Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #9

..They had managed to get a ride with a business man heading South, at first it seemed as if he was willing to go the 100km out of his was to take us to Toulouse, however we eventually found out it must have been a lost in translation affair, as he was headed towards Biarritz. Lauren was a peculiarly interesting guy who sold bus seats internationally and spoke 4 languages including Basque. The two lads from Yorkshire were lovely chaps, and it was a delight to have a bit of company.

We were dropped off with some haste in a small petrol station on the outskirts of Bordeaux, where we flew signs for Toulouse and Spain to no avail. We did however receive half a dozen tuna sandwiches and some bottles of water from a car full of young sportsmen. Strange positive experiences like this happen often when travelling, whether this is because you see more places and are therefore statistically more likely to find them or whether the positive nature of your travels attracts positive actions of others, I do not know.

After 5 or 6 hours, I willing to try get a few hours sleep round the back of the petrol station but we decided to stick it out for a bit longer. A Romanian coach pulled in and having nothing to lose, we gave it a shot but the person we thought was in charge said no.

In a peculiar turn of events though, an old guy asked us where we were going etc in Spanish and I told him as best I could, he then went to ask the driver for us again, and this time he accepted. One of my new found companions had his doubts about boarding the coach at that time of night, but I figured it couldn't be any worse than spending the night there, so we stuffed our backpacks in the trailer and followed the co-driver onto the packed coach.

I squeezed myself in next to an old Romanian guy who smelled just like the land I assumed he worked on. Soil and onions.

We got dropped off about 10km from Bayonne, in a moderately large service station with some quite exquisite seating areas amongst the tall pine trees and sandy ground under foot. We gathered out belongings and decided it was we camp out for the night and try hitch in the morning. By the time we had set up the tent and nestled down in our respective sleeping bags it was past 3 o clock and setting the alarm for half 6 was always a bit ambitious. We slept in in till around 8.

I awoke to yet another misty morning, unable to see the service station on the opposite side of the road, but we were in good spirits, despite the fact that we all knew getting a ride with all 3 of us was highly unlikely. After an hour or so trying the sign for Spain near the exit, they decided to go try on the forecourt, whereas I stuck out the sign technique for a bit longer.

It wasn't long though till I returned to the petrol station, feeling slightly glum about being so close to Spain but not being able to get there. At one point I was considering trying to walk to the coast and follow it down as far as I could, but I was eventually glad that I didn't make that rash decision, as only 15 minutes later I was cruising down the motorway in the back of a Dutch Lexus with Hermoet and Maria, who were on their way to an apartment in the Algarve.

Luckily James and Tom didn't hesitate in telling me to take the ride, for which I was very grateful. My Dutch came in handy when asking them for a lift as they didn't speak much English and probably wouldn't have taken me otherwise.

They were a typical older Dutch couple, very neat, precise and by-the-book, but we held some good conversations, as much as you can between a young hitch hiker and an elderly couple on a comfortably arranged holiday. They must have warmed to me however, because instead of dropping me off at the border as I had asked, they were willing to take me another 200km into the North of Spain, near to Burgos, where I was going to try head directly South, direction Madrid.

To them, I may have represented a substitute child or grandchild, as they treated me with parental kindness from the start, possibly due to me speaking their language. They had prepared alot of food, all neat and in it's own special place in the hamper..I have found the Dutch people love their organisation on both a small and larger scale, an inherent trait of a country where you live shoulder to shoulder. Biscuits, krentebollen, juice drinks were all passed to my back seat on the journey.

As if this wasn't enough, they insisted we stop somewhere for a picnic, and naturally I obliged. I returned from the toilet at the services in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Northern Spain and found a veritable feast laid out on the marble seating area, picnic blanket and all...

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #8

..When I popped my head out of the dripping tent, the sun was just coming up over the trees, but it wasn't going to dry my tent any time soon, so I packed up and headed back to the roundabout. It is definitely a strange feeling; waking up and within 10 minutes standing at the side of the road trying to mentally coax people into stopping for you.

45 minutes passed quickly with the rush hour traffic zooming on by, white van men peering, other trying to pretend I don't exist. Cristophe was the person who stopped for me and took me for 20 minutes down the road to a large industrial estate with a lot of traffic passing through; it appeared to be a sublime spot, however and hour and a half of nothing but the cold wind chilling me proved otherwise.

I went to the petrol station to eat and had chosen a lovely breakfast when I realised I didn't know or couldn't remember my pin number. Things were going from bad to worse and my rumbling stomach wasn't helping matters, so polished off the emergency chocolate and headed back to my hitching spot. Suddenly a car stopped and out stepped Benoit, a friendly police officer who lived in Valenciennes but was going to work in Paris for 4 days. He was extremely kind-hearted and eager to talk, just what I needed after quite a miserable 12 or so hours.

He enquired as to whether I was hungry or thirsty,  to which I honestly replied that I was both, upon hearing this he offered me 2 slices de pommes and a can of drink. Bliss! Although I was hesitant to accept, he would have it no other way. We managed to hold a decent and varied conversation for the 300 km to Paris, where he dropped me at a huge service station. I grabbed some waste cardboard and scribbled a sign for Bordeaux as Benoit had suggested. I positioned myself at the exit and sure enough, the size of the services led to me acquiring a lift within 3-4 minutes.

A small German lady wandered over and said she could take me as far as Saints, a small place 75 km  north of Bordeaux. Naturally I obliged, and before long Angela and I were negotiating the Parisian ring road and consequently the French countryside past Tours, a beautiful white, pointy city, past Poitiers and over numerous large rivers, the names of which escape me. Angela was kind enough to let me try and sleep in the back of her van but I could only manage a paltry 25 minutes before I was back to ogling at the wondrous countryside.

After some confusion as to where Angela was headed and where I wanted to go, I got out at a small service station somewhere north of Bordeaux. As I waved Angela off, I heard a familiar accent drift over the parking lot. Two lads got out of a car and we exchanged pleasantries, they were from Leeds Uni and were doing the organised charity hitch hike to Morocco, coincidentally they had arrived at exactly the same time in the same services. I splashed out on some more overpriced long life plastic food and hadn't even finished the squidgy baguette before they shouted me over..

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #7

..Backtracking to my arrival in Calais, after an uneventful crossing in mostly mist and then arriving in the port to be greeted by beaming sun on the beach. I stepped off the ferry feeling about hitching down towards Bordeaux and after some minor deliberation, found what seemed to be 'the' hitching spot, judging by numerous scrawled messages on the back of the nearest lamppost.

I had what I though were some good signs to get me out of the port area, but even though the traffic was thick, both with truckers, holiday-makers and locals, not a single soul made a small gesture of kindness until a couple of hours later. Even then, the young French man who had picked me up only took me 5 minutes down the motorway, as he was going elsewhere thought I might be able to hitch from the hard shoulder.

He stopped the car in the divide between the junctions, with traffic passing at 70 miles an hour on either side. I manoeuvred myself onto the side of the highway heading back around past Calais, spotting a sign for Rennes and getting my hopes up. Naturally nobody stopped, as was to be expected, so I drudged for a mile or so on the hard shoulder and reached a roundabout on the outskirts of Calais which looked quite promising, however yet again it was proving to be nigh on impossible.

I left the roundabout and trekked down the side of the highway for another 2 miles approximately, with truckers beeping and policemen staring. Eventually I ended up in the dead centre of Calais and was losing faith in escaping this town by nightfall. I checked at the train station for a ticket to Bordeaux, but left as soon as I found out it was above 130 Euros.

After eating the majority of my emergency chocolate, and as I walked through the desolated, run-down industrial part of town, I felt an extreme sense of loneliness, the one you only experience abroad in an unfamiliar environment. I decided I would have to return to my hitching spot, after walking a huge circle of around 10 miles, but my luck was still running low. The sun was going down slowly and it seemed probable that I would be sleeping under the flyover or in my tent, which was still wet from the Dover dew.

Just as I was about to throw in the proverbial towel, a kind-hearted lady called Veronique puller over and I hopped in without waiting to hear where she was headed, I simply wanted to get out of that place. She was, in actual fact, headed to a city called Valenciennes, alot more Easterly than I would have liked but hitchers can't be choosers sometimes.

In my broken French we managed some reasonable conversation, she was a very normal lady, a teacher in Calais and hadn't picked up a hitcher before as I understood. I was very grateful for the ride and got that lovely feeling of movement after being stationary for quite some time. To have the miles flying by so quickly in moderate heat and comfort is something I won't take for granted again, that is for sure.

Once again it was hard to communicate a good place to part ways and I ended up at a tiny service station somewhere near Valenciennes and a small town called Orchies. After an hour or so my initial enthusiasm wore off, as it does when you get a ride but are stuck because of said ride. The sun set spectacularly over the small truck stop and it got cold quickly. I ate some nuts and raisins for a bit of a morale boost. That didn't last long though and like the flow of traffic my chances of getting out of the petrol station were dwindling.

It was probably getting on for 10 o'clock by this point and my luck shifted, a lady who spoke very good English said she could take me a little bit further down the road, only as far Orchies, but I jumped at the opportunity. She probably only gave me a lift out of pity, which is understandable, I probably looked quite a state by this point.

I exited at a roundabout just off the main road and bode her farewell and thanks, then flew a sign for the A1/A2 towards Paris. It was late though and it was doubtful I would get a ride. I decided to set up my tent just off the roundabout, thankful to have some relatively flat ground after Dover's incredible slant. It was cold and damp which made for another uncomfortable nights sleep, where once again I probably only got 3 hours or so.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #5

..I tried the roundabout and the carriageway into Maidstone, predictably to no avail. I thought things might take a turn for the better at my next spot of choice, at the top of the road going out of Maidstone towards the large roundabout. I had a good sign, which was written on a discarded wine box whilst munching my selection of nuts, seeds and raisins, and what I thought was a decent spot. My insticts were wrong though and I seemed to get more blank stares in this spot than anywhere else.

I gave up and wandered into the meadow behind me, where I explored an abandoned house before heading back to the roundabout. Cursing after a half full energy drink emptied its remaining contents onto my shoe and trouser leg, I had had enough. I started the arduous slog in what was a very warm day, towards Maidstone centre. A passing cyclist remarked that it was a 2 or so mile walk. And a very unpleasant one at that.

I was headed towards Maidstone East railway station, where I was determined to catch a train to the coast. After some deliberation, I purchased the ticket to Dover for £17. Looking back I would have liked to have asked for directions to a nearby service station but at the time I was just desperate to make it to the fabled white cliffs. The train changed at Ashford International and then passed through Folkestone with some lovely views of the 3 and 4 storey coastal houses and glimpses of the cliffs that were to come, accompanying my reading of Patrick Leigh fermor as he crusied down the Rhine amidst castles. Upon arrival in Dover Priory, I headed towards the town centre and a supermarket to gather some supplies. A pear, a nectarine, 1 baguette, some biscuits and a tub of chicken spread contributed towards distilling my hunger.

Another 25 minute walk took me to the ferry terminal and just before I got there, I spotted a fellow hitch-hiker. An instant bond formed even though I had no sign or otherwise to suggest I was thumbing...A scouser. He had no money for the ferry, the poor guy had been there since half 10 this morning. By this time it was half past 5. I bode him good luck and we parted ways. When I arrived at the travel-service centre I was dog tired and sat down to rest and eat my homemade sandwich.

I had noticed that the majority of people I have met on my 2 day journey down to Kent have asked me if I am meeting friends over in Spain and are generally shocked when they recieve a negative response to their query. Could it be that a childhood filled with moving from house to house, from country to country, making friends and then abruptly ending the friendship has made me more of a solitary soul than others? I think this is very possible, although I do not seek solice, on the contrary I very much enjoy others' company. Having said that, I met a young lad from Dover who had just purchased a one-way ticket to Calais, for the next departure and got talking to him. I couldn't help but overhear his conversation with a friend of his who had turned up and had tried to persuade him to stay in Dover and asking about what was up with him, how come he was leaving.

I later found out that he had the notion that there was nothing here for him in Dover and he had packed some Lucozade, a suit and 300 quid and was headed to France to try get a job. He was a kind-hearted young chap, perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I felt for him and commiserated with his circumstances. It was good to see somebody throwing caution to the wind and trying something new. Even though he might be a bit naive, I hope he will manage and I offered him the advice to try head to Italy as he spoke the language to a certain degree.

He thanked me for my advice and we exclaimed that we may meet in Calais the following day. Him and the Warwick charity-hitchers left to board the 18.30 crossing, leaving me alone once again. I asked the lady behind the desk whether I had to purchase a ticket now and whether the services were open through the night. her response was no to both, so I headed out to find a suitable place to pitch my tent, climbing up past the flyover to the top of the spectacular cliffs as the sun was setting rapidly behind Dover Castle, lighting the clouds with a fiery orange glow. I took a few pictures and continued my search..

To skateboard or not to skateboard...

Sorry for the lack of blog posts lately, I seem to have lacked enough motivation to just crack on and write some stuff that hardly anybody will read. Oh wait it kind of makes sense now, after saying that.

Anyway...

I have the a predicament, although to call it a predicament sounds negative, however I am happy with either choice, I simply can't decide.

I have been skateboarding for nearly 7 years now and still love it as much as I first did.. Last time I was away for a month I took my board but it lay untouched under my WWOOFer bed in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.

This time I will be hitchhiking longer distances, through France and Spain and then possibly through Italy, Slovenia, Croatia...

I have had various opinions from my friends on this matter, obviously biased depending on whether they skate or not. Some say I have to take it, missing out on a great park to skate or hooking up with the locals (skateboarders around the world have a tendency to help other skateboarders, its a group that you are instantly welcomed into). Others say it should stay at home, hitch-hiking and travelling in general is for me an escape from everyday life, and my skateboard is very much a part of my routine.

There is also the fact that I will be volunteering in the more mountainous regions in Spain, such as the Sierra Nevada and Picos de Europe. In these locations I can almost guarantee there will be minimal skateboarding activity/locations.

Alongside these factors is the awkwardness factor of carrying it all that way to not set foot on it, with it merely taking up space and weighing me down. However, if I find myself 15 miles from a town, on a flat road, it could be invaluable...but then again there is the fact that I [i]will[/i] have a 45l backpack on, which means my movement will be severely limited.

If I had to say whether I am swayed more toward bringing it or leaving it to gather dust at home, I would have to say the negatives seem to outway the positives at the moment.