Going home, going home, going home, going home...

If we told you about our 1,400km from Istanbul to Novi Sad in Serbia 48 hours ago it would be a different tale. The last two weeks have been one of ups and downs; Glorious spring sunshine alternating with freezing, rainy headwinds; smooth and quiet then pot holed, truck filled roads; quaint villages full of humble rural life and depressingly deserted, boarded up industrial towns.

For the first week I couldn't shake the stuck record of, 'We're going home, we're going home, we're going home, we're going home, we're going home' from my mind. We cycled through lands that felt impenetrable through language and cultural barriers. In Turkey people looked at us curiously, shrugged, smiled then gave us a welcome cup of chai before getting back to their tasks. In Bulgaria people gawped in utter confusion for so long that there was no time to see their reaction once they had processed what they were seeing. In Romania we whizzed through ancient villages getting heckled by gangs of boozing men in guttural tones that weren't clearly positive or negative. One man seemed simply to bark at us. In Serbia on the other hand, reactions to the tandem have been more finely tuned.

Yesterday we had been cycling for 1,300 km and 12 days without a day off. We had pegged Novi Sad as our day off destination and had a nice steady route planned to get us here, avoiding the apparently doomful traffic of Belgrade. We were therefore a bit tetchy and tired when we pedaled into Pancevo yesterday only for there to be no room at the inn. Our choices were another 115km to Novi Sad or traffic misery into Belgrade. We decided to slump down in the main square to eat some sugar and make a plan. Little did we know a plan was already descending upon us.

'Hey hey, cyclist, cyclist', a man in a full length black leather coat, flip down mp3 fitted shades and grey curly barnet taps Nick on the shoulder.

'Me, me cyclist, come come see', We get ushered to one side of the square, reluctantly heaving the tandem when really we just want to collapse and not have to deal with any suspicious looking men in long coats. 'See, look, me... Stockholm, Regensburg, Athens, Tulcea.' Our weary faces lift as the man shows us a board of photos of his cycling trips. This isn't just any oddball, this is a cycling oddball, which means we can relax.

Ten minutes and zero English later we are pushing Carlos into a small garage on the outskirts of town and being ushered into Dusan's one room pad next door. A map of all his cycling trips plasters one wall, Mount Olympus posters adorn the other and in pride of place sits an oil painting of his 20 year old Specialized 'Epic' racing bike. In between speakers that take up about half of the room and a table tennis score board lie stacks of books he's written about his cycling adventures. It's from this moment that we realise we have stumbled across another gem of a human being and roll with the brilliance of it. Before we know it we're collapsed on the bed-cum-sofa being taken at top speed and volume through his live music DVD collection: Pink Floyd Live in Pompei, ACDC in Munich, Roger Waters Super concert of The Wall in Berlin, Walter Trout (?), Jimmy Winter ('White Jimi Hendrix, albino man'). and last but not least, Jeff Wayne's War of the World's Live tour. Of course.

Before it gets too weird that we have no means to communicate other than the medium of Rock, his 21 year old son Niki arrives. His excellent English and long flowing locks suggested that he might have grown up watching a few too many of his Dad's DVDs.

'My father says you can stay here tonight, he must go and talk on the TV now and later he has to train the local table tennis team and then tonight he is out of town so you can have his bed.' Wow. Its more bizarre than we can ever have hoped for. But free, warm bed – brilliant. After missing a train into Belgrade we spend the afternoon with Niki exploring Pancevo and eating hamburgers twice the size of my head (the Serbs are incredible hamburger makers). After days of cycling through places and being desperate to ask questions its good to get an insider's view of this part of the world. Frustration with politics but an appreciation of things getting better and a definite intrigue at the future role of the EU comes over strongly. But most telling, for this soft mannered Serb, Canada, a paved cycling path and house in the mountains is the dream.

As we head off for a post burger beer a vision in white flashes across the road. Its Dusan on the aforementioned Epic in full white cycling gear (were the gloves with silver floral detailing made for women?) tearing through the streets of Pancevo as if it's a time trial track. Amazing! For the first time the tandem wasn't the most conspicuous thing on two wheels in Eastern Europe. After some exchanges in Serbian Nicki asks 'Er my Father is wondering if you would mind talking on local television with the tandem. Only if you are not too tired, no problem if you would rather not.' Our response was fairly positive. Its not every day you get the opportunity to feature on Serbian TV with your beloved tandem. An hour later we were parked in the middle of the town square being interviewed by an enthusiastic TV reporter asking such questions as 'Are you tired?', 'Why are you in Pancevo? Do you have enough money?' and 'Do you like White Snake?'

After all that excitement we get some much needed kip on the sofa before its back into action again at 7am with the return of Dusan. The TV is on at full volume with Jean Michel Jarre live in Houston blasting out and some cheese pies for breakfast. Nicki and the vision in white lycra ride with us half the way to Novi Sad, kindly, if a little dangerously, protecting us from trucks and giving us a slip stream (tricky with a fully loaded tandem and two tiny racers). Half way through the ride Nicki turns to me and says, 'Today you have made my father very happy, all his life he has been with women who do not like cycling. He always wants a women who likes cycling, who understands, and today he has seen you on the bike and so he knows they exist and this makes him very happy.' After a photo shoot in the middle of a puzzled looking Serbian village, we say our goodbyes and all wish each other the best of luck in the future. I have a feeling we might see those two rocking up in London one day in some phenomenal cycling gear with big grins.

Novi Sad was bombed extensively by NATO in 1999 to put pressure on Milosevic to end the Yugoslav regime, but has since reinvented itself into a youthful city full of cafes, restaurants and and drinking holes. Perfect for our day off and to top off the Serbian hospitality our hostel owner welcomed us with a massive grin and glass of beer, full of joy because tomorrow he gets to look after his lambs in the fields. There is a local speciality here called 'lescovacki voz' (Leskovac train). This is essentially a 'train' of meats brought to you throughout the evening. It would seem churlish not to try it... From here we head pretty much due North to Budapest, West to Vienna and then hit the straight line to London through Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium and France. ETA into Hyde Park is 4 weeks time today on the 8th May, but as with all great adventures, you can never be too sure what might get in our way or speed us up en route.

From Babushkas to Baba Ganoush

After receiving a heroes welcome by travelers and hostel owners in Irkutsk and waving goodbye to our fellow ice warriors it was time to board the Trans-Siberian and chug our way to Europe. Four days (86 hours) sitting on a train is as long as it sounds, not helped by the monotony of the landscape – 5185 km of flat white plains sprinkled with birch trees. But as we passed through the nothingness and blizzards of Siberia we weren't completely void of entertainment. Babushka (Granny) Victoria was our cabin mate for the entire journey. A small owl like lady with a sprinkling of gold teeth that managed to boss us around non stop, despite a complete language barrier; 'don't lay your head at that end of the bed', 'you must put your bed away now', 'get me some tea', 'wash my mugs', 'take your shoes off' and 'put more warm clothes on'. Tiring at times, by the end we were quite fond of our adopted Babushka, especially since we showed her the map of our trip and she beamed her gold teeth and gave us an enthusiastic double thumbs up. Other Russians came and went from the cabin, a glamorous lady, a stocky mountain man type and a young guy from the far East who had already been married 3 times and seemed determined to get us drunk. Each left with what we suspected was an earful of wisdom from Victoria after some heated discussions and occassional 'yes Babushka, no Babushka'.

Stepping off the train in Moscow was an exciting moment as we re-entered Europe after 14 months away. Unfortunately the crossing of the Ural's didn't yet bring balmier weather. Only after 2 days of wandering around in -8 degrees did we start to realize why the streets of Moscow are suspiciously empty. Rush hour seemed to be the only time people were forced to go outside, but even then bundles of furs, huge collars and high heels darted between heated underpasses, bars and gaudy metro stations faster than the animals they're wearing. But this eerie lack of people could not detract from the gold domed historical splendour of the city. The highlight, by a long way, was the exhibit of the Tsars' treasure in the Kremlin. Where else in the world can you see 1,000 year old battle helmets alongside priceless sleighs for princess' that were designed to be pulled by dwarves? The opulence of Russia's past did not fail to entertain.

If there's one conclusion we took from our Trans-Siberian experience it was that Russia is vast, more vast and full of nothingness than you can really comprehend. The saying 'you cannot understand Russia, you can just believe in her' suddenly made perfect sense as we questioned how on earth those in the far East of the country could feel at all related to those in the West. But somehow they do. A mutual love of vodka, cold meats, kebabs and a constant battle with the elements seems to unite these people more than most nations in Europe. The fact that Russian's are so fiercely Russian is an extremely attractive quality. They are not trying to be America, or China, or Europe, but do their own thing in a refreshingly no bullshit way.

After a quick 2 days in Moscow we rode the 26 hour train to the Ukraine. Snow gradually melted, the landscape turned brown and everything looked a bit more depressing. From the train, the Ukraine looked like a country that has battled hard for independence and then not quite known what to do with it. On pulling into the graffiti ridden, run down and grey suburbs of the black sea resort Odessa, I was slightly concerned about where on earth I had made my little sis come to visit us. But Odessa is not like the Ukraine we witnessed from our train. The mafia run this place and consequently its wealthy and glamorous, but with plenty of seedy roughness around the edges. From watching Madam Butterfly at the beautifully ornate Opera House to the sexy cave girl dancing with seals at the dolphinarium to stocky women with beards chopping up carcasses at the huge food market, Odessa was an ecelctic joy.

Yet however good the Ukrainian's are at cold beers, meats and mafia fueled luxury living, they quickly proved to be completely useless when it comes to a ferry service. We planned to hop down to Istanbul across the Black Sea on the regular ferry service that boasted all your meals as well as discotheque and cabaret lounge. Instead, 12 hours of sitting on the dock was followed by 48 hours of going at a miserable 4 knots meaning Luce missed 2 flights and we got into Istanbul seasick, cold and a bit miserable. But that's all behind us now and its time to look onwards and upwards. Nick's Dad and Hils met us off the boat and the last 2 days have been filled with feasting and buying bike parts in bazaars, in a city we will definitely one day return to. All in all its been perfect preparation for the 2,300 mile bike ride ahead. Tomorrow we will set off on our loaded tandem across the Golden Horn and cycle across Europe through at least 9 countries. It's a long awaited moment. Carlos is fully loaded and every mile covered is one closer to home.

Trekking to Annapurna to welcome in 2010

Back in the poor and jobless days of October, there was a nasty moment
when we weren't going to make it into The Himalayas during our Nepal stint. Luckily though, after 6 weeks of working, we managed to justify a Christmas and New Year break in the mountains. So, after a little too much Marmite, chicken tandoori, Nepali beer and brownies (the strange combination of goods indulged in over Christmas) we headed off into The Annapurna region for 9 days of walking.

When we set out on our trek on Boxing Day we were not sure if the weather would permit us to reach Annapurna Base Camp, the highest and most exciting destination of the trek. If it snows at base camp there is a high avalanche risk and being without a guide, we weren't going to take any chances. Being the snowy season, we were braced with optimistic phrases about how unimpressive base camp would have been anyway. But we needn't have worried. On the day we planned to head into the big stuff we awoke to a clear, crisp sky and it remained that way for the next 24 hours.

Walking into the snowy bowl that makes up Annapurna Base Camp, which is surrounded by some of the highest peaks in the world, was one of the most breathtaking moments of the trip. We gazed and gazed and gazed and still couldn't take it all in. Rock broke away from under our feet as we gazed down a 50m cliff to a sea of boulders, brought down from glaciers thousands of years ago. Whisps of cloud flew off the tops of the icy peaks, as if to warn you against even attempting to reach such inhospitable heights. Mile wide glaciers moaned and groaned as the sun went down and came back up. Semi-frozen streams cracked and creaked their way through the snow. At sunset colours turned from blues and whites to pinks and oranges until a full moon tinted everything silver. Melted ice crashed down from mountain ledges and froze solid again when darkness came. Nick and I walked through this colossal land completely alone. Never before have I been so silenced by a landscape.

On New Years 2008-9 we were just picking up the trade winds somewhere off the Atlantic coast of Africa. This year felt almost as remote, sipping on whiskey in a dark stony teahouse, shrouded in the cold mist of the Himalayan foothills. Despite being in bed by 9pm the evening was a charming one. We had a handful of entertaining fellow trekkers to chat too (unsurprisingly, a couple of very enthusiastic Dutchies were the pick of the lot), hot coals to warm our feet by and a huge plate of Dal Bhat to fill our hungry bellies. At 7am on the first day of 2010 we awoke to panoramic views of The Annapurna Range, while golden cloud floated through the valley below us. In Nepal it is considered a very good omen if the first day of the year is clear, which is a relief. All in all, a pretty spectacular way to see in what is set to be a terribly exciting year.

In case any of you haven't heard yet, 2010 is the year of our homecoming and of me becoming Mrs Tuppen. For a long time such exciting (and a little terrifying) events have been a long way off, far too far away to begin to comprehend. Cycling back into Hyde Park has been an unconceivable moment, out there in the futuristic and unknown year of 2010. Suddenly, on the turning of the year, this all changed. Our mindsets did a complete u-turn. We are now on our way home and getting there feels incredibly close.

With this in mind, we skipped along the ancient trails of the Annapurna region full of joy and wonder at everything that passed in 2009, and everything to come in 2010. As if this wasn't mind boggling enough, our backdrop never ceased to leave us in complete awe.

Returning to civilisation after this blissfully simple world of walking from A to B, was a bit of a shock. Minds quickly filled with the admin of getting home; sending passports to the UK to collect our Russian visas, listing every single country we've been to in the last 10 years for the Russian authorities, training for an ice marathon, completing work in Kathmandu, getting permits to travel through Tibet, making sure Carlos is ready for Istanbul... The list goes on. But after an initial panic and finding a bargain happy hour, we happily sunk into our tasks.

One of our more enjoyable tasks was to visit some orphanages in Pokhara where some volunteer buddies were working. One orphanage proved rather entertaining. As hard as we tried to explain that calling a children's home 'The Innocent Children's Center at The Love Company' was not the best idea, the name remains. And despite having been told not to ask for financial aid from volunteers, the manager of this orphanage spent the last week trying to persuade one poor Dutch lad to buy a $700 buffalo for the kids and to fund his retirement. On hearing this we were slightly alarmed to notice that not all the kids had beds. In stark comparison, the other orphanage was a wonderfully homely home kitted out with all the toys, games and comforts kids could want. The answer to such success was a clever chicken farming scheme rather than depending on the wealthy Western folk.

After soaking up all the warmth we could from the Pokhara sun we headed back to our Nepali home in Pepsi-Cola, Kathmandu. A warm welcome from the kids and a plate of 20p momos from our local, quickly made up for the smog and cold. Increased electricity outages and the arrival of a comically talkative and heavily bearded Irishman have hindered work progress considerably. But there's still 30 days left to make our mark in Nepal... we'll see how it goes.

For those of you that want to be persuaded to go trekking, more photos of the mountains here

Not Christmas, but almost as good

Today was the closest we will probably get to a big family Christmas this year, in the form of a Hindu house blessing ceremony. Tej, our boss, and Rupa, his wife, have been living in their new house for a couple of months now. A recent bout of bad luck (hopefully nothing to do with us being here) has persuaded them to get the house formally blessed. So the Brahmans were summoned and they declared Monday 7th to be the lucky day for the blessing. From here on luck should flow freely around the house and all those living within it.

Preparations started early yesterday morning with the grinding of grains to make flour for about 300 donuts. Such culinary expertise continued late into night, only to start up again early this morning. It later became clear that the importance of this feast was not only to serve up to 200 hungry humans but to also please the apparently quite greedy gods. At the crack of dawn today it was all go; the party tent arrived, giant cooking pots got steaming, vegetables turned up by the bicycle load and the household put on their finest.

The blessing ceremony took place in the form of Pooja (Hindu prayer), which started at 8am and went on for an extremely dedicated 6 hours. This all took place in a room on the bottom floor of the house, which was transformed into a den of holiness for the day. The once mundane room was filled with incense, offerings of money, potatoes, flowers, rice, 5 very stern looking Brahman, the family of the house, a huge bonfire, holy water, every spice under the sun and never-ending chants. At the end of the ceremony the Brahmans walked around the house blessing everyone and every corner with a sprinkling of holy water chanting 'peace here' (in Hindu). For the finale a huge sheet of white silk was hung from the roof and water and flowers were poured down it to Tej, Rupa, Riza and a very confused Tiya (2 years old) waiting 3 stories below. Chains of flowers, bananas and donuts were hung around the house and then everyone got stuck into the vegetarian buffet, curd, sweets and milky tea (at last!). You cannot help but be entirely captivated by the mystical sounds, smells and colour of it all. So laptops were shut and we soaked up a day of blessings, feasting and entertaining the little ones. I am now particularly excited about instigating all of the above traditions for our new pad warming party on return to the UK.

We have been in Nepal for five weeks and now feel very at home. Our home is a remarkably peaceful suburb of Kathmandu called Pepsi-Cola Town Planning, inspiringly named after the adjacent Pepsi factory. Time has raced by at an alarming rate, reminding us of the woes and joys of routine, staying in one place and having a job to do. No doubt a gentle reminder of what to expect on arriving home in about 5 months time. Despite some initial trauma linked to space (lack of it), snot (an overload of it) and smog (trying to train for a marathon in it), things are now looking very rosy. Not only have we been blessed by the gods, but our adventure tales got published in a real magazine and we achieved our first work related task in 14 months. VSN's new website is now up and running at http://volunteersocietynepal.org.

To have completed the website feels like quite an achievement, especially since the process only involved one or two 'storming out' moments. All this burying ourselves in html and entering the world of cyberspace nerds compensates a little for ample time spent away from computer screens in the last year. Our next challenge is to send the website racing up search engine rankings (any advice much appreciated!) and to spread the VSN word around Nepal and beyond. But its not all work. Between teaching kids to talk proper and all the marketing faff many an hour is spent sipping whiskey at our local, The Hut, dodging rabid dogs on runs and watching the world go by from our roof terrace. And then weekends (only Saturdays off shock horror) take us to such cultural delights as Kathmandu zoo, the tailors, the best fried eggs in town and guesthouses with fire places in remote hillside villages. So with all this we should remain nicely occupied until trekking and feasting time in Pokhara come Christmas!

'China on the Move'

10 miles offshore in the East China Sea it is apparent that we're approaching somewhere big and busy. As we chug into Tianjin Port our precious eco-conscious minds are gravely disturbed. Vast fishing nets swallow up anything and everything within a mile radius. A 5 mile long queue of rusty ships unburden themselves of sludge and sewage into a brown, scum-covered ocean. Closer to shore dredgers are busy dumping soil on metal flat beds in what looks like an attempt to turn the useless sea to more industry holding land. Finally, a huge port rises up in front of us; miles and miles of industry of every kind, the details of which are masked by a smog that bleaches everything to a dull grey. We must have arrived in China.

Before we can fully take in the extent of the port, we're whisked through immigration and climbing into a taxi to a station that we hope will led us to Beijing. The journey is an instant eyeopener to the scale of things in China. The roads are monster 6 lane affairs. Traffic is managed by death seeking, florescent wand waving cops, who seem to spend more time dodging trucks than directing them. Taking a shortcut by driving down the wrong side of the highway is totally legit' here. On either side of the road huge tower blocks are being built, all at least 15 stories high and no more than 20 feet apart. The development stretchess uninterrupted into the distance. The building work only adds to the grey haze that we now realise is not a feature of the port alone. As if to counteract my negative impressions brand new trees and topiaried bushes line the roadways. Amongst the smog and dust they look painfully unnatural, desperately clinging onto a very precarious life. The combination of spherical plant life, huge red bill boards full of forced smiles and aggressive 'Welcome to China' neon signs, it feels a little bit like entering a Butlins-esq resort. It turns out that that early impressions weren't far off.

In Beijing we quickly suffer from the communication breakdown that would effect our travels for the next 30 days. We are pointed to a bus and promptly seem to go around in circles for 2 hours unsure of quite what is going on. Our jaws drop as we pass huge floodlit squares filled with people, tower blocks garnished in enough neon to relive the 80s 10 times over and boarded up 'undesirable' neighbourhoods. Finally we reach Beijing Central Station and can place ourselves on the map. People flood the area shouting, pushing, shoving, spitting and laughing. Police roam amongst the crowds waving taser ended batons menacingly. We suddenly realise that it is the day when rail tickets for the week long holiday coming up are released. 50 or so ticket kiosks have queues of at least 100m deep. 200 million people are due to travel around China in the next fortnight. But before that can sink in and cause any panic about buying our own rail tickets out of Beijing, we hurry to the safety of our hostel.

At our hostel we are pleasantly surprised to find we had a TV in our room (just as well given that facebook, our blog and flickr are all blocked!). Needing respite after our hectic journey we open a beer and put it on. No break from China here! We flick through the channels and our options are the news, entitled 'China on the Move', a war drama about the communists fighting and being awesome at it, a drama about Mao's private life, a documentary about Mao, a documentary about Hu Jintao, another communist war drama or a showcase of Chinese nukes on the Chinese Military Channel. Wow. Neither of us have ever had such a quick cultural introduction to a country as this, and all within the comfort of our own bed. We opt for China on the Move (given that its the only in English). Highlights of which included:

'American wishes America could be China, even if its just for a day'

'South Korean wives dislike their husbands'

'China leads the way in international climate change'

'60,000 doves to fly over Tianammen Square on 1st October', one man 'just wishes he could give back [to the PRC] more than his 5 doves'

'Mao is trendier than ever'

And the horribly overt display of the brilliance of China didn't stop there. We managed to time our travels with the 60th anniversary celebrations of the founding of the People's Republic of China. Not only was this the busiest traveling week in Chinese history, with an estimated 200m train journeys planned, but it was also a chance for the PRC to demonstrate the glory of their state on a mass scale. The round the clock celebrations were in our faces everywhere we went. From nuke heads being showcased around Beijing, kitsch plastic flower waving parades, thousands of red pot plants lining the streets or huge banners of Han Chinese people dressed up as the 52 different ethnicities of the nation. The Chinese government did everything possible to ensure that celebrations were peacefully watched on TV or seen on banners. Participation on any other level was reserved for VIPS. I don't think you could ever experience a country more polished, scrubbed and painted red (on the surface) than China for this occasion. And so it was in this context we begun our very long journey into the far flung Western desert lands...

365 days, 25 countries, 248 vehicles...

1 year down and we've made it to Japan overland, the long way around. So far we have been carried along by tandem, side car, foot, train, bus, car, sailing boat, dinghy, tram, cable car, kayak and freighter. Many thanks to the numerous people who've helped us get this far. We are now fully equipped with our Chinese visas and so all going well we will be cycling back into Hyde Park next May. Here's a few pics from the adventure so far!

Paddling (and peddaling) to near death

11 months in, 9 months to go and life is good. Killing time in Canada has been a joy. The kindness of strangers has once again left us with a warm glow, the excitement of Asia is imminent and we are still cherishing warmth and dry land after a near death kayak incident.

Before boxing up the beloved Carlos we thought we would dust off our tent, camping stove and cycling shorts and take him for a spin around Vancouver for a couple of weeks. We headed North up The Sunshine Coast where we weaved our way between forests, hippy communes, hidden coves and rocky beaches. Then we jumped on a ferry over to Vancouver Island where we rode a wetter, but much flatter terrain for a few days. Conscious of being away for the bike for 7 months we gave it our all and sprinted up and down both coasts. Never before has a fully loaded tandem been pushed so fast! All in all between old winding roads, genuine pubs, fish and chips, being back in the tent and picking blackberries we felt very at home.

We also remembered how great the world is to you when you're touring on a bike. We received free coffees on wet mornings, a free breakfast bap when asking for milk for our cereal, a free bike check up and numerous other wonderful people lifted our spirits higher and higher everyday. On our penultimate day the heavens opened. Soaked to the bone and filthy from the roads we battled the elements, lamenting the soggy night ahead. As we neared the campsite a woman in an all in one cycling suit on an old racer pulls up alongside.

'Hey there, where you guys heading?'
'Oh just up the road a bit to a campsite by Comox Lake'
'Well why don't you come and stay with me, life's short hey, its nearer and drier'
'Errrrr Hol what do you think?'
'Yeh cool'
'Great, follow me. You traveling around the world or something?'
'Yeh actually'
'Cool well I know what its like touring so you'll appreciate a dry room for the night.'

Nick turns to look at me with the face that means, 'how awesome is it when random stuff like this happens', I give him a similar look back and we pedal our way through the commuter traffic to the home of Sarah and Berend. Debates about the fate of the first nation populations, religion, middle America, home education, travel, vegetables, touring and all sorts followed a few glasses of home brewed wine before we hit our hugely appreciated dry bed for the night. In the morning books, inspirational speeches and contacts were exchanged and off we pedaled, beaming. Little did we know that we would be staring death in the face a few days later on.

In between our cycling jaunts we tried out a different kind of tandem, the double kayak. Hiring one for three days and camping in the wilderness turned out cheaper than hanging out in Vancouver, so we had no excuse not to give it a go. After a balmy and calm day kayaking in Tofino a few weeks earlier we thought it would be a walk in the park. So we cycled up to Heriot Bay on Quadra Island, part of the Discovery Islands, which make up Canada's incredibly fragmented and wild West coast. We got kitted out, advised about weather and just as we lifted the kayak into the water the renter of the kayak asks 'Oh, you guys know how to do self-rescue right?'. '(Shit), No'. Cue a few hasty phone calls as we wait to see if we can still go. We explain about sailing the Atlantic and Nick rambles on about rowing and growing up in boats... Luckily, it's a go.

The weather wasn't quite as welcoming as Tofino, but as the mist and rain swept across never ending alpine covered hills, this only added to the atmosphere of being alone on the water and in the wild. The first couple of days were awesome. We paddled within a few feet of crowded seal colonies, had bald eagles swooping just above our heads, explored starfish filled rocky coves, picnicked on deserted beaches and gave the top deck a pretty good work out. Both nights we camped on our very own tiny island, a rocky outcrop with a flat mossy patch the exact size of our tent, some rocks for a kitchen, trees for shelter and a couple of tidal beaches. We had to rig up a system of rollers out of drift wood to get the kayak high up on the rocks for the night, but this made Nick happy as gained good man points and got in touch with his inner Egyptian slave. Awaking alone on this island, with just a couple of curious seals for company was incredible.

The weather was grey, gusty and damp for the duration, but we avoided any big seas by staying in sheltered channels between smaller islands. However, on the last day we had to get back to the main island. The only route back was across two long exposed sections of water with an island in the middle, about 3 miles in. Monday dawned a grim day; we could hear the predicted winds of 30+ knots whipping the trees above the tent and spattering the canvas with noisy raindrops. When we got out and packed up the water ahead was alive with white horses.

We quietly headed out and within an hour or so we came to the end of the sheltered coast and looked up close at the rough stuff we had to cross. You could see the faint outline of Breton Island through the rain, between that and us there were rocky outcrops with huge waves smashing against them. The waves would be hitting us side on and the wind would be blowing hard in our faces. My stomach knotted itself when I realised how potentially dangerous this could be. Nick was talking a lot trying to reassure me; it was clear he was nervous to. Neither us were keen to look at it for too long and so after a quick chat about the importance of keeping a steady rhythm and not stopping halfway across we went for it. The second we rounded the headland the waves starting crashing over the boat. The first time a wave broke over me was terrifying. Nick was shouting encouragement over the sound of the wind and we crawled on into the teeth of the sea rolling precariously over the waves. The rhythm kept us going and we were so desperate just to get out of there that there was no point thinking of anything other than paddling. It felt like a long 45 minutes until we reached the slim wind-shadow of Breton Island and the seal colony we had bobbed around just two days before.

Finally touching the beach of Breton Island was a massive relief. We were both freezing and soaked to the bone, but high on the adrenaline of making it. Whilst I gulped down a pile of chocolate digestives (forever the comfort eater), Nick went to check out what lay ahead from the other side of the island. On joining him I quickly realised it was rough, if anything, rougher. We didn't know if we were lucky to have made the last leg. Maybe the kayaks can actually deal with this no problem? Or maybe we were out in something that even pros would not even consider. Sitting around in the rain getting more and more cold seemed fruitless; I started to shiver uncontrollably from a mix of being drenched and building nerves. After a quick call about the weather and on finding out it wasn't likely to change later in the day, we decided we had to just get on with it. We walked the kayak back into the choppy water, passing a beached seal skeleton (not a good omen). As we steered the kayak back into open water what we saw didn't look welcoming. The rain was coming down harder, clouds shrouded the view of land, there were no other boats out and the white horses reared up in front of us. Before we had got back in the kayak Nick turned to give me a kiss. At that point I knew it wasn't just me that was completely bricking it about what lay ahead.

The wind hit us side on as we left Breton island behind. Not being able to see land on the other side due to the rain also did nothing for our confidence. Luckily there were several buoys along the way which became good targets. We were both mustering everything that we had just to make headway against the wind, whilst keeping a close eye on the waves breaking to our side. About half way we dared to think we might make it. But, just then disaster struck. We both saw the wave coming and knew we were going in. Two huge waves came together and crested right on top of the kayak. Slowly and unavoidably we flipped over. Under water we both scrabbled holding our breath to release our skirts (waterproof cover things keeping you in the kayak), slid out from the boat and bopped up and down in the waves clinging onto the kayak. My initial reaction on coming up to air was to panic, Nick quickly told me to do the opposite and before my brain could get the better of my body I calmed everything down and we took a moment to think.

The sea was foaming around us, the low sky was filled with racing clouds, land was invisible, there were no boats in sight and waves were crashing over our drenched and freezing selves as we clung to our only way out, which was now essentially a surfboard. The vulnerability topped anything we had experienced even in the Atlantic. My priority was to get back in that boat as quickly as possible. We managed to flip it back over and examine the damage. It was completely full of water so before we could contemplate getting back in we needed to pump it out. Nick started pumping water out of my section first. Treading water with both hands trying to pump was exhausting. All the water that he pumped out just sprayed straight in my face. He tells me to move to the other end of the kayak but I can't even contemplate moving in case I lose the boat or my paddle. I also remember just wanting to stay as close to Nick as possible. Eventually, with Nick steadying the boat in the swell I manage to get in and start pumping from inside the boat. Its not easy since waves kept just crashing over us and re-filling it. I also had to try and keep the kayak facing the wind to stop us flipping in again. It took everything I had to try and move the kayak against the wind. If we flipped again I don't know if either of us would have the energy to do anything about it. As I sat in the boat Nick was still treading water at the back pumping and clinging onto his paddle.


View The day we nearly died in a larger map

At one point the boat swung with the wind and Nick lost grip. All I could see was Nick, paddle in one hand and pump in the other drifting off on the waves. He couldn't swim with his hands full, but couldn't let go of either if we were to get back. I didn't have the strength to move the kayak on my own. He's never looked so small. Somehow he got back to the boat and after 45 minutes of treading water and 3 failed attempts to get back in the boat without flipping it, we were both back in the kayak. The boat remained half full of water and rolled ominously in the 6 foot waves. But both of us were completely focused on just getting the hell out of there. I got a sudden fear about jellyfish at my feet. But they were numb pretty quickly so the worry passed as we just focussed on paddling.

90 minutes later we were battling our way through the wind into the harbour. We must have looked ridiculous. Nobody had opted to go out on the water and in comes this drenched and half sunk kayak. We instantly ditched our camping reservation and booked into a hotel room right above the pub. Perfect. It took us most of the evening to really relax and reflect on what just happened. After a few ales and a stack of chips we're high on our adventure and surviving the sea – the tale was already taking on mythical proportions. I quickly started philosophising about the importance of testing your limits to appreciate the small things in life. We both decide that that was definitely the scariest part of the trip so far. Even snapping a mast 1500 miles from shore was not as terrifying as bobbing around next to that tiny kayak with no life lines other than our own strength and effort. The next morning the water is completely still and the sun is out. Two old timers that we met on our second day rolled in after a beautiful mornings paddle, having sat out the storm the day before. I think they thought we were completely insane after recalling our exploits and then waving goodbye from the tandem. Still, at least now we know the boundaries of kayak travel, I'm not too keen to test out rough seas in one of those ever again. Maybe it was just the Pacific giving us a warning shot before we set off to cross it on Wednesday in a 282m behemoth.

We are going to be under the command of our German Captain Kruse for 11 days and some several thousand miles. We will eat 3 meals a day with the crew, we have our own cabin, a stack of books, a 5,000 press up in a week challenge and plenty to think about for when we arrive in Asia. The culture shock is going to be undeniable when we pull into Gwangyang on the southern coast of South Korea on the 31st August. From there we will plunge headfirst into a world of un-intelligible signs, noodles and temples. Good times.