Hyde Park Departure Details

For anyone who has asked about where they can come and and wish us on our way, then this is where we are planning to head off from on Sunday. As we have around 70 miles to do on day one to get us to Telscombe, we're aiming to be at the top end of Hyde Park at around 9.30. This should leave a bit of time to say final goodbyes to friends and family before taking the first pedal stroke around 10. My guess is the combination of inevitably forgetting something and emotional relatives means we may run a little late, but we'll see.

Weather forecast for day one... rain.

Packing: The male and female perspectives

THE MALE PERSPECTIVE:

Being a man, a key element of the trip has been choosing the stuff we take with us and how to pack it. Hol tends to manage the emotional side of things (goodbyes, tears, parents) whilst I busy myself with packing and repacking panniers and researching the benefits of a 'travel washing line' vs. a piece of string*. With only a few days left to go we have pretty much got this all stuff bought now and it is piled up in a room at my Dad's house in London waiting for final loading up on Saturday evening.

The split between male and female approaches ranges from amusing to farcical. Whilst Hol is downstairs on the laptop writing to travel companies and newspapers I have been upstairs staring at an ever increasing pile of stuff and wondering how it can possibly fit onto the tandem. Whilst I am seriously considering a switch to speedo style pants to save space (we would be in Europe after all where the y-front seems broadly acceptable), Hol is busy popping to her Mum's house to drop things off we don't need. But instead of coming back free of possessions, she comes back with an even bigger bag of different 'essentials'. The penny only dropped when I lured Hol into the Aladdin's cave of the spare room and it dawned on her that her worldly belongings would need to fit into something the size of a large shoebox for the next few months.

THE FEMALE PERSPECTIVE:

None of the above is true. I completely understand the lack of space and am perfectly in control of fitting my belongings into it. I just have a slightly different approach to these things. Some call it scatty, I call it energy saving. What Nick suffers from is quite a severe obsession with anything that can be organised into a more efficient arrangement; kit, routes, bags, bikes, dates, times, budgets, photos, music, people and anything else that can be put into a spreadsheet and colour coded. I don't think I've ever seen a man happier than Nick laying out our kit in categorised piles. The fact that we weren't close to packing yet and it would all have to be moved the moment after was apparently irrelevant.

I am more in the opinion that what doesn't fit in we will have to leave behind, what we forget we will buy on route and what is now red for 'urgently needed' on the spreadsheet will probably seem highly irrelevant when our main concern is getting through the day without it being entirely consumed by saddle sore. That said, obviously the moment we urgently need something that isn't in the panniers, Nick could well be the first person I blame. Surely he knows that you can't have all the control and organisation without taking on board dangerous levels of responsibility.

THE JOINT EFFORT:

Packing for 18 months worth of multiple climates, terrains and activities is complicated. It is even more complicated when it all has to fit on a bike and we have to carry it 600km across Northern Spain on foot. We have tried to keep things to the minimal by making kit transferable. This works to a point apart from the moment the skies open on you in the middle of the Atlantic and all you have is a Kag in a Bag and some tracky bottoms. Consequently we are packing three sets of kit:

Stage 1: Panniers full of cycling and camping gear and Vaseline.

Stage 2: Small rucksacks with basic walking stuff, top ups of contact lenses etc and pilgrim costumes.

Stage 3: Big trip rucksacks with full wet weather gear for the Atlantic and paints, Spanish learning books and high brow novels for Hol (likely to come back untouched).

Stage 1 we will set off on an over-loaded tandem with, stage 2 will be brought out to us by two friends, Anna and Joe, who are flying out to meet us in St Jean Pied de Port to ride the tandem home and stage 3 will be sent out to any reliable person we can find in Lisbon.

And that's it - only 3 more days of goodbyes, staring at to-do lists and aimlessly wondering the streets of London to go and then we're off!

*For the men out there still pondering the benefits of the travel washing line you can find a bargain pegless one with suction cups here. I am yet to persuade Hol this is more useful than wet wipes.

An inauspicious start

The space away from work to get stuck into final preparations and to make sure everything is done in time for 10am on the 14th had arrived. It was all going so well as we left London with a van full of all our worldly belongings and wishes of good luck from Diageo and Freshminds ringing in our ears...

12 hours later I had blown £500 by managing to write off one side of the hire van by hitting a wall in the narrow Devon lanes, had got a call from the bike shop saying the tandem needed an extra £150 worth of work and had also come down with a temperature of 102. Tits. As I lie here sweating out the fever, Hol is being a champion running around to see relatives, sorting out bank accounts and trying to get coverage for the trip in travel magazines. Instead, I just want to get back to being fit and healthy. At the moment I feel like I need to wrap myself in cotton wool just to make it to the start line, but it's ridiculous. The trip is going to take 18 months and go through some of the filthiest and most dangerous places on the planet. I've managed to get sick somewhere between Evans cycles in Wandsworth and Fleet services on the M3. Not a great start.

The Fear...

With only 31 days to go until we will say our goodbyes to family and friends, the doubts about what we are doing increasingly force their way to the surface.

Maybe it's answering so many questions about the where, why and how? Maybe it's being tired from organising things late into the evenings after work? Maybe it's it is just feeling groggy from jab number 15 as it sinks into an already bruised left arm?

Deep down we both know that the trip is something we want to do. The sense of adventure, the shedding of comfortable routine and the justification to buy pen-knives, head torches and a tandem all combine to reassure us that it's the 'right decision'. However, since telling people about it the common response is, 'I'm so envious', or 'I would love to do that'. Perhaps logically this then begs the question, 'Why don't you?' And this in turn makes you answer it for them… There are lots of reasons why you don't do it.

There is the obvious stuff. You lose your job, you don't have a steady income, you leave all your friends and, as people often remind me, it's a massive test of Hol and my relationship. We could get robbed, ripped off and one or both of us could get badly ill at some stage and have to come home. Something could happen to Holly where I am powerless to help. That final one sends shivers down my spine more than the others. But what is to say this wouldn't happen back in London? On Lavender hill, 5 minutes from Hol's house, I walked past wilted flowers and a rain spattered picture of a smiling girl. She was stabbed and killed 14 days ago outside a Thai restaurant. Yet, all of these you can put from your mind as unlikely, unavoidable, part of the experience.

However, there is one thing that is pretty likely to happen and is the one thing that is hardest to deal with. Feeling like we aren't making the most of the trip.

We have been planning it for 3 years. Through dank London winters, on packed commuter trains and in lengthy meetings we've nurtured this ideal in the back of our minds. Yet at some point on Sunday 14th after tearful goodbyes we will find that it is just us, alone on the road. It will have begun. At first this will be an incredible feeling just to be underway, but at some point it will descend into routine. Whilst attempting (I fear in vain) to not sound like hideously pretentious travel snobs, we have always said we don't want this only to be making our way around the world and backpacking. We want to get something more from it than just covering ground from town to town, witnessing things and moving on. Just skimming the surface of where we go won't justify it. We desperately want to get under the skin of other cultures and learn lessons from the broader world we live in. But this is hard.

It will take time, patience and it's going to be exhausting. It will also be a total change from the last 3 years of a clearly goal orientated and results driven working life. Setting yourself a challenge that involves sitting in the freezing cold up a mountain with no food, water or sleep is relatively easy to do. You set out and you do or don't achieve your goal of climbing, traversing or building x or y. But it is the unexpected, the relationships forged and secrets uncovered that we want to find. Therefore, we are purposefully leaving the routes and means of travel loose. To fix them is to stifle the flexibility we are trying to retain at the heart of the trip, but the security net that a recognisable and achievable plan usually provides feels conspicuous by it's absence.

The reality is that it is going to be 18 months of ups and downs, but also a lot of flats. But maybe this is where we really begin to understand and notice the things around us. Learning how a sense of adventure

and interest in the world shouldn't only be brought on by faraway places or people. Maybe what we are really searching for is a perspective for the rest of our lives. An oft quoted phrase that sums it up well is courtesy of G.K Chesterton, "The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land." If we come back and see the world in clearer focus and understand some of it a little bit better then the trip will have been worth something. However, to try and force this means we will crush the ideal with fumbling fingers.

Postscript: upon re-reading this posting I slightly vomited in my own mouth. If anyone knows how to avoid writing like a repressed teenager who has been watching too much Dawson's Creek your advice would be much appreciated.

How to meet sailors online

Young couple, WLTM open minded sailors for 3 month voyage of discovery. It could have all gone horribly... horribly wrong.

After getting in touch with friends of friends, contacting 3rd cousins of people at work and speaking to just about anyone we knew who has ever set foot on so much as a pedalo we eventually met Dave and Katherine online. Despite the unnerving nature of the online game, Crewseekers.net turned up trumps.

Answering a call for crew to Scotland and across to the Caribbean we got in touch with Dave and got a fantastic response straightaway. It was a classic boat that we would have to sail the old fashioned way through 'sweat and determination', they were young, they had a clear sense of adventure and, most encouragingly, didn't seem to be perturbed by the fact that we listed tandeming as one of our hobbies. We had a few photos to go on as well, and when my mum saw them she pronounced: 'Oh good, he looks nice'. It all seemed pretty positive.

A couple of emails and a quick chat on the phone later and we were arranging to meet up. It really did feel like a first date. What should i wear? He sounded pretty laid back. Would novelty sailor suit in Clapham Junction send out the wrong message? Maybe something subtler like a pipe and stick on Captain Haddock beard. As it was we met, drank Guinness and compared notes on plans, routes, chatted about the boat and ended up arranging a trial sail in a couple of weeks. It seemed to go well and before we knew it we were on our way to Devon on the train to take our first steps on Lista Light.

Before stepping foot on Lista Light Nick and I had had quite different experiences of planning our passage across the Atlantic. Nick had done the ground work; searching everywhere for a boat, contacting too many people, panicking at the thought of not finding one and creating check lists filled with boaty jargon. I on the other hand stayed out of the way, mostly encouraging Nick that if we didn't find a boat it would be fate telling us to head down the West coast of Africa for slightly dustier adventures. I was getting quite excited about 4 months of a whole new continent when one day an email was forwarded my way that revived my interest in crossing an ocean.
Dave and Kat, fellow adventurers, eco-warriors, savers of rainforests and birds, fans of our plans, didn't just sound like great travelling companions, but came with a 1935 Norweigen ketch as beautiful as it is practical for big seas. I was instantly swept away with their offer of sailing with them across the Atlantic. Big old soulful boat, young adventurous couple, not a deck shoe or tucked in polo shirt in sight. The set up was perfect.

Our excitement and anticipation was such that an anxious silence filled the car as we approached Topsham lock, where we would meet our new sailing buddies and vessel. Like the first day at a new school the waiting was both frustrating and exciting. I told myself that the butterflies in my stomach were due to being up since 6am, not from nerves. Nerves or not, we were both itching to get out on the familiar Devon seas where we would decide on our home for a very significant 2 - 3 month leg of the trip.

We could not have seen Lista Light for the first time in a more beautiful and tranquil setting. As we followed her down to her mooring neither of us could take our eyes away as she glided through the mirror like river. We soon hopped on board to join Kat and Dave and friends as they prepared the boat for sea. This was the first day of their big trip and suddenly ours felt like a frustratingly long way away. Fragmented and stilted introductions took place during the hauling of sacks of organic vegetables on board, filling up the diesel and eating toast and marmalade. Finally we were off on a slow and cautious crawl out of Exmouth harbour into the sea. This gave Nick and I the chance to explore the boat whilst contemplating crossing an ocean on it. We scanned the boat with our new skipper attuned eyes for the VHS, GPS, engine, life raft, gas set up, kitchen, living space, sheets, sails, warps, winches, helm, instruments and other things that I wasn't really sure what they were but felt should be checked. Dave proved to be a good skipper, fully in control of his crew and boat and Kat's care for everyone and commitment to the voyage was equally reassuring. Everything looked good. Secretly I had really been sold by the fact the boat had been built 70 years ago to withstand the untamed winds of the North Sea; its big faded red sails, dark weathered masks, beamy deck and homely cabin. Lista Light has all the wisdom, age, depth, strength, stability and wonder one could ask for in a boat. Nick and I exchanged smiles that told us we knew this was it and the trip became that much closer and realer.

After a good 3 hours sail over a calm sea we brought Lista into Dartmouth where we would get taken to our train back to the big smoke. Stepping off the boat felt hard and I had a sudden pang of envy over the crew that would stay on her for the next couple of weeks up to Scotland. I really can't complain though. Over crab sandwiches on Dartmouth's harbour wall, the initial exhilaration that we had found our boat and we were actually going to sail across the Atlantic soon gave way to fears of whether we had made the right impression. Like a first date, the more excited you are about the person you have just met, the greater the fear that they don't feel the same way. What if they didn't like us? What if we didn't help out enough? What if we didn't seem enthusiastic? What if they want to do it alone? What if they think Nick's face is too big? What if they thought I was 16?

Once we had got back to London we put in a call to Dave and left a message expressing our enthusiasm to join them for the Atlantic leg. We didn't hear anything back for a couple of days, but after all they were sailing and probably wouldn't have reception. Wouldn't they? In the meantime we were busy spreading the good news to everyone that we had found our boat, what an adventure we were going to have, how lucky we were to find great people with a great boat and how some things are just meant to be. Five days went by... Panic set in. We chanced a text, not too keen. Just checking in, but definitely breaking the contact after the first date rules. I started to research the West coast of Africa again, but not as enthusiastically, and couldn't stop myself reading all the online logged adventures Lista has had.

Finally last Saturday we heard from Dave. Our panic had been a tad dramatic. Plans for us to crew Lista from Lisbon to the Canaries to the Cape Verde Islands to the Caribbean were confirmed. The anxiety created by the possibility of not getting a place on the boat proved that it was exactly what we wanted. The first leg of our trip has gone from uncertain to certain to overwhelmingly exciting. At Christmas I couldn't sail a dinghy. In 2 months time the sea will happily be our home.

El Paso to... Anchorage?

I can't really remember when we began working out how we would go round the world. I think it seemed like a good overall goal which we could then begin to fill bit by bit. In the last 3 years we have settled on, amongst other means, freighters, trains, sailing, buses, walking and cycling, all prompted by a mix of chats in pubs, reading books and just seeing what inspired us.

How it goes from an idea to actually deciding to do it i'm not sure. However, this morning I think we might have had one of those moments. Over some scrambled eggs Hol pipes up that she wants to do more tandeming.

Fine, any leg in particular?
Yes. America.
The whole of America?
Yeah. And Canada, and Alaska.
Ok.

When you first say it sat round a kitchen table on a rainy day in London it seems ridiculous. There are a million questions that pop up and reasons why it's a bad idea. How far is it? What is the weather like? Can we ship a tandem over easily? Can we cycle faster than a bear? But then a few hours later you map out a route of about 5,000 miles, know the last passes are free of snow late May and that bears' small front legs mean they are slow downhill. A new chapter is on the table. Will it last?

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First thing you need for crossing the Atlantic?

....A boat.
It has always been the plan to sail across the Atlantic as part of the trip. My dad and 2 brothers have both done it and everyone who manages it says it is an unforgettable experience. Night sailing under canopies of stars, getting hit in the face by flying fish, lingering sunsets, whale spotting and all ending up in the Carribean in time for Christmas on the beach.

We had always figured we would just find a way to get on a boat. The challenge of getting our day skipper qualifications came first and we just figured we could sort the rest out after that. Well, courtesy of Ben and Sean the Cornish sea gypsy of Nonstop sail in Dartmouth we now have the qualification and now need the boat. It was an awesome course and could recommend them to anyone. You are steadily taken from navigation, radio, GPS, emergencies and meteorology rght through to night sailing, man overboard drills without using the engine and comprehensive passage planning. This was all carried out with a bonus secondary education of lesser known Cornish phrases. Checks of 'How you diddlin'?' were interspersed with 'That's the kitty' (this seems to mean you've done very well) and regular stops for 'scran' (food, generally onion based). I never worked out if Sean's patience was due to a regular diet of marmite and sweet chili sauce sandwiches, but wherever it came from it remained inexhaustible.

However, over a few pints of Tribute in the Dolphin in Dartmouth it became clear that finding a boat at this late hour was not going to be easy. The Atlantic Rally for Cruisers that leaves in November has always been the aim. Several hundred boats head across the Atlantic with the favourable trade winds taking them from their summer homes in the Med to warmer climes for winter and with it several hundred spots for crew to work their way across. However, most of these would seem to have been taken. This leaves us with a tough job to beg, badger and barter our way onto a boat. Shamelessly trying to sell yourself never feels that good, but i guess this will be good practice for later in the trip. The current angle is saying i am strong and Holly is small and so I can do donkey work and Hol can fit into small gaps. We shall see.

Until next update watch this space, and if you know anyone from 3rd cousin with the gammy leg through to guy from work's mate you met in pub who might be looking for two recently qualified Day Skippers for company on the high seas, please send them this way!

Sailing CV: please send to... everyone