in order to have one night of comfort before my journey. I have a shower in the hotel and savour the feeling of being washed as this probably is the last time I will be clean for a while. I put on the cleanest top I have, but it is filthy and the feeling ends. At least I still have a good night's sleep to look forward to.

I flick the light switch, the room goes dark and it sudden reminds of me a room I stayed in as a child. I still can't remember which room, all I could remember was the room had scared me back then. Some semblence of the fear still seems to remain with me and it grows a little as I lie in bed. Feeling this fear while in the complete safety of my hotel room reminds me of who I am. I remember that I'm still scared of the dark, although less so than when I was a child, I know it never completely went away. I remember that the country side has always frightened me at night, I don't like the silence, I don't like how still everything is. I remember that I'll be camping in empty fields in the pitch black, wet Polish nights. I remember that I can't put up my tent. I remember I will be alone. I realise what I'm actually doing and realise that I am scared.

My brain recalls some images of the kind of ghouls that my imagination frightened me with as a child. The ghouls change into the skeletal figures of Auschwitz survivors that we see in old photos. I don't know why I'm going to Auschwitz, I don't think I want to see it. I don't know why I'm doing this whole trip, I don't think I want to do it. A novel idea has suddenly become reality and for the first time I feel really frightened. I feel a wave of panic about to spread across my whole body, but a triple shot of some spirit some Polish people gave me in the bar earlier kicks in, and I pass out.

I awake the next day and the hotel does my laundry, but the clothes I leave to go to the station with are still wet as apparently the price I paid didn't include drying. I only have my 40 euros now, so don't have the money to waste on drying. I move through the rain with my soaking belongings to the station to catch my overnight train to Krakow.

4. Trains

A good and full night's sleep from the hotel has kept me in good spirits as I board the train. An inquisitive Polish man however soon puts me in worst. He overhears a phone conversation I have with a friend where I detailed the plans of my trip. I hang up and he says cycling 130km a day is crazy, he says my bike is too heavy for the journey, he says I need more money, he says sleeping in fields is dangerous because it's Polish hunting season. Essentially he disagrees with every element of my trip, but I don't care, what does he know about cycling anyway? He says he does the MTB Morocco bike races and cycles 70 to 100km every day as training. After everything I went through to get my bike, the idea that it might be the wrong one makes me nearly cry. He finishes by telling me that I am very, very brave and I feel better. Or very stupid he continues, and I feel worst.

A conductor comes into our cabin and shouts some Polish at me. Mr MTB morroco engages him in some conversation, before passing the conductor 50 schlotti (Polish Dollar)(probably spelt wrong) and getting 30 back. He gives me the 30 schlotti (about 8 pounds) and I find out he just paid a fine for my bike being onboard. I say I don't know how to thank him. He says just say thankyou. I say thankyou and he gives me 2 apples, perhaps as a reward for the correct way of showing gratitude. I say thankyou again, but I get no more apples.

I'm sitting on the platform waiting for the next train. It's all getting quite distressing as it doesn't stop raining in Poland and I am not prepared for it. I don't know how I'm going to keep my tent dry, I don't know how I'll sleep if it's wet. A woman walks towards me on the platform and I am instantly drawn to her, it's hard to explain. She obviously recognises that I am lost and alone, she shines in the dark station and she gives me a hug. Such an act I would usually find confusing, but somehow nothing has ever felt more right than this moment. She tells me everything will be perfect, but I already know this. She floats off and takes me with her, her body stops being like anything I've known, instead becoming shaped by a mist of dancing blonde ether. The ether turns to flames and she cackles madly as she starts dragging me to the electric train rails. I've fallen for the oldest trick in the book, the siren, and I feel like an idiot as I plummet to my certain death. I bolt upright, snort twice as loudly as I ever have and open my eyes to be met by a small cabin jammed with polish people staring at me. I tip my cap at them and lean back into my chair. I close my eyes. I hope for some better sleep. I'll need it for my journey.

5. Auschwitz

I go from Krakow to Auschwitz, savoring the last train journey of my trip. Perhaps my last break from the pouring rain. It's still raining when I get off, it's been raining solidly for 3 days. I look at my exposed mountain of bags on the back of my bike and I look at Richard Dawkins, knowing he is as unhappy with the situation as I am. A nearby shop sorts me out with some binbags and tape, allowing me to arrange some sort of makeshift waterproofing that seems to suit Dawkins and I quite well. An apology gets made to a Polish gas station as I leave with a stolen map of Poland. The map and waterproofing suddenly makes me feel everything is under control. I feel up for it, I feel ready, I feel happy. The constant seesaw of emotions continues.

I cycle along the disused train track to Auschwitz, and can't help but imagine the ride that hundreds of thousands of Jews, Russians and Polish took. I see the gate of death, I see all the last things they saw. 5 steps into Auschwitz and I start crying. Though really I'm not sure how much this means as I've nearly cried about 50 times on the way here. I think I'd already decided that I was just going to let it all out once I got to Auschwitz. And that I did.

I stand by the ruins of the gas chambers. I look at the road they were all shuttled along and imagine them moving past me. I remember my dream with the siren and remember that when death became certain I hoped it was a dream. I thought it had to be a dream.

I wonder how many people here thought it was a dream in their last moments.

I think about how free I am with my bike, even with no money, what anyone here would've given for my situation. The feeling of comparative joy doesn't last long however. I start to think about the trip and don't think I can do it. There's 150km to do today and it's already 1 in the afternoon, I'm already tired. I start thinking about death, perhaps an inevitability in Auschwitz. I start thinking about aging. It's all starting to get quite dark in my head. I remember Melt! festival was just 3 days ago. I realise that I'm on the comedown of my life. The comedown of my life in Auschwitz. It's time to leave.

6. Hospitality

The first 30 km are pretty easy. Traveling along a semi-motorway, the distraction born from wondering if a Polish driver is going to kill me or not takes my mind away from the distance I'm covering. I stop for a cigarette and meet a man called Mariusz. We speak in German. He is a legend. He gives me 10 schlotti and buys me a lunch at KFC. We talk for a while, he shows me pictures of his family, he invites me to go on holiday with him, but I tell him I'm on a mission.

I give him a big hug before I leave. The hugs I have with all these people who talk with me or help me along this journey are unlike any other. They are firm, there is no awkwardness. They are a true reflection of the love that we are capable of showing complete strangers. (sorry for getting a little soppy here, but I find it really touching)

The next 100km are cycled through heavy pouring rain. I dare not stop as I'll realise how soaked I am, how cold I am, I'll realise how completely fucked I am. The sun begins setting and the fear kicks in. I am drenched and the night looks like it will be cold. I see a Polish lady outside her home. I try and explain in sign language that I'd like to use her drier. She blanks me and walks inside. I'm starting to get a little worried.

10 km later and I see two men entering another house. They can speak German. I explain what I'm doing, that I need a drier. They tell me they have no drying machine so I turn round to leave, but he grabs my shoulder and beckons me inside the house. They tell me I can put my stuff on the radiator. I do this and when I turn round there is a huge plate of sandwich materials with a cup of coffee waiting for me. We sit and chat, we get out a map and I show them what I've done and will be doing. The grandpa of the family asks me if I play any instruments. He grabs two guitars and we sit playing the blues, while drinking whiskey and smoking. We play for an hour or so until Richard Dawkins decides he wants a piece of the action. The family find him very amusing. The jam was good, no doubt about it.

It's just me and grandpa left awake. He is a little drunk. He stumbles over to a counter. He pulls out a massive rifle from behind it and the sudden sight of a gun scares the shit out of me. I am reminded of my grandpa, how he always used to threaten to chase me out of the house with a gun when I was 8. I think he could probably kill someone now if he had a gun. This grandpa seems more sane though, he just laughs and puts it back. I go to bed on the sofa feeling overall warm and safe, albeit with a half expectancy to wake up at some point in the night with a rifle pointed at my head and a drunk old man at the trigger.

I am awoken with a cup of coffee and am invited to the table for a huge and diverse European breakfast, the kind that makes you realise the English have no idea what they are doing when it comes to food. They try and make me eat all of it, but I can't. The grandma fixes me up the largest packed lunch I've ever seen and I pack it into my bag even though the idea of any more food makes me sick.

I've never experienced such generosity. These people are beautiful. The weather outside is beautiful. My clothes are drying. Life is treating me well. I look forward to the next 150km.

7. Mentality

The whole Polish family line up and wave goodbye, wishing me luck as I cycle off down the road. The moment is quite touching, and I feel as if I could be their eldest son who has decided to abandon the smalltown Polish farm life and family, and instead has chosen to saddle up, setting off to make it in Hollywood or something.

Just like this eldest son, I head forward with little idea as to exactly what I'm doing, uncertain if I'll be able to do it. Uncertain if just like the prodigal son, I may be be back here soon enough, bruised and broken.

The sun is shining, but there is a strong headwind. I think to myself that I'd rather the rain than this as the next 100km feel as if they are all uphill. I do it in five and a half hours, stopping only once in order to down a bottle of milk since the adverts have told me it will make me strong.

All I think about is Kilometres, I probably spend four hours of cycling insulting them in my head. I tell them that they mean nothing to me, that I can eat a kilometre, digest it and shit it out in under 3 minutes. I tell them I'm surprised they even have a name as they are so insignificant.

Yet secretly I fear the kilometre. I don't want to stop when I've done 50 as I'll know I'll have to do it all twice again. I don't want to stop when I've done 100 or I'll know I'll have to do half of everything I've done again. I am scared of the kilometres, they are constantly looming over me, but I will not let them know this. I carry on insulting them. I think they are beginning to believe my fascade.

I stop at 100km because my knee begins to hurt. It's lunch time and although I eat well, it seems I hardly make a dent in the packed lunch I've been provided with. Staying still quickly becomes tiresome. I sing a Leonard Cohen song to myself by the side of a dumpster and almost start crying (again). It seems I don't like being left alone with myself much at the moment so I get back on my bike in order to vent out more emotions on those damn kilometres.

My knee is in a bad way. It hurts if I ride sitting on the saddle, so I stand on the pedals and sprint. A roadsign tells me I've just cycled nearly 30km. My watch tells me about an hour has gone by. I don't really know what just happened, I think the word cycle just played on repeat in my head for an hour.

Stopping becomes necessary again as I sit down on the saddle and realise my knee is buggered. I get a bag of Ice of some people in a garden. I go down the road and ask some other people if I can sit in one of their chairs and apply the ice. 

Now I'd like to describe these people as not too friendly, but: they gave me a beer, let me have a shower, gave me some lotion for my knee, a place to sleep and made me breakfast... So this could be a bold statement. However, I didn't like them very much and I left early the next morning as I felt their hospitality was wearing thin. There is no hug when I leave, and I don't care to write much for them as I feel it would dishonour all the many much more interesting and extraordinary characters I have met in this journey who I have not been able to include in my journal.

8. Mental

'What the fuck are you doing? What THE FUCK are you doing?' I am screaming to myself, I am almost crying to myself, I am going mad. I've just travelled 5km by scooting my heavily luggage laden bike with one foot on the pedal and one kicking the floor.

My knee was still cocked up in the morning, I couldn't cycle and this seemed the only option. I remembered I'd seen on google maps once that 130km takes about 24 hours to walk. I figured that if I could scoot my bike twice as fast as one walks, I would have my day's 130km done in 12 hours. The clock hits 9:30 AM, I've been going half an hour and 5km are done so I'm on track, but off the rails. I don't just curse myself, but almost completely abuse myself for not taking more rests the day before.

My knee isn't excrutiating, it just hurts in that way where it feels uncomfortable. It feels wrong like something might snap, and with so much of my journey to go I don't want to risk further injury. I don't know anything about what my body is capable of, I've never really tested it. I just keep going, I just tell myself that I'm invincible, that everything will be ok, that if God were made of 46 chromosomes they'd probably differ little from the one's I'm carrying. This God of cycling ignores all pain as he scooters onto and past the horizon. 

It seems a little late on for this, but I realise I've failed to explain why I have to travel so far each day. The answer lies in two events; my birthday on the 30th where I plan to meet some friends in Amsterdam, and my brother's 21st on the 1st in London. Beyond very much wishing to attend both these events, getting to London for the 1st has just become another of my obsessions. I said I would do it. I'm going to do it.

I scoot a little more, but inevitably a point gets reached where I really can't understand what I'm doing anymore and I have to stop. The clock hits 10, I tell myself to stretch for no less than an hour before I am allowed to continue anymore. I hate stretching and a very long hour passes me by on the side of a Polish motorway. It's at times like this, where you lie on a patch of grass in the middle of nowhere for an hour with your hands on your toes and your face in your crotch that you really wonder what's going on. I'm sure you can all relate.

Fortunately the knee feels a little better. A loop of riding slowly for half the hour and stretching for the other half then proceeds for 10 hours straight. I travel 90km. Joy and motivation overwhelms me with this achievement; it had seemed impossible at the start of the day andon top of this my right knee doesn't hurt any more. 

My left knee however is completely twatted and my achilles tendon is swollen to the size of a house mouse. I would have said tennis ball here in this expression, but it is overused so I don't. House mouse will do, and it is probably more accurate to boot. There's a lot of pain floating round me and I'm generally unhappy with the way my body is treating me. If my body is a temple, all I can imagine is that the deity they pray to on the alter is a statue of me with a walking stick, and all that the cells in there worship is the idea of fucking me over and making me miss birthday parties. It's not just me against the world anymore, it's me against myself. 

And I'm going to win.

9. Breakdown

The map shows me a shortcut to take en route to my destination city in Poland. Don't take shortcuts in Poland. I knew not to take shortcuts in Poland. I still don't know why I thought I'd take a shortcut in Poland.

I go along what you could call a road if you were feeling generous. I try and find some gratitude in the idea that I am probably seeing places that no English man has ever seen, in fact little villages that probably no-one except for their residents has ever seen. I try and find some happiness in how old the buildings are, that with the cobbled stone roads it's almost like a glimpse into the world 200-300 years ago. I try this, but I can't, I hate every puncture fearing second of it. I hate how all the locals look at me with pure contempt and confusion, like I'm the strangest thing they've ever seen, and everytime a car drives by I imagine some new-age version of the final scene from easy rider is about to occur.

Nothing breaks as I reach my destination. Nothing except for me as I sudden realise I've been operating this whole time on the wrong date. I thought I had a day more to travel than I did. I'm exhausted and this realisation is too much for me, my brain frantically tries to do the maths of what I must travel now, but panic makes me forget my numbers. All I know is that everything is fucked, my body, my wallet, my time period. It will be something like 180km a day and I can barely cycle.

I'll never win.

10. Repair

A gas station in Legnica makes do as the location for me to have a huge panic attack. I ask a gas attendant (called Matt) for a cup of hot water (to cook frankfurters in) and then slip round the side to chain smoke 3 cigerettes and shake for a while. He laughs at the request and when he comes round to meet me we talk about what I'm doing. He tells me he is driving to Munich tomorrow and he can give me a lift west. He says he lives 50m away and I can go sleep in his house while he is working. Suddenly everything is better, I feel good, though simultaneously aggravated and confused, as I am relcutant to get a lift, having become obsessed with cycling every metre of the journey.

A call to my dad makes me realise that I'm being ridiculous, that I need to take the lift, he puts it all in perspective and I don't feel so bad accepting Matt's offer. In fact I'd dare say I feel good, my dad and I decide the point of this journey is more so the getting home with no money than the cycling every bit of it. I accept Matt's offer of staying at his house as well, but his brother doesn't so it seems I can't have it all

Matt is a funny guy. Funny perhaps in a way he doesn't necessarily mean to be though. We sit round the side of the station and chat for some hours. He understands everything I say, but finds it infuriating that he can't express himself properly in English. It very visibly frustrates him and he hits himself on the head sometimes as he tries to talk, while occassionly letting out muffled and prolonged growls as he searches for words.

Another man comes round the corner and joins us for some conversation. He speaks no English, but a bit of German. He is impressed with what I'm doing and insists that I take 20 schlotti and 5 euros. Apparently an English man helped him out once with money when he was in trouble and he's passing it on. I say these things are all circular, like Karma. However really I know that the circle probably stops here with me as I ain't giving no money to no-one. He rolls a joint as well.

Another man joins us and it's now officially a party at the gas station. The joint gets passed round, and I am given some beers as a conversation occurs in English, German and Polish, with at least one person constantly translating as another talks. I can't help but wonder how many fun times are happening each night at gas stations all round the world.

One of the men, Pavel, says I can go stay the night in his house and he'll show me how to get back to the gas station for my ride with Matt in the morning. I take Matt's number and bid him adieu before cycling off with Pavel to his house. 

Pavel is an interesting character. He has an incredible affinity for speaking Polish with no real concern as to whether the conversation's recipient has any understanding of what he is saying. He gives me more beers and cigerettes and chats to me constantly for about 3 hours. I am unable to tell you even one thing that he told me, something about the police, his wife and an injection.

I get a break when I go and have a hot bath for an hour. Warm water has never felt so good. I return and Pavel shows me all his grandad's soviet war medals from world war II. He has many and I am impressed, and Pavel continues talking, saying Adolf Hitler a lot, doing a lot of sign language involving rifle firing and occassionly the goosewalk. He turns a sofa into a bed and I go to sleep very happy with the situation, although I am pretty sure that Pavel is an alcoholic. 

My beliefs are confirmed when I awake in the morning and grab a nearby glass of water, finding vodka instead. Somehow I manage to swallow it since I didn't want to repay Pavel's hospitality by spitting vodka all over his sofa. I go to his breakfast table with a shot of vodka inside me and wonder if he has one inside him too. He makes a load of sausages for breakfast and seeing how fast I eat them, he gives me more from his plate.

What a guy.

11. The Lure of The Unknown

I have to say I found some satisfaction in naming the next section of musings the lure of the unknown and leaving it blank, leaving any fans of such musings in the dark as to what I was about to say, indeed leaving you waiting for the unknown. I hope it has been very alluring. I hope also then that this next section does not dissapoint.

I leave Pavel's house and as promised he guides me back to the gas station where I plan to meet Matt. From having not a single Polish dollar to my name when I arrived in Poland, I find myself preparing to cross the German border with 30. I decide I need to convert my money before I cross the border so I change it all into cigerettes and chocolate chip cookies. I later find out that the whole stash of cookies I brought have berries in them and am extremely unhappy, but that's a story for another time.

Matt meets me at the station and we load my dismantled bike and his girlfriend into the car. He is driving to Munich to deliver a puppy to his father, it's a yorkshire terrier and it seems to think it's very dangerous. I tell Matt that I would like to get out at Dresden, which is about 150km down the road. He tries to convince me to come to Munich with him where I can have a bed, all the food I want and can get drunk all night. A tempting offer, especially given that Matt is a great guy. However the notion never really settles with me.

It is strange that when I am offered everything that I've ever wanted throughout this trip, I am so quick to turn it down. As I contemplate this I come to realise that it is not the beds, the people, the food and the drink that I want, but the uncertainty, the lure of the unknown. As you step out onto another road clueless and blind, everything surprises you, you come to expect nothing, but suspect everything as possible. Every reward for your faith is ten times as potent; getting 130km into Germany when at the start of the day you thought you could only do 10 feels incredible. When you see yourself sleeping on another patch of grass in another distant city, but find yourself in a warm bed with warm people, it feels better than any other bed could.

I get out at dresden and it starts all over again. The constant daily loop, in which all the morning brings is confusion before the night brings some form of conclusion. The same problems occur, I realise I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm going, I have no map, I don't want to waste any money on one (plus I like the extra unknown the lack of map adds). I don't know what I will eat, I don't know where I will sleep, I don't know how far I can go. I try and reassemble my bike and have no idea what I'm doing. This stumble at the first hurdle makes everything feel worst, like I have a mountain to climb and I can't even reach it's base. I don't mind though, I have faith, I know everything will work out.

The unknown calls to me and I smile back, I look forward to whatever it may bring.

12. Adventurer

A hotel prints me off a list of directions to Leipzig. I cycle along a river and after a sharp bend, an incredibly beautiful and old town is sudden towering over me. It is built into the valley and at it's centre is a huge gothic cathedral. For the first time in my journey, I get off my bike just to take in my surroundings. As I sit there, I can't help but find quite a lot of satisfaction in knowing that no-one I know will probably ever see this, since none of you suckers will cycle home from Auschwitz. Someone tells me the town is called MeiBnen (with the funny German B) and throughout the rest of my trip I ask many Germans if they've ever heard of it or been there. Only 1 person I meet says he knows of it.

It feels like I stumbled upon a real hidden gem, it feels like I am an adventurer.

13. The Deer, The Slug

The riverside cycle ends and the next 50km are through open fields. I am knackered as the first 15km are all uphill, though eventually the road flattens out and I start to gain some momentum. At this point, a deer appears and starts running with me. He is about 5m to my right and we fly through the German countryside together, side by side. I enjoy having my new travelling companion, and I imagine him shouting words of encouragement across the breeze that seperates us. 'Go on Sam' he shouts, 'Cycle', 'Cycle like the deers runs in the wild, like the cheetah in the Serengheti'. 'You can make it', he tells me, but he is a German deer so he says all this in quite a strong German accent. He's a bit camp. In fact he sounds like some mystical animal from a children's film gone slightly wrong. He leaves me to continue my journey on my own after about 800m, but I don't mind, I was starting to find him a bit ridiculous to be honest.

In another town, a German family give me a coffee and then 2 bottles of water as I head off down the road. I stop to have a cigerette and stretch a bit at the end of the street. In front of me there is a slug crawling towards a leaf, I watch him for a bit. As I do this, I imagine the pavement beneath him turning into a map of Germany and It becomes very satisfying to watch him reach his destination, no matter how slowly he does it. The slug gets watched for a little longer, but it soon becomes time for me to leave for my own destination, across the real map of Germany, or the real Germany even. I prepare to go and wish the slug luck in his travels. He flicks his antennae, which I can only assume means 'and to you too'. I start walking my heavy as hell bike to the road. I get 1 metre and then realise I just ran over the slug. I look at his flattened body and can't help but laugh, despite killing one of my journey's friends. Incredibly, he somehow fixs himself and carries on towards the leaf. He's a resilient guy, nothing will stop him, and I pray for the strength of the slug.

14. Night Rider

It gets later, I'm still cycling and the cars that once ran the road are beginning to disappear. A forest that had been lining my route for so long opens up into a seemingly endless field, and deep in the fields huge machines farm the land. It's one of those moody nights which bares no stars, though the clouds that hide them can be seen vividly. The clouds are oddly tinted by pinches of red, while the dark sky is brought to life by far-reaching, twirling lasers of light, carried by the long and blurred silhouettes that trapse the hills around me. Their distant and gentle murmurs fill the air. They stop being tractors and machines, and instead they look like some kind of fantastical creatures of the night, as if born from some wild dream. They seem lonely as they crawl around me, as if all their lights are searching for something, but they know not what, as if they know they don't belong here. Every now and then one drives along the road and I see a strange pattern of lights get closer and closer through the blackness before disappearing behind me. My own lights are quite strange. Although I'm smaller, I start to feel like one of them, and we keep to ourselves as we pass each other by. Perhaps it is tiredness, from cycling so far and so late into the night, but the reality fades, the dream takes over, and for 20 minutes I feel as if I'm moving through another world.

15. Police

It's 01:30, and the upcoming lights of Leipzig make a welcome change from the darkness that has accompanied me for so many miles. I've cycled 4 hours through the night and my eyelids have become as heavy as my legs, while my bike now makes odd swerves into the road from time to time. I feel it would be dangerous to continue, so I sit on a bench and eat cookies and drink milk for a while. This is when I find out that the cookies have berries in them and it seems I have been unfairly rewarded for my day's hard work.

I am practically asleep as I lay on the bench with crumbs off half eaten biscuits falling down my face and an impressive milk moustache. A nearby patch of grass beckons me over and I pass out in about three seconds by the side of the motorway into Leipzig.

Two police officers wake me up. They say they've had reports from people who were worried about me. I'd had some dreams earlier about people trying to wake me up and me just shouting fuck off at them. I realise that those probably weren't dreams. The police can speak English and we have a conversation where I manage to explain to them that I am not drunk, but just tired, and had to sleep here as cycling further would've been dangerous. One of them tells me that everything is ok, that sleeping in the open is not forbidden, he just says that they had to check as in Germany this situation is not normal. Silly twit, what does he mean in Germany? As if he imagines that in England our suburban motorways are littered with chained-up bicycles protected at their base by weary owners curled up in schlaffensaccens. He walks away very smugly, probably feeling immensely proud of the differences between our countries.

Two police wake me up again at 8. It's two women this time and they speak no English. I pretend my German is worse than it is and finish all my sentences in English, though the bits in English are usually me just asking the fat one how many cakes she ate today. I talk about being very tired in German, then in English tell her she has more rolls than a bakery. She looks very confused, while I am sniggering to myself quite a lot, which in turn elevates her confusion. I feel very mature. She tells me that I need to go and they get back in their car and drive off. I watch them off round the corner, then go back to sleep next to my bike in the gorgeous German sun, feeling very smug.

Police 1 - Sam 1

16. The Rule

This probably should've been mentioned earlier. There was a rule I made at the beginning of my journey; I am not allowed to directly ask people for money or for anything worth money to that person. So by this rule, going into a coffee shop and getting the waitress to give you a free coffee is ok - as it doesn't cost her anything - and I've got quite good at that, though I'd have a qualm with sitting down next to someone and asking them to buy me a coffee. Essentially the rule means no begging. There is no 'glory' in begging, anyone can do it. If you needed 20 pounds to get home and had NO way of getting the money, pretty quickly you'd start to ask people for it, and I'd bet pretty quickly you'd get it. I've been there before, I've done that, and I've made quite a lot of money very quickly. More than I get from work even.

A dilemma occurs when I feel that I may have slightly manipulated my rule. I approach a woman outside a supermarket with my bike, looking a bit trampy, and with a some shards of change in my hand. I ask her how much a bottle of water costs in the supermarket. She tells me and then gives me 2 euros. It was very generous of her.

The dilemma here lay in that I pretty much knew how much a bottle of water in the aldimarktcosts. If I'm being truthful, I know the sole reason I asked was just to see if she'd give me some money. The trampy look, bringing the change in the hand and the bike, it was all apart of the plan to let her know I might have needed a little help. Well actually the trampy look was slightly unavoidable. Though the real issue here is; Was this essentially just asking for money? I find it difficult to work out since the little red man on my shoulder is far smarter than that other guy, who I think may have actually just given up quite a long time ago and unfortunately doesn't really turn up for these debates anymore. I figure I didn't really ask for anything, I just gave someone an opportunity to display their generosity if they so wished to. However a side of me sees the manipulation of my holy rule, sees the floodgate opening if I allow this, and decides that I won't do anything like this again... Though I cycle off knowing that really I probably will.

17. Gas Stations Revisited

It's about 22:00, a German man in a suit stares at me strangely as I roll into a gas station. I maintain eye contact with him as I pull in. I stop, and while looking at each other, I reach for the petrol pump and slowly start to bring it towards me, as if I were about to fuel my bike. My hand stops, I put the nozzle back in it's holster and smile at him. Ah, it was a joke, he thinks and then laughs a lot, a lot more than the joke's level of hilarity should've prompted. I'd say this is definitely something I've found with German people; nothing that I think is particularly funny makes them laugh, then every now and then I say or do something where I'm hardly even aware of it's meaning and suddenly I've got 5 Germans crying laughing around me, while I just chuckle awkwardly in an effort to fit in. 

The man comes over and chats to me. He is fluent in English, which I enjoy very much since I haven't properly spoken in English for some time. He gets a couple of most excellent German beers and we sit. He tells me I am a funny guy, though a bit crazy. I say everybody here says I'm crazy. He says that's probably because I'm crazy, and I find it difficult to argue with his logic. It's the old expression where It's either me who's crazy, or everyone else, though In Germany I think the latter option is a little more feasible than usual. When he gets up to leave, he puts twenty Euros in my hand. I try to refuse it, though my fake attempts to try and refuse people's generosity are seeming to show less and less resistance these days. He says to take it for making him laugh, and I think of all the no money at all that I have made from stand up so far, wondering if it may be more lucrative to perform outside German gas stations.

18. When In Hoym

I keep getting behind on my travelling and another night passes where I must cycle late into the evening. It's a little past midnight when I pass through a lovely little town called Hoym. The streets all meet together in a large square outside a town hall, and I pull in there as I see twenty or so trendy German hipster kids getting their drink on. 'Trendy German hipster kids' may sound slightly patronising here, but actually I am a big fan of their style. Punk fashion in Germany is definitely still going strong, and a lot of the younger generation have really pronounced and interesting looks, even in these distant and remote little towns. Perhaps it's a little pretentious at times and they may not be everyone's cup of tea, though at least it is better than the head to toe kappa laden youths that you'd find plaguing equivalent villages in England.   

I ask one for a lighter and go walk off back to my bike to have a cigerette. I'm donning a new cycling outfit today, drawn from my eclectic collection of about 5 different looks, which are all topped off by the unbeatable home-made South Africa world cup visor. I look completely awesome in all of them and know it will be just a matter of time before one of these trendy kids decides that they want to come over and talk to me. It's a matter of 5 seconds this time, as two German girls approach me. One speaks fluent English and we chat for a while about what I'm doing. They don't really understand it and find that I'm still cycling so late into the night very strange. They speak some German to each other as more join in on our little chat, and I hear the words Forest Gump get dropped and subsequently hear a lot of Germans laughing a lot. It's not too difficult to work out what the reference is and for the rest of the night I introduce myself as people to Forest, much to their amusement.

I end up getting pretty hammered with these guys. The party escalates as some more people drive in and start playing big German electro songs out of their pimped out rides. A couple of the girls start throwing down some pretty impressive, stern and slightly strange dancing outside the town hall, but not even a German is going to show me up on pretty strange, stern and slightly strange dance moves to German dance music, so I join in and teach them a lesson. They are no doubt impressed and I win a lot of street credit. In fact they are so impressed that Maria, a tall-leggy blonde (very German), invites me to come back and stay at her place. What do we have here ol' Samwell? I ask myself, and I find myself surprised by what suddenly might be on the table as I realise that the idea of a woman or even women at all has completely bypassed me for the last week. I imagine this has probably happened as a side-effect of the constant exhaustion and mountain of other problems that greet me every day, where already the normal world and it's every-day wonders seems to have become quite far away. We smile at each other and she asks if I want to sleep with her. She then giggles like a little girl at that request, going red as she explains that she meant that I can sleep in her house, not that she was inviting me to her bedroom. She's given her game away and I go off to get into her car, while some of the other people take my bike off to their house for me to collect in the morning. I give my bike (which also has all my possessions on it) off to essentially some strangers without battering an eyelid, and it seems this trip has started to make me a very trusting person.

I get into Maria's car and she sits in the passenger's seat, which I find a little odd with it being her car and all. It's turns out not to be a little odd, since it's not her car, but her boyfriend's, who then drives us home to his house where I sleep on his sofa-bed. Good. I was too tired anyway.

In the morning we all meet up on a big bench in a gorgeous little park. A huge picnic is shelled out onto the table, and about twenty of us have a lively feast in the scenic and sunny environment. They are all on holiday. I say that this is an amazing way to start the day and ask if this is something they always do. A girl tells me that they've never done it before and they just did it because I was here, that it was for me. It's really very touching, and I find myself smiling a lot as I sit with them. I am very happy.

19. The Treasure Map

I jot down some names of towns and a few road names after a brief stint in an internet cafe. Naturally I am only wearing the shortest of shorts, and such shorts do never have pockets, so I fold up the A6 scrap and tuck it into my visor. A still and tepid German evening sets the scene for what proves to be a difficult task in navigation. Every time I arrive in a new town, I have to reach into my visor while riding and squint at the haphazardly scrawled note. The paper bares some arrows and a handful of almost illegible German words. At junctions I make a lot of improvised 50:50 decisions, before tucking the increasingly debauched piece of paper back into my visor. I'll always fondly remember this part of my trip as it definitely seemed the most adventurous. There was no map, it was also late, so there were no people to ask. All I had was this golden ticket strapped to my head and every time I reached for it, it felt like I was being guided by some ancient and cryptic treasure map. Of course every now and then I would remember there was no treasure at the end, though I would try to forget this part as I cycled on through the night.

20. Chilli

A pizza restaurant glimmers in another dark town. It is a rarity to see something open so late in Germany, as in my experience people seem to disappear completely at about 7, and I've hardly even seen a light on in a house past 8. I therefore know this restaurant may be my last opportunity to get something to eat, though I also know I have a lot more to cycle that evening so I don't want to stop. I just cycle past it, despite the raging hunger that is screaming at my brain. The hunger rages some more, a bit more loudly this time and it wins, drawing me back, but then my drive to continue smacks the hunger round the face and I go past it again. This happens maybe 4 times until I eventually find myself sitting at the restaurant table, with an XL pizza, a portion of chips, a kebab and a salad all on the way.

The kebab and chips arrive first. I bite into the kebab and have the first taste of chilli that I've had in two weeks. Something then gets triggered in my brain, some kind of latent addiction I'd been too busy to appease of recent. I ask the woman for all of her chilli sauces and a tub of chilli flakes. I chuck it in abundance over every bit of food that is covering the table. I eat undoubtedly the spiciest meal I have ever eaten, which to put in perspective, means 3 times more than the spiciest meal you have ever eaten. Tears are rolling down my face with every bite, and every bite is followed instantly by another bite in some vein effort to nullify the spice of the previous mouthful. The meal becomes a painful effort to get through, it is a constant struggle, it is breaking me down, but at the same time I just keep slapping some more chilli on, and I love every single sadomasochistic second of it.

A mountain of tissues lies where the food once was, and I wipe the last remnants of tear and pizza sauce mixture of my face. I feel completely gratified. I then think on this eating experience, realising it to be a concise and complete reflection of how I have felt during this whole adventure.

21. Security

I ask a lady in her garden if she can refill my water bottle. We chat for a while, she offers me a bed and food, but I am stuffed and I have much more to travel that evening. I don't see the cosy sleep as worth the extra kilometres that I will have to do each day if I chose to stop here. Additionally, though she and her boyfriend are very nice, I don't see anything of any extra-intrigue here so feel that a stop would also fail to provide a journalistic pay-off. I opt to set off down the road with my water, off to do another 40km and sleep on some wet grass somewhere instead.

As always, the country road is pitch black. A pretty neat side-effect of this holiday is that I seem to have now overcome any fear of the dark countryside I once had, and cycling for dozens of kilometres without being able to see 2m in front of me is becoming a much less harrowing experience. A car drives up behind me and starts to slow down. I realise I lied when I said I have over come any fear of the dark countryside I once had, as my mind now starts viscously conjuring up a range of ideas regarding what the psychopath in that car is about to do to me. The car honks at me twice in the middle of the long and empty lane. A car door opens, then slams and I hear heavy footsteps clumping after me. "Hey!" a woman's voice shouts, and I turn around to see the woman from before. She shoves a load of euros into my hand and says she was worried for me. She insists that I should go stay with her as it's raining. I let myself calm down a little, then decide that I can't refuse this level of hospitality and follow her back. While cycling I realise she has given me 30 euros, I am blown away.

The evening is spent drinking wine in their garden while I teach them how to play contract whist. It's very pleasant, I feel very comfortable and the situation contrasts very strongly with all my previous nights, feeling like a much welcomed slither of normality. Though then again, I'm sure for them it probably wasn't so normal. In fact it probably seemed rather unusual having me there, drinking their alcohol, sleeping in their house and teaching them card games. Regardless, it was a merry time and enjoyed by all.

Morning comes and I have a lovely breakfast in their sunny garden. I give them a hug, and set off to continue with 80 euros now in my pocket all together and only 3 days left. It seems money won't really be a problem anymore.

22. A Quick Interlude: Sam's Guide To Internet Usage Abroad For Dummies

Internet cafes are for idiots. This is of course if you have a smartphone. Though using internet while abroad on such phones is also for idiots since one look at google maps costs 5 pounds. So what is there for clever people with smartphones Sam? Yes, well done, that is the question. What smart guys with smart phones who need internet in other countries do (yes, I realise a very precise niche of people) is knock on every door in whatever town they're in, telling people they are lost and that they would like to connect to their wifi until someone lets them in. In my experience this seems to take somewhere between 5 minutes to an hour. Though sometimes it is impossible, as you may find yourself in a town that seems to serve as a kind of retirement community and no-one in this area will have even heard of the internet. The impatient among you please do not be deterred by such areas as they may still prove to be fruitful; these retired types have helpful souls and will wish to help you in your quest in whatever other ways they can. Often their attempts to be helpful can be a little long-winded, irrelevant and time-costly, but finding yourself at the end of a street with 4 apples and 5 Milka bars of varying flavours and size is a reward easily worth half an hour of elderly ramblings.  

When all is said and done, it is when your phone detects a wireless network, and it is when a woman in her late 40s to early 50s opens the door, yes my friends, it is only then when you know you have truly succeeded in your task. You've hit the jackpot and it's time to collect your dividends earned from this so very patiently played game of trial and error. Often is the case with these women that their children have moved out, but the maternal urge to care still burns brightly. You will have coffee together while you animatedly describe the details of your escapades to someone who actually really wants to listen. You will be offered food, a shower, and cleaned clothes, with no choice in accepting any of these gifts. You will have a merry time and will leave rejuvenated, fresh and ready to take on the next chapter of your adventure and whatever it holds.

Indeed internet cafes are for idiots, and this section is dedicated to all the ladies and families who opened their houses to me when I was just a lost, hungry boy looking for the way home. Thank you all.

23. High and Low

It's the day before my birthday. It's 5pm. I'd cycled late last night and had to pass out on some patch of wet grass. I've cycled 30km today along an immensely exhausting gravel track. I have a bunch of new injuries and don't feel like I can continue anymore. I need to continue 120km more if I want to make it to Amsterdam for my birthday. Then again, my friends have just pulled out from being in Amsterdam so it doesn't seem so important now. I'm still going to make it because I said I would, but basically, I am tired and everything seems shit.

My phone's battery is dying and eventually I find a family that will help me out. We talk for a while and I find them very sweet, while I also find myself very happy with my growing ability in speaking German. They tell me I speak it very well. I'd been wondering when it would get to the point that somebody would say that to me as it's a real milestone moment in learning a language, and it feels as good to hear the words as I'd hoped. They give me some coffee, cigarettes, a bit of food, and I leave the house in much better spirits, leaving with a belief that a further 120km may just be possible. Despite what they gave me, I think it was probably their company that was most important in delivering this mood change. I think about it as I mount my bike, and I feel really grateful for them taking the time just to have a chat with me for an hour, since they didn't have to, and I'm sure they could've never known how important it was to me.

With renewed vigour, I plummet down every little street that tries to get in my way. They all try, but they all fail and I laugh at them and their bruised egos that lie so unmercifully crushed in my wake. Upon rereading, I'm sure it's these kind of sentences that make me sound at my most insane, but it's necessary, this type of thought and mentality is what allows me to keep going and going. Well, a combination of personifying roads and also singing free-styled songs (usually about kilometres) to myself for long periods of time at the top of my voice. It's not crazy, it feels very liberating and I'd recommend that you all go try it. A note here; It doesn't always have to be about kilometres, but perhaps try that first before you move onto the more advanced stuff.

60km goes by in 2 hours and a half, and I wish to reward myself at a little diner with a curry wurst. And some chips. And some chicken nuggets. And a coca-cola, a coffee, and then another curry wurst.  The meal makes me feel very content, but not for long as that very familiar realisation hits home where I remember that I'm still screwed and have nothing sorted. No highs last for long on this trip, though then again, neither do any of the lows.

24. Geburtstag

Es ist Mein Geburtstag! Es ist mein Geburtstag!, I shout at anyone who passes me, though quite often just down empty streets also. The clock hit midnight at the exact time that I reached my destination Germany city. I'd never thought I would make it this far today and the excitation and satisfaction is too much for me as I shout in joy, pumping my fists, plummeting down the brightly lit roads. 

The city gets increasingly more odd as I move through it. I keep asking people for directions to the centre, but no-one really understands my German very well. A few people point me in the right direction, many others blank me, while one tall man with long, greasy black hair, instead just sneers at me, tilts his head back to sip his beer, squints his eyes and says slowly 'You look like a fuckin' paki'... To which I said 'excuse me?', to which, well, he repeated himself. I find this response to my direction-enquiring quite baffling, yet simultaneously very intimidating, and unsurprisingly I slowly begin to pedal away. I then scurry off and think about what just happened, realising that this may have been the first incident of racism I have experienced in my life... though figure it's inaccuracy is what might have made it a more confounding experience  than a harrowing one. Anyway, the day that a confused racist stops me from enjoying my birthday would be the day that Richard Dawkins converts to Islam (Here I of course mean the real Richard Dawkins, though it works either way I suppose as the popular science author Richard Dawkins is also a firm atheist), and I cycle onwards deciding to feel quite proud of a level of tan that can cause me to be mistaken for someone from Asia.

Have you ever been in the best mood of your life? In a situation where you are filled with energy, where a smile is glued to your face for so long that it begins to strain your jaw, where you just want to grab every person you can see and vibrantly say whatever the heck you want at them. Well I am in that mood, and lots of people are getting grabbed. A few moments earlier, someone finally revealed to me that I am in Holland, in a city named Armello, which explains why nobody understood me speaking German for the last half hour. This also means I've cycled 160km today, it's also my frikkin birthday and also being in Holland means all the bars are open til 5am, unlike in Germany where everyone I think maybe dies or something at 7pm. The mood I'm in is infectious, and the dutch drunks lining the bars can all tell something special is going on with me, they can tell that with this cat, it ain't just any ol night on the razzer, and they all want to get involved with whatever it is I'm doing. I can't put my finger on exactly how they know that tonight isn't just any night for me, but they do. Perhaps they know because they can see me next to my now well-seasoned, luggage-laden bike, or perhaps they know just because of the subtlest twinkle in my eye, or perhaps, maybe, they know because I'm running around grabbing everyone shouting it's my birthday and I've just cycled 1300km home with only 40 euros. Whatever the reason, somehow they seem to know what I have done.  

The table I stand next to never has less than 2 drinks on it. No matter how fast I drink, people keep buying me more. Within 2 hours, I've come to know about 30 different people and we always do a little Jerry Maguire-esque point and click at each other when we bump into each other round the bars. Dutch bars seem to be filled with a lot more older patrons than in England, and seeing how approachable I am, the cougar population begins to sniff fresh meat. A bunch of 35+ aged woman surround me for a while, get me a drink or two and tell me that I must be very strong. I get essentially felt up for 5 or 10 minutes, but don't really mind as I am a sucker for flattery and, if completely honest, sometimes a bit of a tart too. 

2 dutch guys that I'd been spending most the evening with beckon me out the bar, promising to show me "How real Armelloans do". We walk past a police car, and suddenly my new companions start acting quite cautious, giving me a nudge as if I should too. The situation slightly reminds me of when I was 14 or 15, when I'd pick up some weed with a friend and would see some police on the street. "Act casual", we'd mumble out the side of our mouth to each other and we'd almost whistle as we walked past the unsuspecting fools, thinking we were probably the coolest people in the whole of london at that point. However, I'm 23 now and I don't act casual for nobody, so I carry on skipping and secretly judge my compatriots a little for being so wimpy around the feds, though also suspect that we are definitely off to go do something illegal and am quite intrigued.  

A dark alleyway makes do as the setting for whatever it is these dutch boys are about to do. I'm sure we've probably all been warned by our parents not to follow strangers into dark alleyways, but I'm glad that I decided to disregard such warnings (or be too drunk to remember them) on this occasion. On the way, I'd already half-joked with one of them, "you're not going to rape me are you?", and his reaction seemed sincere enough for me to trust them. They started climbing up some scaffolding, and after a quite complex combination of rooftops, staircases and further scaffolding, we'd got ourselves onto the balcony of one of Holland's most expensive hotels, which lay at the official centre-point of the city. I stood on the very edge of the building and did a Leonardo Di Caprio from Titanic, I'm sure we've all done one for a laugh in our time, but this one was actually (and maybe slightly embarassingly) done quite genuinely... in fact I'm not even sure if me shouting "I'm the King of the World" was even a knowing reference to the film at that moment.