Leaving Anne's cozy country cottage is not an easy thing to do, especially when it's drizzling outside. So it was past noon when we finally hit the trail. The first miles were as tough as the previous day's, on narrow, curvy and steep country lanes. We'd hardly begun riding when we got caught in an enormous sheep-jam, where we discovered that bikes are a great way to round up the bleating beasts. Fred asked the shepherd for a half day's wages when we wheeled by. Rural England is definitely more appealing than urban England, and I found myself enjoying the day's riding in spite of myself.
The weather cleared up and the Kentish countryside looked incredibly green as we pedaled towards Canterbury. We had lunch in a pub that served gnocchi (that's what they called it, anyway) before pumping up an endless hill that took us once again to the top of an gargantuan ridge that the Brits refer to as \"The Weald.\" From the top, it was mostly downhill to the nerve center of the Holy Anglican Empire. I knew that Canterbury would be full of tourists but wasn't prepared for the masses of camera-toting humanity that clogged the ancient town's narrow streets. It took us a long time to push our steeds through blocks and blocks of souvenir stands and mobs of American retirees asking their guides embarrassingly uninformed questions about Chaucer.
I was shocked to find that admission was being charged to get into the \"cathedral precinct.\" Between the two of us, we had just enough coins to cover one person's hefty two-pounds-fifty entrance fee. I felt sort of obligated to make the pilgrimage as a baptized Episcopalian, though, and since Fred showed no interest at all in seeing the cathedral, I left him to watch the bikes. It was pretty impressive. I especially liked the shrine commemorating the Catholic church that had stood there before Henry VIII had it destroyed. It reminded me of the absurd silliness of Anglicanism, how it was founded by a bitter and vainglorious king Henry when Rome wouldn't grant him a divorce.
The cathedral itself is an architectural hodgepodge, curiously asymmetrical and multi-leveled. There were tons of tombs of Very Important People, commemorative plaques everywhere, and a serious shrine to Thomas Beckett (additional admission fee required). Notably lacking were all my favorite Catholic motifs: smoking votive candles, elaborately carved confessionals and garish paintings of the Holy Virgin and bleeding Jesuses. Fascinating as the place was, it felt great to get back out into the sunlight again. There was another hill on our way out of town, but the remaining 25 kilometers to Ramsgate were possibly the most beautiful we cycled in England. Everything looked fresh and clean from all the rain and the air had a distinct sea-smell to it.
We ran into a couple of Dutch cyclists in a tiny village. The guy was tall and thin and had one of those unpronounceable Dutch names that sounds like you have a chicken bone lodged in your throat. His younger wife (I presume) was mercifully named Elizabeth and offered us some bland biscuity things she called cookies. They had just arrived in England from the continent and were thrilled by the glorious weather. We clued them in that this was a very recent phenomenon indeed, and that banking on its continuation might not be a good idea, and reminded them to ride on the left side of the road.
I wondered as we talked to them if we were missing the last boat to Oostende in Belgium. And of course we were. We followed a painless route into Ramsgate and had no trouble finding the ferry port. The next boat to Oostende (and yes, it was the last one for the day) was leaving in ten minutes, but the ticket agent told us we were too late and the boat was full anyway; how about Dunkerque, only 50 kilometers south of Oostende? He was remarkably friendly, saying he'd give us a student discount and let us use his phone to call France for sleeping arrangements.
Anxious to get back onto the continent, where the cars drive on the right and proper side of the road, we acquiesced immediately. The boat wasn't for another couple of hours, so we'd have time for a delicious yet excruciatingly slow Indian meal. The sun set as we crossed the channel in a frighteningly fast vessel. Scores of hyperactive children screaming in English, French, Flemish and German made the short trip seem long, and I realized how really and truly exhausted I was. Three weeks of torpor had let my cycling legs atrophy, and two hilly days had done me in.
Once in Dunkerque, we were delighted to find cycle paths leading to our suburban hotel (could this really be France?), which turned out to be a scary pre-fab affair, more trailer than anything else. The worst part was carrying our ultra-heavy beasts up two flights of stairs and squeezing them into our little cell. I slept like a corpse, even though it was on a penis pillow.