We arrived on a Saturday, and I had identified a local football match that I could watch. Esperança de Lagos were playing Ferreiras in the Algarve League, so I cycled to watch a game that was equivalent to the second or third tier of Welsh football. Lagos play at the Community Stadium, which has a capacity of 4,000. Local clubs in Portugal are part of huge sporting associations, with professional coaches funded by the council. Lagos, a town about the size of Caerphilly, plays in front of a couple of hundred supporters but enjoys facilities that many Welsh clubs can only dream of.

We then walked to Praia da Luz, a nearby coastal village which Mair thought was underwhelming. There were too many beach umbrellas and pedalos apparently. I had no idea that she objected to pedalos. You learn something new about your partner every day when you are motorhoming. We had a dip in the warm calm waters, and the next day, she admitted that she may have been a little hasty with her damning critique of one of the Algarve’s most popular destinations.

Lagos was worth visiting, and we took a local bus to the edge of the historic city walls. The attractive old town of narrow cobbled streets sits alongside a more modern marina, and the city-centre beaches were pretty full on this sunny late October day.

I tried to go for a spin on my bike, but I gave up after an hour. I think it’s fair to say that the Algarve is the worst place I have ever cycled. There are no cycle paths, no priority lanes, and there doesn’t seem to be a network of minor roads. Locals cycle on the hard shoulders of busy main arteries, and promising escape routes from the heavy traffic often lead to a cul-de-sac. I experienced several punishment passes - when drivers purposely drive close to intimidate you off the road - and I won’t be rushing back here to cycle.

With our new motto of “be bothered”, we packed up the van on our last night at Turiscampo and drove for half an hour to Sagres to watch the sun set on Europe’s most south-westerly point. Perched on a cliff edge next to the evocative 15th century fort, we watched hundreds of surfers bobbing around in the water. We were there a full hour and in that time, I swear that many of them did not even attempt to surf a single wave. They were less surfers, and more like ‘bobbers’.

The sunset was glorious however, and the outlook across the golden cliffs was unforgettable. We were soon joined by dozens of other visitors, all perched on the rocky moon-like precipice like so many human seagulls. This part of the Algarve is much more informal than the tourist resorts around the airport at Faro. Its rugged coast appeals to a younger, more active tourist and the small villages on our drive home were peppered with surf-shacks and hippy boutiques. We were glad that we bothered to make the trip.

The next day we left the cool, surfer vibe of Sagres and drove an hour east to experience Albufeira, staying at one of the most popular winter campsites in southern Portugal. Camping Albufeira is great value, with good facilities for £20. I can see why many people stay here long-term over winter, but Albufeira is not for us. Even the old town seems to be a long strip of bars, souvenir shops and restaurants with desperate waiters touting for business. The final straw was the sight of two old red-bellied northerners lying topless in their sea-front restaurant chairs.

Our final stop on the Algarve before we moved across the border to Spain was at an appealing little town called Tavira. Friends had visited recently and we followed their recommendation. It proved to be a good choice as Tavira had a certain mercantile elegance that reminded me of other grand historic European towns. Restaurant terraces and bars are lined under palm trees and jacarandas along the boulevards of the wide Rio Gilão. And when the sun drops, the lights of the ancient Roman Bridge sparkle across the flowing water.

We stayed at a campsite in Tavira which is maintained for use by the staff of the Portuguese Police and other Social Services. It doesn’t open to tourists in the summer months, but in autumn it was available to book for £15. And that’s with the best pool for swimming that we’ve ever seen at a site. At 20m long, it gave Mair a chance to test out her broken collarbone properly for the first time in weeks. After a feast of fish fingers cooked on the Cadac, on the second evening we ate at a local tapas bar. We ordered salt-cured tuna, braised pork cheeks, cheesy padrón peppers, crispy sliced potatoes, and a bottle of good Rioja for less than fifty quid. No wonder the restaurants are bustling every night.

Tavira gave us a fitting finale to our first, but not our last visit to Portugal. The next morning we strapped in, put Elis and John on the radio, and left for Seville, with the hills of the Serra do Caldeirão slowly fading in the rear-view mirror.

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The OAPs were hammering it before the Pont d’Aven ferry had left Plymouth. As we queued to book a restaurant table, they were already sinking their second pint. Every seat in the bar area was taken and empty gin glasses were being replenished. These people were professional sun seekers – they had tinted their silver hair and ironed their ‘Old Guys Rule’ tee shirts. They knew every inch of that familiar ferry and would be seshing it all the way to Santander. Newly retired, I had to admit that I would soon become part of this winter migrating community. But we’ll call ourselves ex-pats and not immigrants.

Tired after a fitful night’s sleep, despite a thankfully smooth crossing, we pitched up at a 12€ private aire in the beautiful medieval Cantabrian village of Santillana del Mar, just 30km from Santander. Terrifyingly, our English neighbours were strumming a guitar and singing ‘American Pie’. We left sharpish for the village.

The cobbled streets of Santillana are lined with 14th century stone houses, towers and churches. At sunset, the sandstone walls turned gold beneath terracotta roofs and we wandered for a while before settling on a swish-looking restaurant for our first night tapas of octopus, chorizo and sardines. Ringing church bells, braying mules and a persistent, enthusiastic, but ultimately tuneless cockerel woke us the following morning.

A motorway closure scuppered our best-made plans and sent us west along the northern coast before we eventually dipped south into the historic city of León. After parking at a 2€ city-centre aire, we decided to stay the night and were pleased that we did. We’ve made a conscious decision on this trip to embrace more of these cheap aires, as we normally choose campsites.

Despite noisy and dusty roadworks, León proved to have a bustling nightlife, with students and drinkers spilling out into the narrow medieval streets beneath the spectacular illuminated cathedral. This is one of those Spanish cities where free tapas arrives with every drink and we had our first croquetas of the trip, along with the local speciality, Bacalao al Ajo Arriero. This was a sizzling bowl of salted cod, garlic, olive oil, peppers and tomato, cooked into a rich, rustic sauce. Excitingly, Rioja was just £2.50 a glass, and that included the small tapas.

Salamanca was already on our itinerary, but I wasn’t prepared for quite how beautiful it would be. The city revolves around Plaza Mayor, one of Spain’s finest squares, built from sandstone that changes colour throughout the day as the light shifts. Narrow, cobbled channels spread out from the plaza, navigating a network of 13th century university buildings, some daubed in ancient red bulls-blood graffiti by its historic graduates.

After visiting an art nouveau museum, we found ourselves in Bar Edelweiss, a tiny, sun-speckled street-corner café. I often experiment with something from the menu that I haven’t heard of and, for an extra quid, my cold, crisp Sagres beer arrived with Patatas Revolconas. This turned out to be a warm paprika-flavoured mash topped with pork crackling and served in a small terracotta bowl. It sounds an odd choice for a sunny afternoon in Spain, but we stayed there for an hour and ordered three more.

A browse around a local record shop was followed by the late afternoon bus back to our beautiful campsite, Camping Don Quijote, on the edge of town. There was an aire opposite but when the campsite is only £17 with our ACSI membership and the aire costs £14, I don’t really see the point.

There was frost in Santander the next morning and, keen to find some warmth, we set off on a long drive along the empty Spanish motorways towards Lisbon. Crossing the border, we drove for four hours through the immense interior of central Portugal. Pine forests gave way to olive groves, granite hills and high plateaus stretching for miles into disappearing horizons. This wasn’t my idea of Portugal. It was more like the Russian steppe.

There is a Welsh term which describes the point at which you start to run out of energy, enthusiasm and drive. In English you might call it flagging, but in Welsh we say nogio. By late afternoon we were definitely starting to nogio. We pulled into the small salt-mining town of Alcacer do Sal, where I’d earmarked an €11 campsite near the historic castle.

A stroll around the centre was followed by a campsite pizza. Like so many post-industrial European towns, Alcacer felt tired and neglected despite its attractive elevated position above the Rio Sado. We didn’t even see any of the flamingoes that populate the local riverbanks. Fortunately, our next stop proved to be spectacular.

The small Atlantic fishing village of Porto Covo turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip so far. Any seaside town would be blessed with just one of the stunning coves that decorate Porto Covo’s rocky promenade. This place has four.

I managed my first dip in the sea, which even in mid-October was warmer than Wales at the height of summer. The crashing Atlantic waves were dramatic and invigorating, and a lone Dutch camper and I were the only people willing to brave the strong currents. Still hampered by her broken collarbone, Mair stayed frustrated on the beach. Normally she would have been the first one into the swell but for now she could only paddle.

We broke our golden rule that evening and ate at a restaurant advertising laminated English-language menus and photographs of its food. We found ourselves choosing the least-unappetising option on the menu, which is another major red flag. There was some hope for the regional Bacalhau à Brás, an appetising mix of shredded salt cod, onions, crispy straw potatoes and scrambled eggs. It was, however, stodgy, bland and, more damningly, deadly boring.

Disappointed and slightly annoyed with ourselves for ignoring previous experience, we retreated to the huge, but recommended Costa de Vizir campsite (£24). A swim in the chilly pool the following morning at least allowed Mair to test her shoulder properly for the first time in weeks.

The Algarve lay ahead, but by then we already knew we would return to this part of Portugal. The coastline north of Porto Covo reminded me of the wildest, most beautiful parts of Sir Benfro, with the added bonus of huge crashing waves. Most importantly, it also offered the reliable promise of blue skies and winter sunshine.

We’ve always planned to travel in our motorhome when I retire, and so it is that we are on our way to Portugal and Spain to find the winter sun. And we arranged a weekend in Cardiff before we catch the ferry from Plymouth to Santander.

Mair had already planned to stay with visiting college friends so I’m van-sitting at the Cardiff Caravan Park in Sophia Gardens. I visited their Airbnb at the former FAW Headquarters in Westgate Street last night and on my way, I passed a man attempting to jump off Cardiff Bridge and into the freezing Taff. Three people were trying to stop him doing that, and another fourteen were trying to film it. I left them to it.

This morning, I wanted to seek out Diggers Record Club in Cardiff Bay, an enigmatic record store that had been recommended to me. This secretive dealer of rare Japanese imports does little to advertise itself and even describes itself as a “speakeasy”. Intrigued, I set off on my bike to find it.

It’s been twenty years since I cycled through Cardiff City Centre, and the improvement in cycling infrastructure was immediately apparent. I could cycle today, from Pontcanna, the whole way down to Cardiff Bay on a pleasant, wide, traffic-free route. Even when I reached Clarence Embankment and pedalled towards Bute Street, there were well-marked, well-used cycle paths on the road. The experience confirmed to me that urban cycling can often be easier and more pleasant in big cities that it is in our smaller towns. It was so much easier to ride in to Cardiff than it is to bike into Bangor for example, where there have been protests against recently constructed cycle paths.

I had been told what to expect at Diggers Records, but it was still managed to surprise me. I reached the Bute Street address that I had found on Google Maps, but there was no indication that a record shop was buried deep in the magnificent creamy grey-stoned Portland House. A former bank, the building that was constructed in 1927 – the year Cardiff City won the FA Cup - utilised the same exquisite stone from Portland, Devon, that Wren used to erect Buckingham Palace and other famous London landmarks.

I peeked inside the huge panelled-hardwood front doors and saw a scrawled sign taped to the window that contained a series of instructions on how the prospective shopper could gain entry. I would press an intercom button, take a lift, and walk round some corridors. I pressed the button and after a while, a voice answered.

“Diggers Records…! How can I help?”

“Erm…can I come in?,” I enquired hesitantly.

“Yes, of course. Push the doors. You’ll see a lift on your left. Take the lift to Floor 2. On exiting the lift, turn left down the corridor, take a right and you will find us at the end of the path to the Kingdom of the Fattened Goat.” He didn’t really say all of that, but he might as well have done.

I took the lift as instructed and exited at the second floor, where another small note was pinned on the green felt notice board opposite, giving further instructions.

I walked on down the corridor and turned right as directed. At the end of that corridor was another door with a small note in the window. “Diggers- that way!”

I eventually reached the entrance to a small room packed with records, and a young, effortlessly hip dude, warmly greeted me. Even though the shop had only been open for 10 minutes, there were two other blokes sitting at headphoned-record decks with small piles of vinyl that they were auditioning. I am going to go out on a limb and guess that they are DJs. I wondered if they were employees, grading vinyl for the shop, or whether they were checking their buys for faults. I didn’t ask. Despite the small speaker that was playing an indie version of ‘Like a Virgin’, the hushed atmosphere suggested that if you have to ask anything stupid, then you shouldn’t really be in there.

I found the section I was looking for straight away. After twenty years, I am catching up on my love for jazz – which has somehow been submerged. Maybe I was ashamed of it. I’ll go into that another time, but for now, I’ll just tell you that Diggers has the best jazz vinyl collection in Wales.

This is a shop that caters for collectors. There is no junk – no James Last and Acker Bilk to sift through. Somebody with great taste has curated this collection, and there are some rare beauties that exceed the £300 mark. Much of the standard classics are imported from Japan, where the vinyl pressings are known to be superior, and they cost anything between £30-80. There is more jazz boxed up in an adjoining room, half-buried beneath the Funk, Rare Groove and Rare Soul sections. In another shop these plastic boxes full of rare treasures would be displayed on the walls – in Diggers they are simply stock.

I was travelling by bike, and I’m about to tour Europe, so I managed to resist temptation. This isn’t the right time for me to indulge my latest hobby – and financial ruin lies down the collecting path. I’m going to scour Iberia for some cheap bargains next week, but I’ll definitely be returning to Diggers in the future. If I can find it, that is.

Back in May, I admit that I hadn’t heard of Joe Webb. But I saw on the listings of Galeri, my local arts venue, that his trio would be playing in June. One of the things I’ve missed about Cardiff since we moved north is the busy live jazz scene. I used to play myself and spent many fantastic nights in places like Gibbs Jazz Club, The Four Bars Inn, and The Jazz Cafe.

Gwynedd, by contrast is a jazz desert, so on the rare occasions when I hear of a visit by a prominent musician, I try to attend. I researched Joe Webb and found that his first album, Hamstrings and Hurricanes, had been nominated for a Mercury Prize. He cited influences as wide as Art Tatum and Oasis, and his marketing shots featured vintage football shirts. He had appeared on Jools Holland’s Hootenanny, but most importantly for me, he had played with my all-time jazz hero, the legendary American trumpeter, Wynton Marsalis.

Joe had released a new album called Neath Beat, and he was touring the UK to promote it. My wife and son came with me to Galeri for the intimate performance, and we enjoyed the evening. Joe’s playing was world class, and his stride piano technique was unbelievable - I even looked past the Swansea City away shirt that he wore. But sadly, there were only about 40 people sitting in the empty Galeri theatre. Everybody there loved it, but I couldn’t help feel bad for Joe and his trio, who had packed out London venues earlier in the tour. Partly to help make their trip more worthwhile, I bought an album in the foyer, which Joe and the band signed for me.

The trouble was that I didn’t have a turntable to play it on. Well, that’s not exactly true. I did have a turntable—a fantastic turntable—but I hadn’t played it for over a decade. It needed servicing and I just hadn’t got round to it, as it is such an old piece of kit that only a specialist could help. I had bought The Pink Triangle PT Too from Audio Excellence in Crwys Road in 1991. For several years, it took pride of place in my one-bedroom flat in Cathays. It was beautiful, and I just loved the warm, mellow sound it made. CDs and MP3s never did it for me, and I think that’s why I stopped listening to music at the same intensity that I had done in my flat.

But now, with that new album to play, it occurred to me that I should make the effort to get it fixed. And so I did. I took it to Birkenhead where Charles Melling, one of the few Pink Triangle experts, repaired it over 6 weeks. I could have bought a fantastic brand new modern deck with the money it cost to service. But if I didn't repair it, then there would be one less of these amazing, ground-breaking turntables left in the world. So I set it up at home, and I admit that I became quite emotional when the first record span and music once again came from the deck that had been a part of my life for over 35 years.

For the next week, I played all the old favourites from my collection. I fell in love with music again, and you could say that Joe Webb and his album Neath Beat were responsible for that. But the story doesn’t end there, even if you might wish it did.

Enthused again by the sound from that old deck, I started visiting record shops and bought some more vinyl. I went to Mudshark Records in Bangor and Cob Records in Porthmadog. Then a few weeks later I visited a vinyl cafe called Vachement Bien in a French city called Clermont-Ferrand. I was digging through the small jazz section, when out jumped a rare copy of Joe Webb’s first album, Hamstrings and Hurricanes. Only 600 were made, and here, like an act of fate, was one of them. It had been erroneously placed in the Jazz Anglais section, and I knew that I had to release it from that ignominy. The owner was very apologetic when I took it to the till, and he explained that he hadn’t known that Joe was Welsh. He loved Wales, he told me, and had visited to watch rugby. He understood.

One of the tracks on that Neath Beat album is called Corrèze, and Joe explained at Galeri that his partner was from that lesser-known region of France and recommended that we should visit. I admit that I didn’t even know where Corrèze was.

After spending a few days camping in the Puy-de-Dome volcanoes near Clermont, we drove further west toward the Dordogne. I had earmarked a famous vinyl shop in a town called Tulle, and as we drove along the A89 motorway towards the town I saw a sign: Bienvenue en Corrèze… I mean, who knew? I bought some great albums in that old shop and we moved on to our next campsite in Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne. I had no idea that Beaulieu was also in Corrèze. A few weeks earlier I hadn’t even heard of it, and here I was.

We had a fantastic time in Correze, and will definitely return. The Neath Beat coincidences have stopped for now. But two months on, and inspired by that album, I have relapsed back into my old vinyl addiction. Apart from tons of jazz, I’ve bought some classic old Welsh language discs and an amazing new album by Dafydd Owain, which recently won Welsh Record of the Year. If Joe Webb and jazz isn’t your thing, then I recommend you try Dafydd Owain on Diwrnod Recordiau Cymraeg.

After the chaos of our first day on the Alpe d’Huez, we decided that our second in Bourg d’Oisans could be a little less frantic. Mair had ridden to the summit a day earlier than planned, and I suspected that it might be problematic to reach the finale. After learning of the difficulties experienced by those who tried to watch the stage, we felt that we made the right call.

As the race would be leaving town via the northern circuit of the Col de la Croix de Fer, Télégraphe, and the Galibier before finishing on the opposite side of Alpe d’Huez, there were only a few routes to watch the race at the summit. Unfortunately, maybe in response to the previous day’s overcrowding, the organisers closed off both eastern roads to Alpe d’Huez to cyclists. Our original plan had been to climb via Villard-Reculas, but despite assurances, the gendarmes limited access to residents. The race wasn’t even coming this way, but it was still closed without warning. Cyclists could climb the traditional route to Alpe d’Huez but were forced to dismount 5km from the summit. I met a father and son from Suffolk who decided to avoid all the possible disruption and take the option of watching the race from the Croix de Fer. They too were stopped by police, hours ahead of the caravan.

Our own day began in a relaxed fashion as we watched the caravan pass our campsite and collected a decent amount of freebies. We then joined hundreds of others on the stunning cycle path into town, cruising alongside the beautiful glacier-blue Romanche river.

We exited the cycle path on the outskirts of Bourg d’Oisans where we knew the team buses would be parked, hoping to see some riders signing on. I saw the Ineos team bus and thought I would give the Welshman Josh Tarling some encouragement. After about 20 minutes, Tarling followed Filippo Ganna to collect his bike and I gave him a friendly shout. “Pob lwc Josh!” He raised a hand in acknowledgement and then began chatting to a couple who I realised were his parents.

After Josh left, his mother came across and started chatting to us. She was soon joined by her husband and we spent ten minutes in conversation about Aberystwyth, the Tour, and Welsh cycling in general. When Josh returned from signing on, they called him across to introduce us. I like to think that I played it quite cool with the 8ft tall European time-trial Champion. He was about to start a stage of the Tour de France and I didn’t want to be a nuisance. I didn’t ask for a photo, I just told him how proud we were and that we appreciated his commitment to speaking Welsh in interviews with S4C. He told me he was feeling stronger and was going to try and impact the race in Paris.

Josh begged me not to leave, but we had things to be getting on with and couldn’t stand around chatting all day. We strolled further down the course and stood near the Lidl–Trek bus, where Quinn Simmons’s father was waiting to see his son. Sepp Kuss came by and I told Mair that he had a chance to win the stage. I wasn’t far off, was I?

Then, put of the blue came the chance to speak to my second hero of the morning. Strolling down the road with her cameraman and clutching a microphone was the Eurosport presenter, Hannah Walker. I’m afraid that I may have become overexcited at this point, as I’ve enjoyed watching her Chris Kamara-type reporting over many years. I thrust my phone into my wife’s hand and ordered her to grab a photo while I blurted out something embarrassing. It was too embarrassing for me to repeat here.

After smiling politely, Hannah returned a few minutes later and we had a chat which mainly consisted of me telling her how much I liked watching her on telly. This time, I did grab a photo, thanks to my ever-patient camera-wife, and when I saw it I made a note to grow back my beard as quickly as possible. I’m still not sure whether Josh or Hannah is my new best friend. They’ll just have to fight over me.

We returned to the site and I watched the race in the company of about 50 cyclists whose day had been frustrated by unexpected road closures. I think it was one of the best experiences I’ve had as a TV cycling fan. Everybody in that bar knew their stuff and reacted like a football crowd to moves in the race. People shouted out cycling-related quips and maybe for the first time, they actually got a laugh. They applauded Carapaz’s attacks, groaned at Pogačar, and cheered on the brave Sepp Kuss to the end after his unlucky crashes.

Our second day in Bourg d’Oisans had been completely different from the first. We didn’t actually see any of the race live, but it was another great experience to remember on the Tour de France. We move on now across the hills of the Ardeche to a campsite near Clermont-Ferrand. I hope to climb at least one of the volcanoes in the area, which will partly make up for missing Paris.

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There is nothing quite like the Alpe d’Huez on race day. Over half a million people flock to the 14 km of road that climbs to the ski station from the village of Bourg‑d’Oisans in the French Alps. The average gradient of 8% is enough to make this the decisive climb of any Tour de France stage, and it has been the site of several iconic wins since it became the very first mountain stage finish in 1952. Its fame draws cycling fans from all over the world, and the Tour stages’ reputation for excess draws just as many people who are simply looking for a good time. That maelstrom of passion and exuberance creates those incredible scenes that we’ve all seen on television, and now on social media.

With fans lined both sides of the 14-kilometer road, that gives roughly 28 kilometers of linear viewing space. Spreading 600,000 people across that distance means the crowds are, on average, roughly 10 to 11 people deep on either side of the road. That’s 42,000 people every kilometer.

We had a plan to ride as far as we could up the climb on Friday, the day of the race. We arrived before 11:00 AM, a full six hours before the first riders would arrive at the base. I knew it would be busy, but already, there was chaos. Police had blocked the road at the foot of the climb, and a single gendarme was trying to hold back a huge crowd of cyclists who had travelled from across the world for this special day. It wasn’t long before the dam burst and we poured through as PC Renoir helplessly waved his arms.

Mair went ahead, deciding to at least try and reach the summit. I climbed at a slower pace and settled into a torpid rhythm. I was wearing a Welsh cycling jersey, and every few meters people would shout encouragement from the side of the road: “Allez Geraint! Gareth Bale! Pays de Galles!” A bawdy Englishman had his own words of support… “How does it feel to be shit at rugby?”, he bellowed. My Cornish riding companion apologized on his behalf.

For some reason, Dutch riders have always done well on the Alpe, winning the stage an incredible eight times between 1976 and 1989 thanks to victories from Zoetemelk, Kuiper, Winnen, Rooks, and Theunisse. This led to Dutch fans adopting the mountain and setting up their base on the 7th bend, which now has the biggest reputation as party central. As I approached, the ubiquitus European party song “Links Rechts” boomed out on repeat, and crescendoed as I climbed slowly upwards. I passed Welsh Corner, with its huge poster of Geraint Thomas, and received a massive cheer as well as a helpful push. The Alpe now hosts a Danish corner, a Swiss corner, a Belgian corner, and, less enticingly, a “Beefeater Bend.”

Huge lorries bedecked in team colors were getting stuck as they tried to navigate the hairpins, and we were often forced to unclip. I was stuck on Dutch corner for a full half-hour as a team support vehicle burnt its clutch on the ascent. The smell of burning clutches is everywhere on the Alpe—the acrid scent adding to the blaring noise and dazzling colors that form an assault on the senses. Groups of French lads wheeled up barrels of beer and blasted their own techno beats from a huge amplifier. To add to the general chaos, a water cannon was soaking everybody from a balcony on the hillside. A giant dinosaur ran alongside me and there were still four hours before the race arrived.

I eventually made it to the village of Huez, 5 km from the summit, and contacted Mair, who had made it all the way to the top before riding back down like a salmon against the tide. We found a rare spot in the shade and took shelter under a tree.

It was then I started noticing how drunk people were. A huge group of rugby players from Montpellier were passing around a bottle of absinthe. One bearded man in a long blonde wig was walking up and down in the middle of the road shouting “S’il vous plaît, S’il vous plaît” He did this for two hours non-stop, while flirtatiously flicking the curls from his forehead. Another man who looked like the cyclist Quinn Simmons was lifted shoulder-high and serenaded. Then a tall man staggered into me and poured half a bottle of Pernod and orange down my back. The rugby players stepped in and offered me a beer to calm the situation. Some casualties had passed out and were lying, fast asleep in ditches.

I was hoping the caravan and the race would arrive soon before everybody got absolutely mullered. And when the first cars arrived with sponsors and VIPs, they were surrounded by hordes of fans banging on their roofs. I was wondering whether they might cancel the caravan as there was no room for it to pass. But when the first giant lion appeared above the crowd, they parted just enough to let it through before diving to catch the free keychains being distributed. As more and more promo vans crawled past with beautiful, hyper-energetic models dishing out freebies to a begging mob, I took a step back and wondered what it all meant. My thoughts were disturbed when a packet of Haribo flew past my right ear, and I made a dash to retrieve them. I admit that I elbowed the sprightly old Mexican who had been hoovering up all the stray gifts. I don’t even like Haribos, but the Tour does this to you.

Then out of nowhere, three riders appeared. The crowd engulfed them, but somehow they were able to continue up the hill. Wait, who is this? Pogačar? But how could it be? He was minutes behind when I last checked. It was impossible to get roadside without taking your life in your hands. The drunkest people took the most risks, darting in front of the riders before backing up quickly when a team car arrived a second later. The more safety-conscious of us had to suffer these arseholes crashing into us every time they got too close to the cars. I had noticed a very young brother and sister opposite, about 5 and 8 years old. Their family had become distracted, and I think the young girl was clipped by a vehicle. The kids were both in tears and were swept up by parents who assuaged their guilt by offering a stern bollocking to the young brother. One Spanish man opposite insisted on slapping every rider that passed. It was absolute mayhem.

To be honest, I was relieved when it was all over without serious incident, though I did see later that Einer Rubio crashed due to a fan falling into the road. I also witnessed other riders being impeded and even watched a clip of old men fighting over freebies. We took a back route down the mountain through Villard-Reculas and pushed our way through the thousands of people queuing for the cable car down to Oz-en-Oisans. Other cyclists weren’t so lucky—I heard that those at the summit were held for hours while cars and lorries were prioritized.

The beauty of the Tour de France is the free access it gives to fans, but I’m afraid that the Tour has outgrown its most popular venue. The Tour is now more than a race, it’s the world’s biggest cycling festival, and the cyclists it attracts need more respect. HGVs should not be prioritised and roads should not be closed without warning. Alpe d’Huez is the standout destination for anybody who wants to see the Tour, and access now needs to be controlled. It’s not as if the organizers don’t have experience; after 31 visits, they know exactly what to expect.

It should be reasonably straightforward to limit access. There are only three roads up to Alpe d’Huez. Organizers could announce a cutoff time of 9:00 AM when access will be closed, or make the route accessible only by shuttle bus. They could even charge a nominal 10-euro fee to help pay for proper barriers along the route. And the big one for me is limiting the number of race vehicles that have access. Nobody needs to drive a mobile kitchen to the summit a few hours before the race. Cut back on the excess of sponsor cars and team vans that have increased year by year and stop escalating Tour traffic. Unless changes are made, there will be a major incident, and Alpe d’Huez is going to lose its place in the sport.

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We had just passed Grenoble when it hit me. The awesome Alpine peaks had suddenly appeared, and beneath me, the mint-green Isère river bubbled over craggy rocks as it tumbled its way to join the Rhône. We had seen an unexpected sign to Turin a few minutes earlier and now we were approaching Bourg d’Oisans, the base of the famous Alpe d’Huez. Terry Callier was playing on the stereo, the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky and I realised that this is it. This is the moment I had been looking forward to for months. And this is one of the snapshots that will merge to form an impressionistic memory when I am too old to travel. This is it. Take it in.

We’ve arrived at our campsite in Rochetaillée, an easy ride from tomorrow’s climb, and the place is heaving with cyclists. The clientele of a Tour de France base camp is, how can I put it?... quirky. The cycling fan is not used to sharing space with other humans who appreciate the work of Thijs Benoot. For one of the few times in their lives, they are at home with their tribe. And they (we) like to advertise their (our) qualifications. I saw a lot of vintage tiny peaked caps and a selection of cycling club kit from Tyneside North, Lee Valley and Wielervereniging Ede. For the very first time in its life, my historic Paris–Tours top drew admiring glances.

The first man I saw was wearing a Ned Boulting podcast t-shirt. He was smothering Factor 759 on his very ginger teenage son before he pushed him in the direction of the Alpe with some encouraging words. “You’ll know when you get to the top, you can’t miss it.” That’s not strictly true. When I climbed Alpe d’Huez in 2013, I did miss the summit, and carried on up a side street to finish on an anonymous grassy plateau on the other side of the mountain. I must look for an opportunity to share that anecdote with someone who cares. Someone ginger, maybe.

The queues for the site were long. Scruffy, unloved cars and vans were decorated with bike racks holding polished carbon race machines worth more than the rustheaps that were carrying them. Everybody in the swimming pool has a ‘tan ffermwr’ with white chests and dark brown arms, and once again, I am by far the fattest cyclist in town.

In every corner of the busy site, there are cycling fans from all over Europe. We hang up our Tour de France bunting and of course a Welsh flag. I counted 12 different nationalities on my way to the wooden shower block. And boy, did I need that shower after driving for 7 hours from our stopover near Troyes this morning.

As I entered the shower block, I nodded to a grizzled old Frenchman who took up the cubicle directly behind mine. I heard him growl when his shower started cold and I made a note to let mine run a while before stepping in. A few minutes later and I was blissfully soaping up under a warm jet that washed away the grime of the A6 motorway.

The bar of Imperial Leather that I like to carry has had plenty of use. It is not yet a sliver, but the small label has gone, and the soap has lost its angular edges. It is now smooth enough to slip right out of my hand and that’s exactly what it did. I should more accurately say that it squirted out of my armpit, hit the wet floor and disappeared under the divider, floating straight into the adjacent cubicle. There was loud silence, as I imagined grumpy, naked old François peering at the slippery foreign object that I had thrown to him.

For my own part, I desperately wanted to get my soap back, but I didn’t dare to call out. Maybe the soap-drop was a well-known act of flirtation in this part of Europe. Maybe grumpy François thought that I was hoping for a piece of gay action in the steamy shower room. I left it there him for him to ponder, dried myself hastily and ran quickly away.

There is a danger that I will see François this evening, as the campsite is putting on entertainment. Maybe I’ll stay in the van as I have a lot of planning to do. The Tour arrives tomorrow afternoon, and I think we will watch it from the lower slopes of the Alpe, maybe even Cymru Corner. The race finishes on the other side of the mountain on Saturday, so we absolutely need to climb to the summit to be able to watch.

The Alpe d’Huez is an ugly climb, but it’s the most iconic in the world - the Maracana of cycling. I don’t know if I’ll pedal it all the way in my current state, but I can’t wait for Mair to experience riding the climb on a race day. It’s like nothing else. She is nervous, but I know she can do it. Maybe I’ll just have a few Affligems tonight, and see if François will give me back my soap

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I know what you’re thinking, so let me clear this up from the start: I’m not writing this piece because Remco Evenepoel beat Tadej Pogačar to the stage win today. It was clear that Pogačar could easily have won Stage 15 on the summit of the Plateau de Solaison, but for whatever reason, he followed Remco to the line. More on that below.

My earlier post, which explained how uneasy I was about the performances of Pogačar and his team, seems to have found an audience. Clearly, I am not the only person who has been feeling this way, despite the cycling media narrative that everyone loves to see the Slovenian and his team dominate the sport. Nonetheless, I hope it was clear that I was not accusing Team UAE of doping; I was just unable to give a reasonable explanation for the outrageous performances I have been watching this season. I can just about accept that Pogačar might be a freak of nature, but it was the improvements of other team members that made me take a step back.

I stopped writing my daily blog about this year’s Tour because, quite honestly, I was boring myself. There were those sprint stages that left me cold until the final 5km. Then when Del Toro and Pogačar picked up easy early wins, I was anticipating a long few weeks of frustration. When Team UAE began suffocating the race and chasing down breakaways just because they could, my frustration turned to anger.

My irritation was shared by many on the roadside in France. Pogačar seemed taken aback that he was booed by supporters on Stage 10, and though he denied it, I suspect he was hurt. This is a man who has grown up with unfettered adulation, and he obviously enjoys success and the adoration that comes with it. I mean, who wouldn’t? But pro cyclists are increasingly institutionalised and I think a little out of touch with their audience. I’m not sure he appreciated that there are limits to the patience of fans who spend hours at the side of the road and full days utilising their expensive HBO Max subscriptions.

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The cycling media have been in denial about this for some time. Former riders understandably admit that in Pogačar’s shoes, they would behave the same way. Professional journalists, wary of the need for continued access to the sport’s biggest star, only hint at dissatisfaction with his team’s greedy tactics, the financial doping, and sportswashing.

But we have started to see cracks in the armor of Team UAE. (I refuse to call them by their absurd fulll name - UAE Team Emirates - XRG). Stage 9 in the Corrèze region, where UAE kept the break on a tight leash by working all day at the front of the peloton, gave the first hints of tactical confusion. What were they doing? Nobody seemed to know, and their riders gave different reasons for their unnecessary show of strength. But other teams weren’t happy. Movistar—whose entire strategy for this year’s Tour revolves around breakaway success—were furious. Their director, Rojas, claimed that other sports directors agreed that UAE’s behavior was “greedy” and harmful to the spectacle of the race. Movistar are currently assessing the value of their sponsorship after 47 years in the sport.

I watched that stage in dismay. Pogačar had no chance of winning on the flat finish, but UAE still flexed their muscles, even though the Tour was already practically won. My only hope was that his team would suffer for their pointless efforts, but this is UAE, and they never suffer… do they?

Except it has started looking like they may be paying for their vanity. The first rider I noted to be slightly off his game was Adam Yates. Yates is riding pretty well, but there is nothing unbelievable about his form. He looks at exactly the level you would expect from a rider of his caliber, which is reassuring. Then on Stage 10, Del Toro was dropped as Pogačar surged away on the final climb to Le Lioran. And then came Stage 13, when Brandon McNulty and Tim Wellens made the break. Despite McNulty sitting on throughout, the devastating attack that I had expected didn’t materialize. Wellens, who had been so unbelievably strong on Stage 9, made it across to the final selection but faded quickly. They actually looked human, and I even began to warm to them.

On Stage 14 to Le Markstein, UAE took first and second, but it wasn’t that straightforward. Pogačar was at least grimacing as Vingegaard set the pace, and Del Toro only took the runner-up spot after recovering superbly from being dropped. It appeared to me that the Mexican pipped Seixas to second by admirable grit and determination, but not by athletic superiority. Just as interesting was the way that UAE’s climbing train ran out of steam earlier than usual. As the favorites’ group hit the lower slopes of the Col du Haag, both Brandon McNulty and Adam Yates faded from the front of the group much sooner than they typically do. They were still impressive, of course, but this was not the team of futuristic stormtroopers that we were promised after the early stages of this race. This didn’t look like a bunch of dopers to me, and I was gratefully reassured.

On to today’s stage then, and Evenepoel’s unlikely victory on the summit of the Plateau de Solaison. I believe there were a few reasons for Pogačar’s hesitance in the finale. Firstly, I think he was disturbed by Vingegaard’s crash and abandonment. Cycling is a curiously honorable sport with some unwritten rules based on decency. I honestly don’t think Pogačar felt it was right to take advantage of his rival’s misfortune. Pogačar crashed on a crucial descent in the 2022 Tour, and Vingegaard declined to take advantage. "I think it's good style to wait”, said the Dane, “and I hope that's what he would do too, if it happened to me. It is the right thing to do".

Then there was the constant stream of radio communications between Pogi and his Directors in the final kilometers. Was he frustrated by having to babysit a clearly suffering Del Toro? Are the team really under orders to sweep the board with every available jersey, including Best Young Rider? I suspect we’ll have to wait for his memoirs to find out what really went on.

Finally—and I think maybe the most compelling reason—is that Pogačar has become aware of the growing dissent among fans. He would have known that beating Evenepoel today would have further damaged his popularity, and I think he is sensitive to that. It seems that the GOAT might be getting the message that by winning even when he doesn’t need to, he is biting the hand that feeds him. Everyone loves a winner, but nobody likes a cannibal.

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I thought long and hard before telling you all about this. I am not proud of myself, honestly. But I thought it might be handy for at least some of you to read about the tools and methods I use to plan our road trips in the motorhome. I’ve been doing this for about 15 years now and have built up a ton of experience and research. I am a qualified librarian, a reference nerd, a technology geek and I just love, love, love all this stuff. I won’t say that I enjoy the planning more than I enjoy the actual holiday*, but it’s a major part of the fun for me.

*Sometimes I really do enjoy the planning more than the holiday.

So here we go. I’ll take you through the process that I undertake, using a couple of real examples from past trips. Please do not judge me.

Tripit.com

My first tip is that you should always have a reason to travel. We’ve tried meandering around France with no real focus, and it gets pretty aimless and well…dull. Even if you only aim to visit a single city, or a museum or even a particular restaurant or shop that’s on your bucket list, it will give you a much-needed focus. Last year we arranged our trip around the Women’s Euros Football Tournament in Switzerland. This meant I had quite a few things to book, and when it comes to booking, Tripit is your friend.

Tripit doesn’t help you to make bookings, but when you do, you can forward your email confirmation to Tripit and it will start creating your itinerary automatically. You can book match tickets, restaurants, accommodation, or transport and it will arrange your diary and keep a copy of your confirmation email in case you need it.

My first booking is always the crossing - usually on the Eurotunnel - to bookend the trip. Then if I am attending any event, I book accomodation around that, but leave the rest of the trip as free as possible to allow for flexibility. There is usually no need to pre-book sites in Europe.

Wilder Trips

https://www.wildertrips.com/

Once I’ve made some bookings, the next step is to plot those locations using a very handy website called Wilder Trips. The site will automatically suggest a route between those locations to give you a rough idea of your journey. I try not to plan to drive more than 4 hours a day, but quite often do.

Using a mix of sources, I will then plot some other attractions and possible destinations along the route. These include aires, campsites, tourist attractions, hisoric villages, restaurants, supermarkets, potential football matches, and wild swimming spots. This is my Wilder Trips map from a recent trip to Carcassonne.

Meteo Blue

https://www.meteoblue.com/

About this point, or even earlier, I’ll start to look at weather forecasts. I’ll check the weather and amend the route daily from about 2 weeks ahead of our arrival. Weather can make or break a motorhome trip, and there’s a lot to consider, especially if you are travelling in Spring or Autumn. Western France is warmer and wetter. Eastern France is drier and colder. The best tool I’ve found for long range predictions is Meteoblue, which combines data from a range of weather services. We look for a minimum of 15 degrees temperature, and no rain if at all possible. You can visualise temperatures, rain and sunshine, and this will dictate our route south.

Back to Wilder Trips

Of course, I wanted to leave the alternative route details to chance, so for our trip to Carcassonne above, I prepared alternative routes down the Central and Eastern side of the country, in case the weather was better. Like I said, don’t judge me.

Now it’s time to do some deeper research and add some points on that Wilder Trips map. These are the sources I use.

Les Plus Beaux Villages de France

https://www.les-plus-beaux-villages-de-france.org/fr/nos-villages/

There is a society in France which awards qualifying villages a place on its list of the most beautiful villages in France. There is a strict vetting process using 30 different criteria and each village has to earn its place on the list. It may be historic, quaint, quirky, flowery or peaceful, but each one of them is worth visiting. I’ve already plotted these villages on a Wilder Trips base map, and try to include a few en route.

Searchforsites

searchforsites.co.uk

There are plenty of apps which help you find aires, campsites or stopovers, but I’ve been creating custom lists on searchforsites for 15 years, and it is my travelling bible. I leave the app open as I travel through France and it proved a lifesaver when I broke down in March and was able to navigate straight to the nearest aire on the app. I’ve got a variety of custom lists, but there are two that I use most heavily to choose my stopovers. Every time I notice a good site, I add it to my wishlist, which now contains nearly 400 sites.

My other favourite custom list is a collection of 231 sites and stopovers which have access to wild swimming. This is usually a lake, but might be a river or outdoor lido.

France Passion

https://www.france-passion.com/

Sometimes, you want a break from cities, or busy tourist sites, and just want to relax in a field in the middle of rural France. France Passion is a members travel scheme which allows you to experience the authentic, rural heart of France away from noisy commercial sites. Essentially, it is a network of private landowners—mainly artisanal farmers, cheesemakers, olive growers, and family vineyards—who invite self-contained motorhome travellers to park up on their land for free for up to 24 hours. I’ll plot any likely FP sites on my Wilder Trips map.

Grand Frais Supermarkets

All French supermarkets are a treat to visit, but there is one place that is a secret destination for French chefs, and anybody who appreciates fresh produce and local cuisine. We only discovered these places last year, but they are so good that I have plotted all the branches that are en route. They aren’t all that easy to find, but they’re worth a small detour.

Michelin Guide

https://guide.michelin.com/

I know what you’re thinking but hear me out. Michelin Guide restaurants are notoriously fancy, pretentious, and expensive. But if you filter out all the starred locations, you can zoom in on the Bib Gourmand restaurants. Without exception, these are always good quality, reasonably priced and they take away the risk of choosing a stinker for your occasional night out.

Futbology

https://www.futbology.app/

Wherever we are, I always try to catch a local football game. By far the best tool to find the nearest fixture is the futbology app. European leagues are notoriously tardy in announcing a date and k.o. time, sometimes only confirming details 2 weeks in advance. Futbology covers local leagues and cup games as well as the major games in Ligue 1 and 2. It’s usually kept well up to date.

Where2Go

https://www.meteoblue.com/en/weather/outdoorsports/where2go/le-mans_france_3003603

Sometimes, we are in the middle of our trip and the weather starts to change. This is why we leave most of the trip unbooked, and we’re able to move towards the sun. I recently discovered this very handy tool from Meteo Blue which tells you where you can find the sunniest place within a certain distance. Last Spring, we sun-hopped all the way back north making sure we had the best weather all the way.

Google Gemini

In the last 12 months, I have started using an AI platform to help arrange my trips and it has been a game changer. I will still refer to my individual reference sites, but Gemini allows me to cross-reference all these sources with one query.

I’ve created a custom gem, which tells it our preferences and gives practical information to allow it the best chance of offering useful advice. Be careful though. It can’t be trusted completely and you should always check the source information.

Printed Itinerary

I’ve done all my research, cross-referenced all my plans, and allowed enough flexibility to at least give the impression of freedom, even if I have hidden three handy backup plans in my back pocket. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s to firm up those last minute changes and spend a few hours updating all of that lovely new information on Tripit, back where we started all those months ago. Of course, I’ve been discussing plans and consulting with my lucky partner throughout all of that time. But just in case some of the details have somehow skipped her mind, now is the time to ask Tripit to send her a 38-page PRINTED FULL ITINERARY of her forthcoming holiday! Try to imagine the look of delight on her face. What more could a girl want?

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I was very pleased this week to see First Minister Rhun ap Iorwerth announce Plaid Cymru’s intentions to use next year’s Tour de France visit to improve cycling infastructure and attract cyclotourists to Wales.

Beicio Cymru Chief executive Caroline Spanton echoed Rhun’s words

I’m confident that Rhun and Plaid have the best intentions, but what can be done to ensure that their intentions become reality? I think Wales has some really good cycling incentives, an improving infastructure and fantastic support such as the UK-wide Cycle-to-Work scheme. But as someone who has cycled in Wales and Europe for the past 40 years, here are some simple ideas which I believe could make real, demonstrable improvements, increase cycle use, and attract tourists.

1. Edge Lane Roads

https://www.edgelaneroads.com/

Edge Lane Roads, or 2 minus 1 Roads are becoming increasingly common around Europe. I noticed them in France, Germany and Switzerland last Summer, and they offer a fantastic solution to one of the biggest problems facing cyclists in Wales. Put simply, many of the roads in Wales are not wide enough for two vehicles, plus a cyclist. This encourages drivers to attempt to squeeze past cyclists while avoiding oncoming traffic in the opposite lane. It’s very intimidating and it’s the biggest and most regular hazard we face on our rides. Edge Lane Roads offer a proven solution.

You will see that the Edge Lane Road layout above has removed the central line, and splits the road into three. Cyclists on both sides have priority but cars can also use the edge lanes when they are empty. This means that vehicles can pass comfortably, but the cyclist feels protected. These are not cycle lanes, but a shared roadway.

2. More Bike Lockers

https://hooplr.com/

Security is a huge issue for potential cycle commuters into city centres. The introduction of secure bike hangars in Lambeth, London has been an ver-subscribed success with 14,000 cyclists on their waiting list to book a storage slot. There are only 16 of these units in Cardiff, but none in the city centre, or at railway stations outside Cardiff.

3. Maintain Cycle Routes

https://www.walkwheelcycletrust.org.uk/

The national cycle routes created by Sustrans Cymru are one of the country’s national treasures. I cycled the whole of Route 8 from Ynys Mon to Cardiff some time ago and it was fantastic. I use local Sustrans routes daily. But now those routes are decaying and need some attention.

I’m not sure why Sustrans Cymru changed its name to the Cymraeg-unfriendly Walk Wheel Cycle Trust, but it’s the same organisation. Welsh Government need to work more closely with the Trust to maintain current routes, and crucially to provide better links between existing routes. Too many routes come abruptly to an end, forcing cyclists into traffic.

4. HGV and PCV driving tests

If you’ve never cycled on the road, then maybe you can’t appreciate how it feels to be passed closely by a bus or a lorry. I can try to tell you how it is to hear that rumble, feel a brush on your shoulder, or get sucked towards the wheels due to aerodynamic pressure, but I don’t think I can convey it well enough. In Brazil, bus drivers are given a practical experience as part of their driving test. They sit on stationery bikes while their colleagues drive past closely at speed. I think this is a great idea for everyone who wants to pass an HGV or PCV test.

5. A North Wales Velodrome

The most successful Welsh cyclists of recent years all began their careers in the velodrome. Geraint Thomas and Luke Rowe began at the Maindy outdoor Velodrome in Cardiff which is now under threat. The Bäckstedt sisters trained at Carmarthen, as did the Tarling brothers. Owain Doull, Elinor Barker and Becky James were all developed at Newport Velodrome.

There was a campaign to build a velodrome in the north back in the 2010s, but sadly, the authorities decided that they could only support an outdoor flat circuit and BMX course at Marsh Tracks in Rhyl. While this is a useful home for north Wales cycling, it isn’t a velodrome. Currently, our riders need to travel to Manchester to experience track racing. The north needs a real velodrome.

6. Ebike Charging Points

The North York Moors National Park has installed free ebike charging points at two of its visitor centres.

“These stations are free to use and feature plugs for Bosch and Shimano manufactured systems, as well as two generic three-pin plugs for other systems. Each station has the capacity to charge up to 4 e-bikes simultaneously. Additionally, each station is equipped with bike repair stands for basic bike check-ups.”

This idea could work very well in Wales, attracting the increasing amount of e-cyclists to visitor centres on the main tourist cycle routes. This is exactly the sort of facility that could be financed by the introduction of a small tourist tax.

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7. A Roof over the Whole Country

We all know that the main factor that deters cyclotourists from visiting Wales is the 55 inches of rain that falls from the sky annually. Luckily, there is a simple solution to this eternal problem. We can just build a roof that stretches across Cymru from Penarth to Penmon. To be honest, if we can only make one small adjustment then this would be it. Get onto it, Rhun. You know it makes sense.

I didn’t blog about yesterday’s stage as it was a sprint stage, and I know nothing about sprinting. But today, I can write from personal experience, as the peloton is climbing the Col du Tourmalet, which I rode from the other side back in 2012. All I can say is that it was the toughest day of my life on the bike. The road is brutal, unforgiving, never-ending, and remorseless. I was at my…ahem…peak fitness, and yet it still took me two and a half hours to climb that beast in the scorching sun.

In a way, it’s a shame that the stage doesn’t finish on the summit; instead, they will descend to Luz-Saint-Sauveur at speeds of up to 100kph before making a Category 2 climb to Col de Gavarnie-Gèdre. I’m guessing the race organizers didn’t want a conclusively decisive stage so early in the Tour.

My prediction, then, is that we will see a race that is effectively nullified by the route. A break will probably go and start climbing the Tourmalet ahead of the main GC riders. The peloton will be gradually whittled down, leaving only Pogačar and Vingegaard with their lieutenants, Kuss and Del Toro. They may carry some other pure climbers, but everybody will be marking Pogačar. I suspect they’ll descend together and Pogačar will take the win with an explosion in the finale. I don’t mind him winning today—he’s supposed to win on days like this—but I hope I’m wrong and that we see a stunning ride from somebody unexpected who is allowed to escape early. I’d love to see a French winner, maybe Valentin Paret-Peintre, if he’s not babysitting Seixas.

This is the stage I’ve been looking forward to the most. We’re going to get some answers today: Can Vingegaard mark Pogačar in the mountains? Is Evenepoel a contender? And most intriguingly, how will Paul Seixas perform?

As the road climbs towards the intermediate sprint after 60km, Visma quickens the pace and catches out half the peloton, including Remco Evenepoel, who was having a pee. Remco was then ‘barraged,’ which means that team cars were prevented from assisting him back to the peloton in their slipstream. That’s not ideal for Remco, and he will be ‘tamping’ as we say in the Welsh valleys.

There is something in the air today. The peloton has not been comfortable, and we still haven’t reached the first climb. The elastic is stretching as various hopefuls start jumping off the front. Teams aren’t riding as conservatively as I’d expected, and we might have a more decisive day than I’d anticipated. Luke Rowe is advising his Decathlon riders that if they stick with Pogačar and Vingegaard, then “nothing can go wrong.” That’s easier said than done.

It’s Ben O’Connor who is the first contender to make a move with 100km to go. On his day, the temperamental Australian can certainly win a stage like this. For the first time today, Team UAE shows themselves at the front to control the gap, and O’Connor, who is 38 minutes behind on GC, shakes his head in frustration. He’s the latest rider to be pissed off by UAE, who are bizarrely being assisted by Uno-X. Just stop, already. Let UAE do all the work. Pogačar doesn’t need anybody’s help to dominate this race. Stop riding!

UAE is now driving at the foot of the Col d’Aspin, and it seems that this has been designated a Pogačar day. If all goes to plan—and it usually does—the pace will rise incrementally, the peloton will disintegrate, and Pogačar will pick his time to attack and win. The main question now is whether anyone can stay with him on the Tourmalet or if he has to wait to win it on the final climb.

Valentin Paret-Peintre makes a move approaching the Aspin summit on a hunt for King of the Mountains points. I hope he can win the polka-dot jersey, which has often gone to the race winner in recent years. Back in the day, it was a target for specialists like Richard Virenque and Robert Millar, and I preferred it like that.

We’re at the foot of the Tourmalet now. UAE is amassed at the front and starts to pile on the pressure. How quickly will they burn through riders like Großschartner and Yates? Del Toro will be there at the end, but how are the others after their exertions so far? How are they coping with the heat?

Torsten Træen is dropped for Uno-X. Serves them right for helping UAE, who are now paying them back in spades. Vingegaard is down to two teammates already, thanks perhaps to some questionable wasted efforts early on. Remco is looking cool, as is Lipowitz, who has been pretty discreet so far. Großschartner has dropped Pidcock, Hindley, and others before dropping off. McNulty takes over.

There are fifteen riders at the front, including Paul Seixas. He seems to be struggling a bit and is without teammates, but he’s still there. The gradient rises into double figures for the last 6km, and this is the decisive part of the day. Vingegaard only has Sepp Kuss left, but so what? Unless he has a problem, he can follow UAE over the top and through the valley. This is already a great ride from 19-year-old Seixas, and he’ll learn a lot from this experience.

Yates takes over and will ramp things up, ready to release Del Toro and Pogačar. Remco and Egan Bernal are having good days, which is promising. But Yates didn’t last, and Del Toro is already on the front, pulling away from everybody with Pogačar. Vingegaard, Seixas, and Lipowitz are measuring their effort as Pogi leaves Del Toro. I’m surprised that UAE hasn’t been stronger, but they all faded a bit quicker than I expected. Pogačar will be alone in the valley, but he’s not blowing Vingegaard away. It’s game on, and maybe his competitors can regroup to chase him through the valley. This is great stuff.

Seixas is fighting back. He’s the youngest rider for a century to start the Tour, and yet here he is battling at the front on the Tourmalet. He joins Lipowitz and Del Toro a minute behind. The last climb won’t suit Pogačar as well as this, and I think they can close on him in the last 30km if they work together. I’m watching these crowds with flags from all over the world cheering Pogačar past, and I can’t wait to get out there. We have our first mankini on screen, and it’s a bare-arsed shocker! The organizers have stretched a rope to hold back the crowds at the summit, and it’s worked really well.

Pogačar has summited with just 30 seconds on Vingegaard and Seixas’s group a minute behind. They should regroup now, and I think we could see a chase. Let’s hope they don’t all just ride for the podium. I know this descent, and it’s scary fast. There are long straights with only your own fear to stop you accelerating. I admit that I bricked it and touched the brakes at 80kph when my bike started wobbling.

Pogačar has descended like a stone, and you have to admire him for that. He’s gained more time on Vingegaard, who seemed to knock it off a bit. Is he waiting for Kuss? The chase group has started looking at each other, which is what I feared. They’re soft-pedaling and nobody is prepared to put it all on the line to chase Pogi. They’re riding for their GC places, and their current companions are now their main opponents. Nobody will work with Remco, and he’s rightly furious as they lose time to Pogačar. This is what happens. This is why nobody can challenge the Slovenian, even by working together as a group.

The group does reach a consensus and they manage to gain time on Vingegaard, even if Pogačar is on a different level. Surely they must be encouraged and motivated by the chance to catch Vingegaard now. The podium is up for grabs, with Remco and Seixas looking particularly strong.

That was a truly great ride by Pogačar. I complain when he takes stages that he doesn’t need, but he’s fantastic to watch. He rides with panache, when others have won the Tour much more conservatively, and we are watching a legend in his prime. Paul Seixas finished 5th and we may have just seen the first statement from a future Tour de France Champion. It’s been a fantastic stage in the Pyrenees, and it’s days like this that make the greatest race in the world.

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I woke up today still irritated that Team UAE made the effort on Stage 3 to stop Alex Baudin taking a stage and a yellow jersey for France. I hope that my frustration doesn’t continue for the whole Tour, but I’ve got no reason to expect this dominance to stop. I was pleased to hear Orla Chennaoui hinting at similar frustrations in her introduction to Stage 4. Of course, the pundits need to be more diplomatic than I do, but you can sense that people are getting increasingly pissed off with Pogi and Co.

Today’s stage finish is flat, so it makes no sense for UAE to place Pogačar at the finish. I suspect that he’ll be there with a limited bunch after some tough climbs mid-race, but surely he wonthe sprint. I noticed a few riders yesterday had ridden conservatively, maybe with today’s stage in mind. Could Van der Poel, Healy, or Grégoire make the break and cheer me up? Pidcock is another one who could do it, but he seems to be struggling with the heat. If it comes down to a bunch sprint, maybe Mads Pedersen could take it if he can get over the hills.

Today’s TNT studio outfits are dominated by Matt Stephens’ harlequin-patterned blue and white shirt. He is becoming increasingly bold and outré this series, while Orla and Adam look classy in smart but understated chocolate and navy.

The stage starts in Carcassonne, which I happened to visit a few months ago. The Cité looks spectacular from the air, but the riders are already on the outskirts. Grégoire, Healy, and Simmons show their intentions from KM Zero. If there’s a break today, it will be filled with big names. One of them could be Pedersen, who has sprinted off the front and formed part of a strong selection who have quickly created a gap.

It’s nearly 40 degrees on the road, and there is plenty of chatter about the future of the Tour if these extreme temperatures become the norm. There are already concerns about the carbon footprint of the caravan and the ever-increasing amount of team vehicles that are deemed essential for the race. EF Education are touring a lorry whose only purpose is to produce ice for the riders. That sort of opulence isn’t compatible with a sport that paints itself green.

Word has reached the peloton that UAE are willing to let a big break go today, which is only increasing the rush to the front from other teams. They know there won’t be many more opportunities like this, and the pace is so high that the whole race is strung out like a caterpillar.

The first selection has been formed after 25km and 34 riders have a couple of minutes on the peloton. This will be whittled down over the Col de Coudons, and then we’ll have a better idea of the contenders for the win today. But it won’t be UAE, and that makes me happy. Anybody left in the lead group after the final climb, the Col de Montségur, will have a chance.

We’ve got 75km left now and the first two riders, Jan Tratnik and Mathias Vacek, have ridden away from the break and are summiting the Coudons. A colleague of mine, Carwyn, had tipped Vacek recently, especially after his ride on Stage 2 of the Tour de Suisse when he was the only rider to keep pace with Pogačar. If he brings this home, I’ll be getting a ‘told-you-so’ in the morning.

There is hesitance in the large breakaway group, but they need to act soon or the duo up front will extend their 40-second lead. They’re soon joined by the former Luxembourg Champion Alex Kirsch from Cofidis. Lidl-Trek are in a strong position with Vacek up front. If these three stay away, then I fancy Vacek. If the group catches them, then Pedersen is in a great position with Quinn Simmons there to support. I’d love to see a rare win for Cofidis, who famously went 15 years without a stage win at the Tour between 2008–2023.

But it’s EF Education who have pulled their finger out and are chasing across the plateau. Lidl-Trek have told Vacek not to contribute to the trio up front and are backing his teammate, Pedersen. The Dane must be feeling good if he’s confident that he’ll get across the Col de Montségur, which is reportedly baking hot and grippy on its brutal final-kilometre ascent. Vacek (and Carwyn) must be very frustrated.

And there’s Didi the Devil! It’s the first time I’ve seen him at the roadside, and it’s great to see him. He’s most famous for jumping up and down in his devil outfit, but off-season he designs huge, oversized bicycles and holds 17 Guinness World Records. His health hasn’t been great, so it’s good to see him. One day I hope to meet him on the road.

The lead group are back together and unless someone has the energy to attack, it looks good for Pedersen. EF have set up Sean Quinn, who is riding for yellow, and now we start seeing a split. Pedersen looks like he’s struggling to me, and Lidl-Trek might regret calling back Vacek. Quinn Simmons is trying to set a pace that keeps him involved, but nobody else wants to finish alongside the Danish postman, so they’ve got to try now. This is the race, right here.

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I get the sense that Quinn ‘Trumpy’ Simmons is better than Pedersen today, and he wouldn’t mind if his mate gets dropped. Movistar want to break their seven-year duck and Raúl García Pierna and Pablo Castrillo are giving it everything. Movistar are losing their sponsor so this is a huge moment for them. But Pedersen has made it across the top and he is in a final group of ten with two teammates. If he wasn’t the favorite before, then he is now.

But I don’t trust Simmons. We might see a Del Toro scenario where Simmons attacks to draw out Pedersen’s competitors, but manages to stay away himself. Again, I don’t know why the other teams are helping Lidl-Trek. They have a big advantage here, so let them do all the work. Michael ‘Bling’ Matthews is only 45 seconds behind, so maybe they want to ensure that gap remains.

Torstein Træen is working at the front, as he is now wearing the virtual yellow jersey. He looks likely to take yellow and that is some story. In 2022, a routine anti-doping control test saved his life when it detected abnormal levels of hCG in his blood. He undertook surgery after a diagnosis for testicular cancer and recovered to return to the peloton. The Tour always delivers some great narratives.

My wife has just reminded me that we have one of Pedersen’s Lidl-Trek bidons in the cupboard. In all the years I’ve been following the Tour, his is the only bidon we’ve collected. If I remember correctly, she was wearing a bikini when he threw it. Pervert.

This has to come down to a sprint now, with 10km left. There is no terrain for anyone to escape and they can only try to gamble that nobody follows a hopeful move. Kévin Vauquelin is hanging back and will go soon. I have my doubts that he has the form to carry this off. Movistar bravely make several attempts, but there’s no hope for them, especially with Træen happy to help Lidl-Trek and secure his yellow jersey. Debruyne is still in the group, justifying the decision to bench him for Belgium against the USA last night.

And it’s Mads Pedersen who takes his first win for almost a year. Fair play to Lidl-Trek, they played that perfectly. There was no competition in the sprint and it all played out flawlessly. Pedersen’s win is not the only big story today, and Torstein Træen will look great in yellow. Let’s hope that it’s the beginning of a fantastic week for Norwegian sport.

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Hannah Walker began today’s coverage by interviewing UAE Team Manager, Mauro Gianetti, who looked disturbingly, but maybe appropriately like the arch FIFA villain Gianni Infantino. Back in the studio, it’s Adam Blythe who catches the eye in a pale pink shirt, bellowing barrel-legged jeans which are a touch too long, and a pair of shocking pink laces. Orla’s hair looks very old fashioned to me which means it is probably hip. She looks like Carmela Soprano in her prime.

Today’s hilly stage profile would historically lend itself to a breakaway victory. Team Visma have said that they would be willing to release the jersey from Vingegaard’s back. With that knowledge, and a yellow jersey up for grabs, the fight to be in that break will be even more fierce than usual, and I expect it to take a very long time to form. I couldn’t even begin to predict a winner until I see who forms that break. But Trump-supporting Quinn Simmons has been in excellent form while retaining the US Championships, and this day is made for him. Anyway, Orla’s wavy hair is far too distracting for me to think about cycling.

The Tudor fastman Matteo Trentin is wearing Oakley Kato nose-covering sunglasses, which are in effect goggles. They look fantastically futuristic, but I do think that the helmet and full-face glasses increasingly worn by pro cyclists strip them of personality when compared to the iconic style of the casquette-wearing generations.

Today’s stage starts in Granollers, and the Senyera flags waved at the roadside remind us that Catalonia is more than just Barcelona. It’s the same size as Switzerland. Somebody has erected a sign which reads “Catalonia is not Spain!”

There’s a 3rd category climb after just 17km, and poor illness-stricken Arnaud De Lie is already dropped with Belgian hopeful Cian Uijtdebroeks also surprisingly struggling. Not every rider who fights for the breakaway is looking to win the stage. Some of the lower-ranked riders just want to ensure plenty of camera time for their sponsors. Today’s start has been unexpectedly muted and it’s been fast but very tactical. The explosive Richard Carapaz, however, is looking very lively and obviously itching to get away, despite close attention from the big teams.

Various optimistic groups had formed after 70km but none had been allowed to escape. Every team is eyeing up the win today and even the GC teams are keeping close reigns on the hopefuls. They don’t want riders like Carapaz and Bernal to disappear up the road, so only now have a dozen approved riders been allowed to drift off the front. The best-placed rider in the break is the Frenchman Alex Baudin. I first noticed Baudin when he took a fantastic win in the Tour Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes recently. I’d love to see him bring it home for EF Education today.

The break is stalling as too many riders are already trying to preserve a little energy, and ahead of the day’s main climb with 73km left, Raúl García Pierna loses patience and pushes on. He’s soon joined by another five riders, including Baudin. Back in the peloton, the indefatigable Victor Campenaerts is keeping things on a pretty tight rein, and we might still see a GC shootout in the finale at Les Angles.

We’ve just seen another strange Tour de France phenomenon. A couple of spectators, clad in their spotty Leclerc freebie tee shirts, have been waiting on the mountain for hours. They have picked their spot on the side of the road, and settled in for the day. Then just a few seconds before the riders arrive, they decide that they don’t like their chosen spot and they need to sprint between the motorbikes and dash across to the other side. It happens all the time, and I never understand it. It seems the grass is always greener on the other side.

We’ve reached the summit of the Cat 1 Col des Toses, which is a 9km climb at an average of 6.5%. There are very big crowds for a mid-race climb, but that is due to the spectator ban at the end of the stage. Team UAE are working now, and they are only 90 seconds behind the break. They’re just too greedy and are suffocating other teams and in my opinion, they are smothering the sport. They’ve already won 53 races and their riders have won seven different national titles this season.

There have been wildfires close to the finishing area and organisers have asked fans to stay away from the last 40km. With 33km left, Baudin and Nicolas Prodhomme have ridden clear on a rise, but the UAE machine is pushing closer to within a minute and it now seems to be set up for Pogačar today. There are plenty of people at the summit of Col du Calvaire, but they appear to be mainly locals and children. At least the other teams are letting UAE ride in the wind, which is not always the case. I’ve never understood why they are so willing to cooperate with the stormtroopers.

Baudin is alone now and a few years ago, he might have had his day of glory. But this is a different era, and he’ll soon be swallowed up. Still, it’s been a great ride and at least he should be the King of the Mountains at the end of the day.

It’s all set up for the final climb to Les Angles, and I can already imagine Pogačar riding easily away. I hope so much that it doesn’t play out like that, and maybe Evenepoel can show that his promising form yesterday is repeatable. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a repeat and that Pogačar sends another one of his crew to attack and see who can follow. It wouldn’t be a shock to me if nobody does.

While pulses quicken, everyone starts to breathe more quickly and legs start to spin, Meanwhile Pogačar looks like he has borrowed his grandmother’s e-bike with a huge battery on the saddle rack. I swear I just saw him filing his nails. Forty minutes back, Arnaud De Lie is the unseen hero of the day as he battles to finish despite his illness.

Quinn Simmons is prominent now and I have a dilemma. I want him to win even less than UAE. With 3km to go, there are still 30 riders in the hunt and now the road starts to climb. Pogačar is brushing his hair and nonchalantly cleaning his ears with some cotton buds. He checks his Instagram feed and buys a new toothbrush on Amazon.

And there he goes. Pogačar has decided to win and that’s it. Del Toro, looking fresh as a daisy despite his efforts yesterday, took it on and put everyone into the red. I thought Pogi was quite restrained today and left it later than usual. He’s now taken the yellow jersey which surprises me. But that’s about the only thing that did.

UAE didn’t need to chase down Baudin. They could have had their little GC shakedown for 2nd place, and gained pretty much the same time over their real rivals. They’d have saved their legs, and a lot of tedious media duties for Pogacar. Baudin and France would have celebrated a rare and special victory, and there would have been much needed attention and publicity for the sport. But instead UAE took a win that will barely register in any retelling of this Tour. In his post-race interview, Pogačar was asked pointedly by Seb Pique if he “likes taking the glory”. The Slovenian bristled at the question.

Pogi wins. Plus ça change.

For the first time this year, I’m going to try and write about the racing at the Tour de France. I’ve written a couple of books about my experiences following the race as a fan, but I haven’t really written about the racing. Even my book—Geraint Thomas: How a Welshman Won the Tour de France—trod very lightly when it came to analyzing the race.

It’s very difficult to compete with professional journalists when it comes to writing about pro-cycling. They’re all so bloody good. They are either former riders themselves, or they are brilliant obsessives with a direct line to team members. Against that level of insight, there is no room left for a fan with a typewriter. Nonetheless, here I am, giving you the option to read about things the way I see them, with no more access to the peloton than any other viewer.

I try to watch most of each stage, either live or on catch-up, and I’m loyal to the Eurosport/TNT team which has provided my coverage for as long as I can remember. If I’m short on time, I watch S4C’s excellent highlights. The Welsh-language channel is now in its thirteenth consecutive year of covering the Tour, and my old friend Peredur ap Gwynedd must be the only rock star/sports pundit in the world. Like every other sane person, I ignore time trials.

As always, the first intrigue of the day is answered by the reveal of the TNT presenters’ outfits. Orla Chennaoui is reserved today in some sort of round-collared puritan outfit with a lace dinner lady’s pinny over the top. Matt Stephens is wearing a very bold cobalt blue shirt with a badge on the sleeve. That’s not Stone Island, surely? It seems to have been taped to hide the logo. I’m convinced that Adam Blythe has his baggy trousers tailored to the perfect length, while poor Robbie McEwen dresses like someone who has been away in the army for several years. Hannah Walker is good fun, and she’s the one I’d most like to have a pint with.

The race starts in Tarragona, an hour south of Barcelona, close to sandy beaches and the stadium of third-tier football club, Nàstic FC. I’m always surprised that people bask on the beach even when the Tour is passing on the promenade. I mean, you can lie around in your budgie smugglers any day of the week—why not turn your head and watch one of the world’s biggest sporting events on your doorstep?

A graphic shows that Mathieu van der Poel’s resting heart rate is 37 bpm. Has anyone checked that he is still alive? Even that stupendously low rate is above Miguel Induráin’s reported 28 bpm. For the record, mine is about 82 bpm.

This is the first proper day of racing (I don’t count TTs), and you can tell the peloton is ready to release the pent-up energy created by months of training and preparation for this moment. The fight for the break is furious, and of course, there’s a crash straight away. Crashing hurts like hell, but they just brush it off every time and get back on their bikes. I wonder if Team dsm-firmenich PostNL are wearing their cycling airbags?

After 24km, raced at a stupendous average speed of over 50kph, the peloton is content to let three riders stay away, and many take the chance of a roadside comfort break. They’ve been racing for less than half an hour. Can’t they hold on a bit longer?

It’s always dangerous writing live, when your readers will have the benefit of hindsight, but I’ll be brave and make my forecast. This stage is hilly, and there are a few 3rd-category climbs on the final circuit. But this is so early in the race that everyone is fresh and enthusiastic, and I expect the peloton to stay together until the very last climb. I’m sure Pogačar could win it if he wants, but I doubt that he will want to take on the pressures of the yellow jersey so early in the race. It may suit him to let Vingegaard deal with all the leader’s duties for a while. I’ll be cheering for my choice, the shaven-headed Tom Pidcock, but keep an eye on Seixas—he might not be able to contain himself in his first Tour. And if he goes, Pogi will want to put him in his place.

With 120km to go, Pidcock’s team are already driving the peloton, which means that they have faith in the Yorkshireman today. Decathlon are next in line, which could point to Paul Seixas, though it may just be Directeur Sportif Luke Rowe insisting that it’s always safer to ride at the front. He still swears by conservative Team Sky tactics. The route is spectacular already. I’d never heard of Sitges, but looking at that azure coastline, I now want to visit. What a beautiful sport.

Team UAE have taken to the front on the first climb with 76km remaining. This will set the pattern for the rest of the Tour. They are irrepressible. And we have our first idiot on the road. This time it’s a teenager in a banana suit who thinks that he is the story. He’s bounced off a cameraman, blocked the view of kids who have been waiting all day, and is irritating the three breakaway riders as he runs alongside them. Well done, son. Your mates think you’re a legend. You’re the first of many this Tour, and sadly, you won’t be the worst offender.

Isaac Del Toro is somehow two minutes down and Politt has dropped to help him back. He’s changed his bike and is riding between the cars like a cycle commuter on Newport Road. I’m not keen on riders changing bikes mid-race to suit conditions and tactics. It leaves them open to accusations of hidden motors. Maybe they should only be allowed to do it after an obvious mechanical issue.

The breakaway is caught with 40km to go, just as Paul Seixas punctures. He’s not the first to get a flat today. That might be Seixas’ chances over for the win as he fights his way back. The margins are so fine that this could be decisive.

We’re now on the Barcelona city centre circuit which will take us through the last 30km. We see the Montjuic Castle climb for the first time, which is an average 10% for 1600m, and the contenders have all moved up to the front. Look at those views over the city with huge crowds on the climb. I see these scenes and wonder what would have happened if Israel-Premier Tech were still on the race. I’m sure we’d have seen protests like those that affected the Vuelta last year.

The peloton has already thinned to maybe 30 riders after that climb, and some team leaders have been caught out. Quentin Pacher has caught a Colombian flag in his wheel and his race is over for today. I have nightmares about getting my Welsh flag caught in a wheel, and I keep it gripped close to my body since a very close call when I hung it on a branch over the riders in the Arenberg Forest.

On the second circuit, Pogačar is being marked closely. Even when he slows down, his competitors drop back with him. They’ve already decided that he is the only figure that counts. I’m watching Del Toro to see if he springs a surprise attack to force them to follow. Pidcock is prominent, but you feel that if Pogačar wants it, then he’ll just take it. I know this area near the swimming pool and the old Olympic centre. Brandon McNulty is giving a stupendous turn for UAE at the front—but we expect nothing less from that lot. As I thought, it looks like the attack will take place on the very final climb. Everyone is in the red and if Pogi goes, they will disintegrate. Something tells me it might be Del Toro to go first, and let’s see who can follow. UAE are already intimidating everybody else and putting them on the back foot. Meanwhile, I’ve seen the first two Welsh flags on the circuit.

With 5km left, everybody is waiting for the final decisive climb. It’s a matter of positioning and legs for the finale now. Benoot is taking it up for Seixas, but his leader is a way back and he can’t see him. Is that puncture taking its toll? Johannessen and Carapaz take it on, but Pogačar is unbothered. It seems like there will be a group sprint after fifteen riders summit together. There is not enough fatigue in the legs at this early stage to split the favourites.

And there we are on the short final climb, it’s Del Toro who goes first. Pogačar let him take it, but despite that early mechanical and the chase to catch the peloton, he had plenty left to bring it home. We saw McNulty, Yates, and then Pogačar and Del Toro dominate - half of UAE’s team, all smashing the rest of the world’s best riders. I’m fed up of this already. It’s so predictable.

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What, then, is my issue with this charming, popular man, who seems kind, generous, and whose superstar status transcends his sport? Why do I not celebrate his astonishing athleticism, his utter dominance over world-class rivals, and revel in his brilliance? The truth is, I’m not quite sure. There’s just something about his style, the effortless way he rides, and also the performance of his UAE team that gives me the ick.

I’ve had the ick before, and it has served me well—right from the time I saw Bjarne Riis float his bulky frame up the 8% gradient of Hautacam in 1996. Riis later admitted that he had heavily used EPO, human growth hormone, and cortisone to secure that 1996 Tour victory.

Of course, I also knew that Marco Pantani was doped, but I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now. Pantani was just beautiful: poetry on a bike. In a world without drugs, Pantani would stll have been a champion. I didn’t feel the same about Lance Armstrong, not because he was doping, but because he lied, bullied, and deceived an awful lot of good people. I was never on Team Lance, even when my friends told me I was paranoid. It wasn’t just Lance, either. Within hours of Floyd Landis’s astonishing solo ride to take yellow in Morzine, I had called him out publicly. The ick had never been so strong, and it was right once again.

More recently, I had my doubts about the dominance of Team Sky. Could their supremacy really be attributed to marginal gains? Well, it appears it could, if those marginal gains included the grey-area manipulation of Therapeutic Use Exemptions to supply corticosteroids to their riders, including Bradley Wiggins. A medical tribunal also found that their team doctor ordered prohibited testosterone to the team headquarters to improve athletic performance. Sky freely distributed the now-banned Tramadol to its riders and were forced to defend themselves when Chris Froome recorded double the legal limit of Salbutamol. They didn’t exactly cheat, but they never lived up to their stated claim of zero-tolerance for doping.

And now I have the same uneasy feeling about Tadej Pogačar as he rides his way to becoming the Greatest Cyclist Who Ever Lived. There is just something about his easy dominance that doesn’t ring true to me. I’ve heard no doping rumors, and there is nothing to suggest that his ascent has not been signposted and quantifiable since he won the Tour de l’Avenir in 2018.

And yet, and yet… I still have the ick.

It seems unlikely to me that a single man can be so much better than the rest of the elite athletes in the world. Margins are meant to become finer as you reach the top tier of sport, not wider. I’m no expert, but I have watched thousands of hours of cycling, and I’ve never seen anyone accelerate away from elite riders while still seated in his saddle with such apparent ease. Sometimes when you’re on the road, you can tell an e-bike rider from a mile off; their bike is moving just a little faster than it should according to the movement of their legs. That’s how Pogačar looks to me. There are some conspiracy theorists that are convinced that the Slovenian uses a hidden motor in his bike frame. But I’m not wearing that tin foil hat.

Even if you thrill at his brilliance, you have to admit that his dominance makes for tedious racing. I had been looking forward to the Tour de Suisse last month, but Pogačar killed the contest on the very first stage. There wasn’t even a real climb at the point he managed to ride clear with 70km to the finish. His competitors were so demoralized that they didn’t even bother to chase him, and he won that stage by over two and a half minutes. The race and the entertainment were over before they had begun.

They say you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps, and this is where the coaching setup of his team should raise an eyebrow. As a rider in 1998, Mauro Gianetti, the UAE team’s CEO, collapsed and spent 10 days in intensive care at the Tour de Romandie. Doctors heavily suspected a near-fatal reaction to an experimental blood-booster. Later, as the manager of Saunier Duval alongside UAE’s current Team Manager, Joxean Fernández “Matxin,” his riders repeatedly tested positive for EPO. Most WorldTour cycling teams have staff with links to the doping era of course, such was the proliferation of EPO back in the ‘90s. Until the UCI bans everybody with a doping record, suspicions will remain.

There are also the Slovenian links to organised doping revealed by the Operation Aderlass case.In 2019 Austrian and German police raided an international blood-doping ring which provided evidence that connected the nation’s surprising cycling boom to systemic cheating. The investigation saw bans for veteran Slovenian riders Kristijan Koren and Borut Božič, and implicated the influential Slovenian cycling tsar, Milan Eržen. Intelligence officers alleged that Eržen had tried to purchase a specialized blood centrifuge, casting suspicion over the development of the country’s elite young talent.

Another factor that has brought on the ick is the way that good riders have become elite riders since joining UAE—in some cases, dramatically so. Adam Yates and Tim Wellens have experienced unexpected Indian summers to their careers, and time-trialist Mikkel Bjerg is now climbing mountains like a 1996 Bjarne Riis. In six seasons at Team Sky, Jhonatan Narváez was not much more than a domestique, but this season he won three stages at the Giro d’Italia and one at the Tour de Suisse, looking unstoppable at times. Igor Arrieta and Jan Christen also looked like superstars in that Giro. And all of this success in Italy came for a team that was left with only five members after early crashes saw co-leaders like Marc Soler leave the race.

Speaking of Marc Soler, we should note that his father, Jaume Soler Serrano, was recently handed an 18-month suspension by Spain’s anti-doping authority (CELAD). The ban resulted from a police surveillance operation that caught him meeting with José Martí, the disgraced former doctor from Lance Armstrong’s US Postal Service team who is serving a lifetime ban.

And of course, if Tadej Pogačar is the best rider in the world, then UAE also have the second-best on their books. The Mexican, Isaac Del Toro, has already won three stage races this season, recording 29 victories since his debut in 2024. With this total dominance of the sport, is it any wonder that long-time sponsors like Movistar are calling it a day? Financial doping is bad for any sport. For a sport like cycling, which relies totally on providing value for sponsors, it could be catastrophic.

All of the above is no more than circumstantial evidence, of course. And the truth is, I don’t really think that Team UAE have an active doping program—I think that Pogačar would be the best in the world on any team. But there is still something that doesn’t sit quite right with me about his riding style, the apparent ease with which he wins, and the team’s overall performance.

For the sake of the Tour de France and, by extension, cycling itself, we need to see a serious competitor emerge from this race. Paul Seixas has shown promising signs, but it’s much too early to expect him to challenge for yellow in Paris. At least he provides hope for a French public that is desperate for a new cycling hero. And anyone who thinks Jonas Vingegaard can challenge Pogačar is deluded, I’m afraid, despite the Dane’s exceptional numbers this season. Vingegaard’s Giro d’Italia win came against a depleted five-man UAE team without the Slovenian present.

Of course I’ll be living the Tour for the next month, and I’ll be standing on Cymru corner when they climb the Alpe d’Huez. But sport relies on competition, and there’s a real danger that the 2026 edition of world’s biggest race will become a procession. And that’s why, this year, I’ll be supporting Anyone But Pogačar.

I moved far away from Cardiff over twenty years ago, but I have increasingly found myself calling out “Adda Bear” at my local football team’s matches in the shadow of Eryri. I like to begin with a sharp intake of breath, muttering the phrase quietly to myself, maybe in fear of ridicule from my neighbours. I mean, nobody ever says “Adda Bear” north of the Asda on Coryton Roundabout. And the older I get, the more often I add the “my son” part. Strangely though, I am less likely to do this if it is my own son whose shot has just rippled the side netting.

So who, or what, is Adda Bear?

I have asked a few people I know who use the term, especially my stepfather Walter, who is as good an example of a Grangetown football man as you are likely to meet. I suspect that he has invoked Adda Bear at least five times a day for the past 70 years. But when I asked him, he admitted that he also didn’t know what he was saying. “It’s just ‘Adda Bear’ innit?” he shrugged.

I had my theory about its meaning, especially in the context it was used. But for confirmation, I turned to the Cardiff in Days Gone By Facebook group. I posted late at night, and I was a little worried about making a fool of myself. Maybe it was only Walter and me who used it after all?

I needn’t have worried. The replies came flooding in, even if the very first correspondent told me that she had never heard of it. But lots of other people had. And they had a variety of explanations for its meaning, with one clear winner.

Hard to Bear!

“Hard to bear! Only person I hear say that is my 85-year-old Grancha” — Tom Price

“Yeah ‘hard to bear’ - standard Cardiff grassroots coaches’ jargon!” — Sion Lewis

“My Dad used to say it regularly, it’s a real old Kaardiff quip!” — Mel James

“To me it kinda means ‘hard luck there’ (though not literally) related to an incident like having a shot cleared off the line.” — John Carless

“Definitely ‘hard to bear’. When playing football for St Josephs, coaches used the phrase very often. It means unlucky in its simplest form.” — Steve Maunder

“That phrase was in use in Cardiff 60 years ago!” — Robert Bucknell

Other Definitions

However, even if people had heard it being used, or used it themselves, they did not all agree on the “Hard to Bear” definition. Some also disagreed on pronunciation.

It was “Atta bear” according to Mary Crofts. Bryan Hoskins thought it was “hard up there” when you missed a chance to do something. Karen Salter’s Dad used to say “ata bare!”, while Daryl Cornock had another explanation: “Hard to bear means exhausting. Say your team played really badly, then you would say that watching it was Hard to bear,” he said.

Another Sion Lewis, who was at my side at Ninian Park for every match for a decade, made me question my memory: “Haven’t heard of it Phil, but could be ‘he’s had a mare’.” To Cindra Hilder, it meant “difficult to absorb and comprehend.”

Faye Bowley thought it was an anglicisation of the Welsh term “chwarae teg!” (fair play), and she was not the only one. Alan Bretos thought it was “Warra Teg,” and Paul Thomas agreed:

“Isn’t it a bastardised version of Chwarae Teg? Meaning ‘fair play’ in Welsh? I remember it clearly when Tonga played Wales in the early 70s and someone from the crowd shouting ‘Ateb bear Tonga’. I was too young to go, but my brother and Dad thought it was hilarious.”

Simon Weare thought it was a reference to the Welsh town of Aberdare, but I don’t think he was serious. Marie Peckham confirmed that there was a particular way to use the term, as I use it myself: “Yes I remember it, it’s the way you say it in a quiet voice…”

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The Verdict

Just as I thought, the consensus seems to be “hard to bear.” I still think it’s a slightly strange, formal term to use, with no definitive etymology. And I don’t think it’s used anywhere in the world outside Cardiff. It’s very rare these days that local slang survives without any definable origins. With Cardiff slang, there is usually some link to the Welsh language or maritime slang that originated in the city’s Docks.

Yet, according to my AI research of academic studies of Welsh English and compiled glossaries of Cardiff slang (such as John Edwards’ Talk Tidy or linguistic surveys from the University of Wales), the phrase “hard to bear” does not appear anywhere as a documented, regional idiom for bad luck.

The final word goes to Paul Thomas, whose suggestion I found the most intriguing.

“Arta (the) Bear is worth looking into,” he offered. “It’s a known reference in Celtic mythology.” It seems a stretch, but I like it. I’m going to use that explanation the next time somebody stares as I mutter “Adda Bear” behind the goal at Cae Seilo.

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It was warm, but wet and windy today in Gwynedd, which reduced my options for a decent ride. When the wind here follows its prevailing south Westerly direction, it blows across the Irish sea from the Atlantic, picking up moisture, and leading to the cool, damp, and blustery conditions which mar the north Wales summer.

On a day like this, Lôn Las Eifion (The Green Lane to Eifionydd) beckons. A shared-use path built along the old trackbed of the dismantled Caernarfon to Afon Wen railway line, its verdant tunnel offers shelter to the cyclist for the whole 20km on a constant, but imperceptible climb to Bryncir. This part of the nationwide Cycle Route 8 was my regular ride when I used to train throughout the harsh Winters.

I rode from Y Felinheli after lunch and skirted Caernarfon Castle to enter Lôn Eifion at its entrance alongside the swanky new station building which serves the Welsh Highland Railway. The heritage, narrow-gauge steam trains run slowly for the first few miles alongside Lôn Eifion on the 25 mile track to Porthmadog. I passed the train on its return journey today, full to the brim with tourists. A plume of smoke signalled its approach and its whistle tooted as it passed through Dinas Station. Some passengers waved as they peered through the rain-spattered windows. Dinas used to be the main station for visitors to Eryri, and until 1936, passengers would alight here from Manchester via Bangor. Closed in 1964, the station now houses workshops for the heritage railway.

After Dinas, the next station on the historic line is Groeslon, which sits almost five miles south along the track. It was here today, on a crumbling old wall in the thick undergrowth, that I almost missed the hand-written sign which marked its place in Welsh history.

Yma y cyfarfu KATE ROBERTS a’i darpar wr MORRIS WILLIAMS 23 Awst, 1926. Wrth ddal tren i gyhadledd Plaid Cymru.

It was here that KATE ROBERTS and her future husband MORRIS WILLIAMS met on 23 August, 1926. While catching a train to the Plaid Cymru conference.

I love stuff like this. Instead of waiting around for some council department or Tourism Wales to designate the site worthy of a blue plaque, a local rebellious historian has gone ahead and made one themselves.

There is something utterly authentic about a proud member of the local community taking the trouble to hand write their own tribute to a local hero. It makes me really proud that in Wales, we have graffiti artists and vandals that respect fine art and classic literature. And I just love the fact that this sign is unapologetically Cymraeg. The impact of a tourist board plaque would have been diluted by bilingualism in the very heart of the Bro Cymraeg.

It’s even better when these signs recognise achievements are linked heavily to a unique local culture. There is a similar hand-written tribute scrawled on a stone at a derelict cottage at the head of the stunningly dramatic Drws y Coed pass under nearby Nantlle Ridge. This house was Clogwyn Brwnt, the family home of the nationally famous Francis Brothers (Brodyr Francis). The brothers were legendary masters of Cerdd Dant the bewildering and inaccessible Welsh tradition of singing poetry over a counter-melody played on the harp. We have Cerdd Dant graffiti up here! How cool is that?

So what is special about this site at Groeslon? Well Kate Roberts is known as Brenhines ein Llên, the “Queen of Welsh Literature” and she’s one of the most important Welsh-language authors of the 20th century. And August 1926 was exactly one year after Plaid Cymru was founded. The couple met on the platform at this now-derelict Groeslon station, bound for the political party’s first-ever summer conference, which was being held further south in Machynlleth.

It’s more than a three mile, very steep hike from the old station site in Groeslon up to Kate Roberts’ childhood home, Cae’r Gors in the hillside village of Rhosgadfan. It’s a sign of the author’s beloved status in this area that her cottage has now been lovingly restored as a heritage centre. I have a personal connection to Cae’r Gors as over twenty years ago, I built and installed its multimedia interpretation material, and produced the video that is shown to visitors.

Morris Williams’ biggest contribution to Welsh culture was his work as an early political activist and printer. In 1935, he and Kate Roberts moved to Denbigh and bought Gwasg Gee, an historic publishing house that was facing financial ruin. Together, they transformed Gwasg Gee into an important institution that published Welsh-language books and also the influential weekly newspaper Y Faner.

I stood for a while on Lon Eifion and tried to imagine the romantic scene as William and Kate (not those ones) first struck up conversation at that steam-filled station a full century ago. The Welsh language may well have been in a much poorer state had they not shared that platform that day in August. Kate also lived for a time in Rhiwbina in Cardiff, and there I’m told, authorities have erected an official blue plaque on the wall of her house at no.8 Lôn Isa. I’m sure the plaque is very lovely and I’m glad it’s been put there. But it’ll have to go some way to beat that hand-written memorial in Groeslon.

Here lies the body of Michael O’Day,
Who died maintaining his right of way.
He was right, dead right, as he sailed along,
But he’s just as dead as if he’d been wrong.

“Cycling furiously” was illegal in Wales and England until the ancient 155-year old law was replaced by the introduction of new dangerous cycling offences earlier this year. But being the lawless, gun-toting outlaw that I am, living life on the edge of society, I would cycle furiously every day in the 1990s.

Those were the early days of cycling activism in Cardiff. There was no cycling infrastructure to speak of and things were getting really bad on the roads. The Taff Trail opened in 1988, but once it had ended abruptly at the Bute Park entrance, you were forced to fight for space among the cars, lorries and the city’s orange double-decker buses. Queen Street had been pedestrianised, but cycling was banned, forcing cycle commuters to join the four and five-laned, smog-filled arteries that crossed the city centre.

I wore a facemask in those days, inspired by the New York and Seattle cycle-couriers who set the fashion for urban cyclists. In a time before email, and as city traffic grew, it became cheaper and quicker to send faxes by cycle than drive or lick a stamp. The mask acted as a filter from pollution, but also gave anonymity as we took the battle - and it was a battle - to the cars.

I wasn’t a courier, but I was a commuter. And every rush hour I took my life in my hands. I would fly down Newport Road to join the fast-moving traffic that streamed into the city. I held my ground, sprinting, signalling and taking primary position in the fight for space at traffic lights and roundabouts. Arguments and aggression were commonplace, as frustrated drivers resented my presence. I would bang the roofs of vehicles if they drove close enough for me to do so, and then catch them up at the lights. I would knock on their windows and ask them angrily why they were trying to kill me.

I joined the Cardiff Cycling Campaign. We were part of a global movement that held Critical Mass rides where hundreds of cyclists would block the city centre roads. Those confrontational protests paved the way and forced authorities to introduce cycling infrastructure across the UK. The movement had a famous motto.

“We aren’t blocking traffic; we ARE traffic.”

I rode with a righteous fury in those days. I insisted that roads weren’t made for cars, and I made a stand. I knew the law, the highway code, and I wore that knowledge on my sleeve. I pulled on a cap, not a helmet, and I rode with the indestructability of youth. I had once cycled around the Arc de Triomphe in Paris after all, one of the busiest roads in the world. I wasn’t afraid of crossing two lanes to turn left into St Mary Street.

The Epiphany

Then one day, I came across an old rhyme by an American called Edgar A. Guest that made me reconsider the way I rode.

Here lies the body of Michael O’Day,
Who died maintaining his right of way.
He was right, dead right, as he sailed along,
But he’s just as dead as if he’d been wrong.

The rhyme is still used to train sailors in defensive navigation and forms part of the International Regulations for Preventing Collisions at Sea. Originally aimed at automobile drivers, it now teaches sailors the concept of self-preservation. It struck a chord with me. I was newly married with a wife and child who relied on me, and I owed it to them to try not to die.

I started wearing a helmet on the road, and I stopped riding aggressively, ceding to traffic, whether they were right or wrong. I began to ride defensively, imagining that everybody on the road was trying to kill me, and I’ve ridden like that ever since.

As well as that poem, my new attitude was formed by an incident which took place as I was cycling through a notorious Cardiff crossroads called ‘Death Junction’ in Roath. I was riding straight across the convergence of five busy roads and saw a car waiting to pull out across my path. I clocked the young woman who was driving, and looked her straight in the eye. I saw her…she saw me… we made eye contact…and yet she still pulled out and hit me square-on. I was thrown onto her bonnet, my bike was trashed, and I escaped with bruising, bleeding, but thankfully no broken bones. That was the last crash I ever had.

Now 25 years on, my appetite for risk has reduced year by year, and I just want to ride my bike without conflict or jeopardy. I don’t want to cause an inconvenience, and if I can get off the road and still cycle with fluency and comfort, then I will.

The 42-Million-Vehicle Problem

There has been an increase in traffic levels on my usual cycling route recently, caused I believe, by the development of a new bypass (with hardly any consideration for cycling provision), and new housing and utility developments (without new cycling facilities). I’ve also noticed a change in attitudes towards cyclists, fuelled by and the political agenda of the car lobby and social media algorithms. Long gone are the halcyon days of 2012 when Brad Wiggins’ success was responsible for a welcome shift in sentiment on the roads of Britain.

Of course, the most obvious reason for the increase in traffic is that there are more vehicles on the road. There are now 42.5 million vehicles in the UK—an increase of 14 million since 2000, and an increase of 4 million since 2019! There was less than half that number on the road when I started cycling in 1980. In those days, I would often ride out of Cardiff, my long ginger hair flowing in the wind as I spun along Llantrisant Road to my Grandmother’s house in Talbot Green, 12 miles away. Even as an experienced adult cyclist, I wouldn’t want to ride that route now.

I believe it is this increase in traffic which has hardened attitudes towards cycling. Drivers are frustrated and irritated by obstacles to their smooth progress. But certainly, in my semi-rural area, it is not an increase in cyclists that causes issues, but other traffic. When roads are quiet, there is no problem overtaking the cyclists in front. But when the opposite side of the road is busy with oncoming traffic, it becomes harder to pass. And that is when frustration builds.

Taking the Lane

I have recently started to make small changes to the way I ride, simply in order to stay safe. The biggest danger on the roads around here is created when drivers attempt a passing manouevre between cyclists and oncoming traffic. I have taken to moving out into the middle of the lane when I sense this is about to happen. To the driver it must seem that I am being selfish and entitled, but I’m not. I have suffered too many close passes, and witnessed so many occasions when cars have been forced back inside to cut me up. When the opposite side is clear, I move back in to let the cars past. And I always acknowledge their patience with a wave.

I think it is really important for cyclists to acknowledge good driving. A thumbs-up, a wave, or a nod can go a long way to improving road conditions for all of us. The car driver is more inclined to respect other cyclists and create a better atmosphere on the roads. We’re lucky in our area. Many of the tourists come here for the outdoors activities and are often cyclists themselves. I’ve always found the locals to be pretty good too.

The road surfaces have worsened dramatically—again, mainly due to the huge increase in road traffic. Some years ago, I reported a dangerous pothole to the council via the Fill That Hole app, and warned local cycling groups on Facebook. After a while, I received a request to appear as a witness for a soldier who had received life-changing injuries after crashing due to that unrepaired pothole. But now it’s not just the increasing number of potholes; it’s poorly repaired works, scars, crevices, and detritus which force me to sometimes ride in the middle of the road. I’m not trying to be a twat, I’m just trying not to crash. I now try to ride with more consideration to other traffic and I rarely stand my ground. It’s just not worth it.

The Reality of Our Cycle Paths

When I can, I try to ride on cycle paths, but it’s not always that simple. Many of the paths in Wales are not fit for purpose. Compared to the fantastic cycle and shared-use paths across Europe, they feel like an afterthought—an ill-considered compromise built not for cyclists, but to give the impression that well-meaning but under-funded local authorities are at least doing something. Take for example, the new shared-use path that has been created in the nearby village of Bethel.

The path begins as the cyclist exits the village. They are required to pull in to the left, turn at a right angle, check the road, and then cross to the other side. After a pleasant mile or so, they reach a roundabout and are asked to cross two lanes via a traffic island and rejoin the path.

After a short hill, the path ends abruptly and the cyclist is jettisoned from behind a bush onto oncoming traffic near a blind bend, continuing their journey towards Caernarfon on the winding road. I’m really not sure who this isolated, stretch of unconnected path is intended to serve. Gwynedd is peppered with these random stretches of ‘cycle path’ which eject the rider straight on to the highway at the worst point. Is it any wonder many riders prefer to stay on the road?

There is another cycle route into Caernarfon called Lôn Las Menai, which is part of the National Cycle Network. But when a new £139m bypass was built, local provision did not include a safe connecting route to Lôn Las from the Bethel cycle path. In order to join the route into Caernarfon from Bethel, the cyclist has to take their chances and cross two exit lanes or navigate the bypass roundabout. Across Europe, cycle paths often take priority at roundabout crossings like this.

And if you do risk the crossing, you are rewarded with a shared use cycle path which has erupted over the years due to tree roots trying to force their way through the tarmac. These are not lumpy sleeping policemen that cross your path; they are jagged subterranean spikes that have ruptured the surface.

Imagine a “Drive-to-Work” Day

This might explain, then, why some cyclists don’t use cycle paths and why we can’t easily leave the road to cars. I mean, that’s what we all want, isn’t it? I don’t think anyone wants us to stop cycling completely. An estimated 7.4 million people cycle at least once a week. Do drivers really want another few million cars on the road?

There is an annual ‘cycle-to-work’ day in the UK, but I have always thought that a ‘drive-to-work’ day would have more impact. Everybody who normally cycles to work could drive, and it would become evident how much worse traffic would be without cyclists. Also, only 45% of people feel it is safe to cycle in their area. That’s a dismal amount, and only safe cycling infrastructure will change that. Safer cycling means less cars on the road. Yet despite the obvious benefits for cyclists, drivers, the economy, the NHS, and the climate, we still see angry local opposition to the provision of cycling infrastructure.

We’re often implored to just get off the bloody road, but I wish it was that easy.

Honestly, I do.

After recent washed-out trips to Harrogate and York, we headed to the sunny south for our latest motorhome adventure. We’d wanted to try out a London campsite for a while, so we booked a few days at the Caravan and Motorhome Club’s (CAMC) Abbey Wood site in East London. A Friday afternoon departure meant turning down tickets to the Super Furry Animals’ gig in Brixton that night, and we settled for a stopover just north of the M25.

Rosehill Cottage is a Certified Location—a small, five-pitch campsite without toilet or shower facilities. If you’re self-contained, there is no need to pay premium prices for a simple overnight stay, and at £20, this was great value. The Bedfordshire site was surprisingly bucolic, offering a lovely countryside walk past a Welsh Mountain Pony stable, through fields of corn to the local village pub.

We set off the next morning for Abbey Wood via the Dartford Crossing. The site was typical for the CAMC—if anything, it was almost too nice for London. By that, I mean nobody is staying there to appreciate the adjacent woodland or the screeching parakeets in the treetops; you’re there for the location. The site sits just a 15-minute walk from the Elizabeth Line, offering convenient transport straight into the heart of town.

We had no fixed plans for Saturday afternoon, but I knew I wanted to visit an art gallery. As I approach my 59th year, I find myself hungrily trying to catch up on the culture I’ve denied myself all these years. Having studied music at college, I’ve got that side of things covered. But I’ve only recently started reading—or rather, listening to—classic literature. I’ve ticked off IMDb’s top 250 movies, and now I’m trying to expose myself to more visual art. On recent European trips, I’ve visited museums and galleries in Lisbon, Naples, and Madrid. Yet it occurred to me that I’d never stepped foot in a gallery in London, a city that holds some of the finest art in the world.

I’d always harboured a grudge against London’s institutions, angry that the British state looted indigenous art from the countries it invaded. I still feel that anti-colonial disgust, but I’ve since accepted that my principled boycott of free-to-enter venues wasn’t going to hasten the return of the Elgin Marbles.

I didn’t often visit art galleries when I was younger, preferring instead to plunge straight into a city’s beating heart—exploring its bars, restaurants, markets, and sampling its sport. Recently, however, I’ve found that galleries offer a welcome oasis of peace in a frantic city. The air is cool inside these historic buildings, conversations are conducted in whispers, and the rush of the city is stifled by the marble doors. Their conveniences are unfailingly pristene and then there is the priceless art. I’m still aware that I don’t fully appreciate the genius of the old masters, but I love being in the company of people who do.

Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of choices inside the National Gallery, my wife and I decided to focus our attention on just a couple of eras. Neither of us care much for early Western devotional art (once you’ve seen one crown of thorns…) so we started with the Flemish masters, who mainly painted portraits of ugly people.

I also enjoyed a type of art which I now know can be snappily described as 17th Century Protestant Dutch Golden Age Realism. From those rooms, we moved on to more modern artists, where I was finally able to put names to paintings I’ve seen before. I was surprised and delighted for example, to stumble upon a painting I love called Bathers at Asnières by Georges Seurat. I had no idea the canvas was so monumental, and its sheer scale took me aback.

Elsewhere, I learned that I’m not a fan of Monet (a bit too blurry for me), preferring instead the sharper, more enticing French nightlife scenes of Édouard Manet. Perversely, I’d always sort of ignored Van Gogh—the artistic equivalent of a music fan claiming they don’t like The Beatles. But seeing his work in person completely changed that attitude. It struck me that his style is utterly unique, using the kind of brushwork that could only come from a brain that wasn’t quite mechanically perfect. “Let’s be grateful we’re not all made the same”, that’s what I say. That’s my last word on art before I humiliate myself; I don’t profess to be an expert, and I’m just levelling up from the philistine achievement.

I knew I had reached the room housing Van Gogh’s Sunflowers as I hit a dense wall of people. Standing next to a lady in a wheelchair who was seemingly awestruck by the canvas, I was surprised by how the flowers in the masterpiece in front of me were tinged with a delicate burnt orange rather than the vibrant yellow I had expected. I suppose the pigments have degraded over the decades. Sadly, this lady’s view was continuously blocked by a succession of tourists who queued for a selfie to validate their visit. I watched one group of Asian tourists who didn’t look at the painting at all; they simply identified it, turned their backs to the art, snapped a photo, and rushed off to the next target on their wishlist. I wouldn’t be opposed to a total ban on cameras in galleries.

Like all Welsh tourists, we become far too excited by any homeland connection on our travels. Consequently, the highlight of our visit was a simple slate plaque noting that, during World War II, the National Gallery’s treasures were hidden safely inside the quarries at Manod in Llan Ffestiniog. My brother-in-law happens to live on the very country lane that leads to that quarry. I looked around for people to tell, but nobody seemed receptive to my reflected glory.

We exited the National Gallery just as the March for Jesus passed by outside. Hundreds of predominantly African Christians waved banners and sang modern gospel hymns as they marched toward Trafalgar Square. My own religious period passed a long time ago, but I admired and envied the pure faith of these unselfconscious evangelists. Ignoring the cynical side-eyes and open mocking from groups of young shoppers, they smiled and Jerusalema-stepped their way toward the blaring anthemic tropes that filled the square.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through Soho before settling into a historic pub called The Red Lion on Kingly Street. It was a traditional-looking Samuel Smith’s boozer with a cosy wooden snug, and I was looking forward to a proper pint of frothy bitter. Not for the last time that weekend, I was to be disappointed. It was the first time in my life I have encountered a barman who had never heard of “draught beer.”

For dinner, we ate at Mountain on Beak Street. This wood-fired restaurant is owned by the acclaimed Welsh chef Tomos Parry and came highly recommended by my friend and colleague, Chris ‘Flamebaster’ Roberts . Mountain was fantastic. Smoke billowed from flaming grills as a team of Gen Z kitchen staff expertly navigated the open kitchen. We ordered exactly what Chris had suggested: raw and grilled sobrassada, followed by succulent mutton chops, wood-fired rice, and smoked potatoes that were swimming in a pool of herby butter. The restaurant utilizes social seating, meaning tables are placed close together, creating a vibrant, kinetic atmosphere. I think it might now be my favourite restaurant. I’ve had fancier food, but for value, flavour, theatre and atmosphere, it’s hard to beat.

Our immediate neighbours to the left were an intriguing couple on a date. The man, a silver fox in a sharp suit, was clearly older than the younger Asian woman whose face he kept stroking. Their relationship had the distinct, unbalanced dynamic of an employer and employee, though she didn’t seem to mind his pawing. On our right sat an American mother and her teenage son straight out of an HBO family drama. They ordered an incredible-looking grilled Dover Sole that arrived drenched in a smooth, velvety sauce. They picked at it absent-mindedly, and it made me want to scream: “Appreciate your food—it’s fucking amazing!”

The following morning, we visited the David Bowie: You’re Not Alone installation at Lightroom in King’s Cross. My wife is a big fan of Bowie, and I tagged along with an open mind. The immersive exhibition features an hour-long video projected across all four walls of a giant box-room. People sit on soft benches or lounge on cushions, looking up as a well-crafted archive of Bowie concerts and clever graphics illustrate his spoken philosophies. I’ve always admired Bowie as a musician and artist. I was glad we went, if only to hear him admit that he was not good enough to play jazz.

Lightroom sits in a swanky new King’s Cross development full of high-end shopping and restaurants, on a square decorated with shallow water features where dozens of young children stayed cool by splashing through the puddles. For lunch, we met friends at Dishoom King’s Cross, a bustling chain restaurant that offers a Bombay-café style menu. We shared a selection of small plates that were fresh, spicy, and varied. If you go, you should order their famous Black Daal, though to be honest, I don’t think there was a bad dish on the table.

Straight after lunch, I rushed across London for the undisputed cultural highlight of my weekend: West Ham United v Leeds United. I’d bought the ticket weeks ago, before we knew that it would be the decisive match that could see West Ham relegated into the Championship. I’d never visited the London Stadium before and had heard plenty of negative reviews.

I knew the approach involved walking through the mammoth Westfield Shopping Centre, but it wasn’t nearly as soul-destroying as I’d feared. A party barge packed with West Ham fans skanking to Buster Bloodvessel’s “Lip Up Fatty” serenaded me as I crossed a pedestrian bridge over the Olympic canal. “We’ve got Taty, and we’ve got Taty Castellanos...” The stadium approach was swarming with home and away fans making the most of the malls’ restaurants and cafés. So far, so good. It certainly generated a much better vibe than the dismal surroundings of other modern stadia like Wembley.

Inside the ground, however, it becomes immediately apparent that the stands are far too shallow for football. My seat felt miles away from the pitch. Despite the looming threat of relegation, the atmosphere was brilliant—the home fans were defiant and fiercely proud. Toward the end of the game, their ire turned toward their Cardiff-born Chairman, David Sullivan. “You sold our soul,” they sang, “for this shithole.”

It’s difficult to objectively look at this massive, state-of-the-art modern stadium and call it a “shithole,” but I get it. West Ham are the most nostalgic of fans and they treasure their laureled history. Bobby Moore and the West Ham inspired World Cup win in 1966 still loom large over the culture of the club. These supporters were ripped out of their spiritual home at Upton Park and transported to a polished consumerist world which could hardly be further removed from their tight, atmospheric home at Green Street. West Ham fans don’t just miss The Boleyn Ground, they yearn for the London of old.

Leaving the ground, I joined the sea of fans and took the tube to meet some more friends in Woolwich. By pure coincidence, they had settled at the nearest pub to the station, The Dial Arch. A large cannon and a commemorative plaque mark the pub as the exact location where Woolwich Arsenal FC was originally formed back in 1886. The choice of pub lent a symmetry to the day: I had just left a relocated, relegated London club to arrive at the birthplace of another that was celebrating a title win. Ultimately, it wasn’t just the lack of real ale, but the charge of £1.70 for a splash of lemonade at this historic Arsenal pub, that cemented my preference for the team in claret and blue.

On the Friday before the most famous one-day race in cycling, I drove alone from Calais to Compiegne, where the starting flag would be raised on Sunday. I had booked a cheap hotel in the dodgy part of town near the station, and on Saturday morning, I strolled across the bridge to visit the Paris-Roubaix expo. This turned out to be an incredible merchandise market (if you’re a geek like me) and an exhibition which looked at the history of the race.

Then in the afternoon I watched a morose peloton of cyclists troop onto a stage and accept the applause of a crowd of about 500 fans. They didn’t even try to hide their boredom. Saturday evening was spent outside a city centre bar watching a local amateur criterium in Compiegne City centre and drinking loads of French beer.

It was on the way back to the hotel that things started to get a bit spicy. I had just crossed the bridge when I noticed a figure dart into the bushes. As I approached I heard someone whisper in French…”Here he is..let’s get him!” Just as my prospective assailants were about to jump out - and I presume, mug me - a hotel doorman ran across the road, waving his arms and shouting…”Go, on, get lost!” The two would-be muggers darted out of the bushes and ran hastily across the bridge like a pair of disturbed rodents. I assumed at the time that this would be the biggest drama of my weekend. I was wrong.

I rose early on Sunday morning and watched the start of the race, before driving quickly out of town. I had made detailed plans to watch the riders pass in a few spots en-route before parking up and rushing to the Velodrome on the folding Brompton Bike that I had stored in my boot.

I can’t begin to explain the excitement and adrenaline rush of that day. As I drove north, the race crossed overhead on motorway bridges, and clouds of dust erupted alongside as the peloton hurtled along dusty cobbled farm paths, long since abandoned by town planners. On a few occasions, the whole inside lane of the carriageway was blocked as drivers abandoned their vehicles and stood to watch the race pass by on a parallel road.

I made it to a village called Hasnon, parked up, and cycled on my Brompton to the legendary Arenberg Forest, the site of the harshest cobbles in world cycling. Within an hour, the TV helicopters whirred into sight, a roar went up from the crowds at the top of the narrow corridor which bisects the thick woodland and the first police cars sped past, throwing up huge clouds of dust as they went. For a cycling fan like me, the experience of watching that race in the forest was like seeing the World Cup Final being played in the Maracana.

From Arenberg, I sped to the industrial city of Roubaix where I parked my car in a residential area a few kilometres from the velodrome. Close to some high rise blocks, I made a mental note that the car was safe in a quiet street called Rue Moliere. I had my phone in my pocket and knew I could easily get back using the Google map after the race.

I cycled quickly into town, passing streams of locals who were also making their way to the finale. I clocked landmarks and made a mental note of the route. When I arrived at the velodrome, I locked up my bike and watched the German rider John Degenkolb outsprint Zdeněk Štybar and Greg Van Avermaet to take an historic win.

It had been an absolutely exhilarating day, and coming a year before Euro 2016, maybe the best sporting experience of my life. I couldn’t wait to reach my car and drive to my hotel in St-Omer to relax and relive the day over a few cold glasses of La Goudale. All I had to do was retrace my route back to Rue Moliere and take the road north.

It wasn’t that simple. Everything looked different without the barriers post-race. I put ‘Rue Moliere’ into the maps and it took me somewhere unrecognisable. I spent two hours riding around on my bike unable to find my car. The sky was darkening, the northerly wind was starting to bite, and I was dressed only in a tee shirt. My warfarin was in my car, and my phone was now dead. I was getting increasingly desperate and went back and fore to the velodrome several times to get my bearings. Roubaix is a rough town and I was lost in various estates with gangs roaming menacingly. Security staff at the velodrome took pity on this hapless tourist and called me a taxi.

I spent a further two hours in a taxi roaming the streets with a driver from Lille who had never even been to Roubaix. He spoke no English and my French grew increasingly erratic. We retraced my steps four times, and I was having a real panic, with us both getting desperate and hopelessly frustrated. We finally conceded defeat and we were looking for a hotel where I could stay with no idea what I would do. And then, with my driver insisting we explore one last thoroughfare, an obscure housing estate looked suddenly and surprisingly familiar. I recognised a bridge, and then a billboard. And as we followed a gentle bend in the road, I saw the most beautiful sight in my life. There, directly in front of me, was the rear end of my long lost car.

The car was parked, as I thought, in a street called ‘Rue Moliere’ and I was at a loss as to why I hadn’t found it earlier on one of the four times I had been to a street called ‘Rue Moliere’. The taxi that had spent two hours cruising the twisting arteries of Roubaix cost me 120 euros.

When I eventually reached my hotel, I spent hours on Google maps and still struggled to find the spot where I had parked my car. I think this picture explains why.

Unbelievably, as well as these four different ‘Rue Molieres’ that exist in Roubaix, my car was on a different one in a commune called Croix which isn’t even shown on that map. I can’t even begin to contemplate what would have happened without that outrageous piece of luck. I laughed and shouted and kissed the taxi driver, and if my memory is not deceiving me, I think he kissed me back.

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