In the Netherlands and Belgium we had been spoilt. All roads had cycle lanes, all junctions were sign-posted. In towns, our cycle lanes were chock-a-block with cyclists; when the cycle traffic lights turned green we joined the local peloton and swept smoothly through the streets. The routes were all flat, and while not overly exciting at least it was easy, and safe.
Then our ferry docked in Harwich, and we were thrown into a whole different cycling world. One that wasn’t quite so relaxing. Finding cycle lanes in the towns was easy enough, but getting between towns proved difficult and dangerous. Most of the time we managed to stay on pleasant, windy country roads, but then we’d be forced onto dangerously busy roads and have to brave the traffic. Drivers, unaccustomed to coming across cyclists didn’t know how to deal with us. Most just overtook too close and too fast, while a few of the more timid seemed reluctant to pass at all until we’d pulled over to let them by.
A couple of times we found ourselves having to push round busy motorway roundabouts through brambles which overhung the edge of the road. Uncomprehending motorists tooted at us and flashed us bemused and pitying looks.
We saw very few other cyclists between Essex and Oxfordshire, and we knew why: it just wasn’t any fun. As we pushed our bikes down the grass verge alongside the A1M, trying to find a way to get across, we vowed that once we’d made it back home we wouldn’t be jumping back on our bikes in the old country again any time soon.