My outlook wasn’t nearly so sunny sitting in the drizzle at Chichester waiting for Dylan to ride in. I had been lazy, which otherwise translate to sensible my first day as a cyclotourist, opting for a train ride out of Brighton and a 10 mile ride after. To save us the £12 Dylan was going to ride the full 35 miles. I watched some old mates cleaning boats by the canal then wired by the station, surrounded by school girls in uniforms they had altered to test the limits of propriety.

As Dylan rolled in some 2 hours later I was restless to go. Oh how england put on a show for my first ride in the country, the bike path was surrounded by wildflowers and green lest trees swaying in the breeze. Ducklings, peter rabbit without his blue jacket and pheasants nestled in the grass straight out of the pages of Beatrix Potter. Old stone cottages were clad in wisteria and as we neared the hilariously named village of Cocking energy began to flag. Perhaps luck follow travelers or perhaps I just look heart wrenchingly pathetic puffing up hill, a stranger stopped us and in the kind way generous souls do insist we take an ice cream each as he had bought too many. It takes practice to know he to encourage people to take your kindness guilt free. The ice cream, my favourite from childhood a mint choc drumstick, gave me energy to ride on. The sun had broken through the clouds and everything was glowing gold, oh England you are beautiful.

In town the fog had settled in, a smear of blue a reminder of the day before. There were boring errands to run, but as a treat for lunch a veggie sausage roll, a pug roaming under my feet. Ah how I missed savoury pastry, now I had only to seek out a pastie and fish and chips to check off my final cravings. Vegemite? Nah don’t need it.

We rode/ran the beach promenade. I passed beach boxes, a putting green and at the end a small lake with windsurfers and a zip line for water skiing. I was rather pleased with myself when I made it home alone, not famed for my sense of direction, but Dylan eyes me from the balcony as my sense of time was still off 40 minutes becoming an hour, dinner was ready.

So comforting to come home to a home cooked meal, Louise and Simon really looked after us.

A bike ride in London with it narrow streets, cobble stones and double decker buses bearing down on you is an experience. The cabs are the worst, they have the taste for blood. Thank heaven we weren’t on the cbd side of the Thames, I can only imagine. Nothing that a good cooked English breakfast, obviously serious modified from the tradition four meat spread, couldn’t fix. Ah, that was better we sat a while under that grey sky feeling rather contented, churches, slate tiles and business suits. Another slightly less chaotic ride to the tran station and soon row houses, then green fields were bumping by on our way to Brighton.We arrived to sunshine. Perhaps the grey was just a London thing (spoiler: it’s not). The gulls were calling us into a holiday mood, blue sea at the end of each cream concertina of houses. The buses and cabs were still a bit wild, so we headed unto Hove and the luxury of extended family. Louise and Dylan’s sort of uncle simon welcomed us in with open arms and it was such a relief after nothing but the road for so long. A warm bed, two cats and union jack pillow.

At the local sainsburys the clerk went all glazed eyed in rapture when we asked him to tell us what pims was. Cucumbers floating in a punch bowl, summer weddings and fruity bliss, all this was promise to us, but not in a can. We bought it anyway. Then a celebration by the rocky English beach: a picnic dinner, clunking cans of sort of pims and bobbing fairy lights.

Then a night at an airport hotel, a 5am start and of course on the courtesy bus we were sat behind an Australian couple bound for the same flight. Starved for australian conversation they asked us about our football teams and showed great interest in a corolla police car, I’m afraid we disappointed them.

Then shoes off, scanned and on our way to London.

We touched down in London, four Aussies and what seemed like a whole congregation of hasidic jews, curls and hats and prayer books. I felt a strong  and very welcome sense of the familiar. London! Oh, I rejoiced holding a £20 note, how we share the same sense of humour, drive on the same side of the road and have the queen on our money! This is the point in all travel stories where any rejoicing has to be put aside for jet lag, and the grind to escape the airport for a warm bed. Not many include a train strike and dragging two 15kg bike boxes up and down the stairs of the under ground though. Through the midnight streets of London, trying not to drag the boxes, too tired to lift them. In a week we would see the fruits.of labour in wonderfully toned our arms bulging from the effort, today exhaustion. Up a final flight of stairs, bikes bedded next to us and us collapsing under soft sheets. We made it.