Twitter while you travel - a new twook

Any regular Twitter user will be familiar with the benefits of this form of social networking. Its’ immediacy is unrivalled, it requires technology most of us already carry in our pockets, and opens up the globe for anyone keen to expand their social circle, share their insights or interests, or experience the world through the eyes of others, in 140 characters or less.

Twitter and independent travel are good companions. While blogging is time consuming and requires seeking out internet café’s or lugging round heavy laptops, and postcards are often an afterthought, recording your travels by Twitter provides a real time record of your trip and allows others to follow and participate in your journey from the comfort of their mobile phone or laptop.

Travel, particularly the more adventurous forms of it, is by its’ nature unpredictable. It’s not always possible to pre-book hotels or attractions when you don’t know where you’ll be the next minute, let alone the next night. Despite the modern proliferation of tourist offices, maps, guide books and websites, finding information as and when you need it can be time consuming and frustrating. But develop the right community of Twitter followers and they can be your online guide. Build up a network of adventurous like-minded people and they can become part of your journey.

Last summer we took our family of five on a cycle tour across Europe, from Amsterdam to Venice, following some of the great rivers through Holland and Germany then crossing the Alps through Austria to reach Northern Italy. Before departing we built up a following on Twitter. By the time we reached St Mark’s Square this had swollen as fellow users re-tweeted our adventures to their communities inviting others to join the virtual fun that accompanied our journey in the real world. Not all of our followers contributed to the journey, but those who did became valuable companions. They advised on hotels and hostels, helped us make difficult decisions, made us laugh, and boosted morale at difficult times. They were our virtual back up team and the journey wouldn’t have been the same without them.


We made a resolution to tweet every ten kilometres and stuck to it wherever possible, often adding a Twitpic to create a digital travel scrapbook which is now available to download online. This ‘twook’ encompasses the highs and the lows of travelling as a family. It’s also a story of our developing relationship with a band of armchair travellers. Some of it is us, some of it is them, and some of it is us replying to them. We thank every one of them for their contributions and hope to meet them virtually on our next voyage into the unknown.

Find out more about the twook and how to download it here.

Adventure is all around. If you want it to be.

We weren't planning anything adventurous, just a Sunday stroll up and over Arnside Knott then down to the Old Bakery for afternoon tea and cake. We just wanted to be out together enjoying the bright sunny afternoon and cool autumn air.


But the potential for adventure is all around when you're open to it. And so a simple stroll became an exciting little scramble, off the main path and up some loose scree slopes.

Enough slipping, sliding and exposure to panic the boys into silence and obedience for a while.

Then, slowed by our slithery ascent and with the afternoon sun dropping low in the sky we ambled late into town to find the Bakery already closed.

So we stopped instead to take in the setting sun and found ourselves watching the village fireworks display, postponed from Saturday due to atrocious weather.


Rockets, firecrackers and catherine wheels, whistled and screamed off the little stone pier, piercing the advancing gloom, casting red, green and silver streaks against the darkening orange of an estuary sunset.


With fireworks finished and the real stars emerging we warmed cold hands and feet in a local pub, taking an evening meal instead of afternoon tea, filling our bellies with fuel for the hike home.


Then heading back, in the darkening night, a family torchlight procession through blackened woods, clammy hands pressed together for warmth, comfort and to keep dark thoughts of elves, witches and goblins at bay.

You don’t need to go far for an adventure. You don't need to book it, plan it or pay for it. You just need to look for the opportunities that exist to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Adventure is all around, if you want it to be.

Celebrity Square

My bare arms get me banned from the eclectic marble mayhem of the Basilica San Marcos in St Mark's Square. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm a believer, whether or not I've moved mountains to get there, or that we've been round most churches in Europe in little more than swimming costumes; in Venice bingo wings cannot be seen in a sacred space. I'm not sure whether to stamp my feet or congratulate them on their fashion policing. A man in dark glasses tries to sell me a large aubergine coloured paper napkin to wrap around my shoulders. I decline, send the family on into the church and retreat back out to the square, against the flow of the tide. At three o clock in the afternoon it is still forty degrees, and the queue for the cathedral is showing as much sign of abating as the queue of pigeons looking for sweet-corn from the tourists. I step over both, looking for shade to sit in. There is none. Anyway, I'm not allowed to sit down, as sitting is prohibited on the grounds that the square is a living work of art. If I sit down I risk a fine. Art is not all about self expression here. Although if I wanted to sit in a bar selling a bellini for an overinflated price then that would be fine; in fact the throng of hovering white jacketed waiters would be almost pleased to see me.

I am looking at the nuns. A group of them are milling around taking pictures of themselves against the backdrop of the church. They aren't involved in the queue for the basilica; perhaps their vocation entitles them to a fast-track pass of the worlds churches, a kind of ecumenical Disneyland scheme. The pigeons sense there'll be no snacks forthcoming from ladies in white dresses and steer clear of them. Then it happens. The only thing I can compare it to is an eclipse. The sky goes dark, and the birds calm down. The Italian lap dogs are stiller than ever. For a moment, probably a rare moment, there is a silence across the square. And then people begin to surge forward, towards the far end, where the vaporettas dock every few minutes to disgorge their tourist cargo, lifting the water to very edge of this historic and internationally celebrated bit of mud swamp.

People are shouting, "look, look" in every language; even the nuns are sprinting forward with their cameras. I turn back to see what is going on and the landscape has changed. A celebrity has arrived. A celebrity so massive it dwarfs everything on the horizon; even a cathedral that has been dazzling people for hundreds of years, with its ornate columns, Italian masterpieces and golden mosaics. Stuart has our camera; it seems I am the only person in the vicinity to see this vision with my own eyes rather than a lense. The queue for the cathedral has dispersed. More people surge forward with cameras poised to fill in the darkness left by a disenfranchised sun. They snap and they flash at the celebrity. And the visitor snaps and flashes back at this historic monument. This 'living work of art'; those who've come to worship, to appreciate great Venetian architecture, or just enjoy an ice cream with a pigeon on their head is captured in stillness forever.

The Celebrity X cruise ship is five or six stories high, and from this far away its passengers look like the animated pin people in the movie Titanic. There are thousands of them; standing outside their bedrooms, on the upper decks. I imagine them clutching champagne, confetti and Cavalli handbags and congratulating themselves. They are, after all, on the cruise ship of cruise ships; so rich and commercially successful that it can dock near the square and sail right past; as close as you can get, at the peak spot of three o clock in the afternoon. Celebrity X Cruises strives to give St Mark's Square what it lacks; some modern glamour; some topical interest, some of that must have X factor. In one of the most famous squares in the world, celebrity still counts and money can buy you the best view. And how can a painting or a fusty old church compete with a cruise liner that can outshine the sun? Just as the thronging August tourists themselves eat into the beauty of the square and its buildings, this steel hulk, travelling in the name of culture and glamour, overshadows the sculptures, masterpieces and buildings. For a moment it's just them, watching us, watching them. Giotto is risotto. The cruiser moves on, so slowly you have to pinch yourself that it is moving at all. But it is. It has other cities to brighten, other photo calls to attend.

It's all over and people begin to form orderly queues once more. The sun takes its place back in the sky and people begin to sweat again. On the Grand Canal the gondoliers get to work. My kids run out of the church to tell me that anything good to see in Venice comes with an extra charge. Not quite everything, I reply. Everyone in this square has just taken home a picture, a living work of art, containing a real life celebrity, for free.

Party time in Venice

Water laps onto stone. The haze of dawn and the morning mist combine on the lagoon, casting blue light over the skyline as it wakes. I have fallen in love with this city, with its early morning waterways, intense alleys and deserted passages. I have one hour to explore it alone. The tourists, and my children have yet to start the day.

I wander along a wide canal, a slight wind against my face, brushing away beads of sweat. A ferry chugs by, pressing commuters against each other like the London Underground in a heatwave. A baggage boat follows, carrying a range of international luggage bound for who knows where? I walk over a bridge, feeling the muscles in my legs, as a water taxi driver polishes the walnut veneer of his prized vehicle with a leather cloth. To the Basilica Santa Maria, where last night we watched as a ballroom dancing club claimed the sacred space by tangoing on the steps. This morning two American women spread out yoga mats and bitch about absent Venetian husbands.  

It may have been an unusual choice to finish a cycle tour in a place where bikes are banned, but what more iconic place is there than Venice? Right now, on a wide stone step, with a take away latte macchiato, and the view of St Mark's forming a the backdrop, this is my celebration.

 

Our arrival was less clear cut, and rather less celebratory. We disembarked from the ferry into rush hour hell. A giant car park, leading to an enormous bus terminal. A dead end, flooded with tourists, street cleaners, coach drivers, police. Gay men parading like peacocks at the start of their night out. Stripy gondoliers hanging out in the sunshine waiting for the next set of honeymooners to step onto their curved black vehicles and take a ride to paradise for a fistful of euros. Our bikes looked strange, as though we'd stumbled onto a film set with the wrong props. So we rode, four kilometres down a narrow cycle path on an endless bridge into Venetian suburbia, where we had booked a hotel for the night. As lorries thundered past along with the night train to Paris, we kept our eyes on the cranes at the end of the lagoon, to our destination; the town of Mestrae. But as the bridge dumped its cars and coaches onto new carriageways, the cycle path ended abruptly, leaving us stranded on the wrong side of the road, with a motorway in between us and our hotel. There was only one thing for it. To cycle back in to Venice, in the dusk, turn around at the bus station, and cycle back out again, in the dark.

We had made it to Venice. But not really. We were here, then not here, then here again, then not. It would be a good few hours before we would get onto the water, and celebrate our arrival.    

 

 

 

D&G vs Tescos; battle of the shades

Each time I jumped the handlebars wobbled causing us to weave a more dangerous path along the tarmac strip of land that passed as a two lane road. I wanted to keep us in as straight line, make our movements as predictable as possible to passing traffic. Twitching was dangerous and my stoker sensed it too.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Cameron shouted at me nervously as another car honked and we veered towards it as it rushed to overtake. "Why do they keep honking?" It's not something we'd experienced much of until the last couple of days but as we approached Chioggia hoping to catch ferries to the southern Venetian islands to reach Venice by the back door, it seemed everyone was hooting. I'd like to think it was a gesture of support, saying 'well done for getting so far', applauding our 'beautiful family' and our commitment to human powered travel, and certainly the waves, stares and photographers hanging out windows suggested friendly intent. But more prosaically most were just honking 'Watch out, we're coming past.' Close. And very fast.  If the volume of honks showed support, the speed and passing distances revealed a fundamental lack of respect for cyclists.

It wasn't quite the romantic approach to Venice I had imagined.  There was nothing on the map to suggest a minor backroad across the lagoon towards Chiogga would be a death trap for cyclists. But then I knew nothing of the volumes of traffic drawn to the Veneto Lagoon, to Venice itself and to the strip of umbrellas, loungers, bars and campsites that choke the Adriatic near Venice.

For days we'd been wondering why the Northern Italians towns and cities we'd been passing through were so empty but arriving in Sottomarina it all became clear; Italians love tacky, parcelled up, all inclusive seaside resorts.  After dicing with death for an afternoon we spent the night on a small sandy pitch at a 3* campsite, advertising its own private 20m stretch of access to the Adriatic.  "You get free use of a beach umbrella" the lady explained as we checked in at 9pm, in the dark at a cost of 50 euro.  We also got free access to the Barbie Doll disco which began at 10.30pm and kept the camp kids entertained opposite our tent into the early hours with special karaoke Italian versions of Black Lace, Cotton Eyed Joe and the Hoky Coky.  We arrived glad to be alive but the feeling was soon waning.  

A new day brought more tough choices, the lady at the campsite casting doubt on our plan to take tandems and trailers on the ferries to Pellestrina, Lido and onto Venice. "They are small boats," she explained shrugging her shoulders, "Maybe but maybe not. You will have to see."  The shrug of the shoulders cast doubt deep into my psyche. What if we couldn't get on the ferry, or worse if we got on the first and second ferries but were refused the third and had to ride all the way back. Should we retrace our steps on the yesterday's road from hell? Or try and negotiate a private boat crossing direct to Venice? Or ring the man with a van who's due to pick up our bikes and take them home and completely reorganise our rendezvous? With a weeks worth of hotels and travel arrangements all made in advance now was not the time for this kind of uncertainty.

It's easy in these moments to take the easy out but somehow it's not in our nature. At some level I think we relish the greater sense of adventure that comes when you pursue the more uncertain course. We cycled through Chiogga like bubbles in a bottle of aqua frizzante, rushing to escape the chaos and catch the ferry, dodging café tables, market stalls, pedestrians, mopeds, cars, buses and vans all weaving around trying to avoid each other and get somewhere very important. We arrived at the ferry terminal in a sweat. As Kirstie approached the ferry hand started to wave her through.  Until he saw the trailer. Then he shook his head. By the time he caught sight of the second tandem his hand was already raised to a firm STOP gesture. He shrugged his shoulders "You will have to ask the captain." I tried to read his eyes to see what the likelihood was but all I could through his dark Dolce and Gabanna shades was my own anxious reflection.

The captain arrived. More D&G shades, clean shaven with a crew cut, his immaculately pressed short sleeved shirt showing off strong bronzed arms, a picture of Italian style. I wondered how I might persuade him, me unshaven, dressed in my dirty black shorts and t-shirt, with tangled hair overgrown after six weeks on the road, trying to look cool in my 4 euro Tesco mirror shades. There was no point trying. This one was in the lap of the Gods.  He looked us up and down, surveyed the load   and took pity on us in a cool and business like fashion.  And so the door opened to Venice.

The ride along Pellestrina and Lido was picture perfect with little traffic, on quiet roads through sleepy Veneto villages.  No more nightmare, the approach to Venice finally took on the dream like quality it had always had in the naiveity of my mind. Riding abreast we pedalled along as a family with the Adriatic on one side and the famous lagoon on the other. There cannot be a more picturesque and perfect way to approach Venice. We peered across the deep blue waters to the carless pedestrian paradise of Venice, imagining the personal glory of our final arrival after 44 days pedalling 1900km across Europe. As we hopped across to Lido and to the final ferry terminal for Venice we slowly realised it was all going to work out.  Our journey would end as it had begun, amongst the canals of a great European City. From Amsterdam to Venice by bike; two tandems, two trailers, two adults, three kids and a dolly. This family had crossed Europe by bike.

It's not real, it's just a dolly

When we're on the road, our little band of five can seem less like a family and more like a travelling kindergarten or zoo. Sometimes I lose track of who I've got with me at any one time. Still, on the plus side, my ability to uproot my family and take them with me on cycle tours seems to be an aphrodisiac to Italian men in lycra, who quite often screech to a halt at eighty miles an hour to chat, whistle, clap or look longingly at me with an eye to marriage. Have they never seen a woman pedal all her children over the Alps before? But then I remember. Women don't cycle in Italy. It would mess up their hair.

But the latest promotion of Hannah's dolly from the trailer to the back of the bike has been a bit of a passion killer. Somewhere before Bassano Del Grappa, Cameron spotted a very small baby seat abandoned by the side of the road. Just right for Hannah's treasured dolly, 'Baby Findley.' It was quickly cleaned up and attached, and Baby Findley was strapped in. Now we look like two adults and four children travelling together, which wouldn't be so bad if Baby Findley was a rag doll or a teen Barbie look-alike with breasts and hips. Instead he looks like a newborn. And I have become Myra Hindley. 

Since the acquisition of the baby seat, it goes like this. Stuart cycles past and men nod with respect. A guy and two kids, off cycle touring. Great. And wow, a tent; guy camping with kids, Bravo. Then they see me and fall in love. Strong woman with eight year old boy cycling companion, and cute little bambini in the buggy. Wonderful, wonderful. But then their eye is drawn to the baby seat. Newborn tot strapped haphazardly onto luggage, and lolling listlessly in forty degrees of midday sun. Not heroic, but criminal. "It's not real, it's just a dolly," I want to shout, but it's too late, they've passed, without the look of love in their eyes. The next vision of testosterone and lycra is fast approaching and I can't reach the baby to stuff it into a pannier as it would unbalance the whole bike. A few days ago Baby Findley's head fell off and that's the best I can hope for as another Italian stud approaches. Yesterday as we cycled into Padova even the nuns were giving me the evil eye.

And if this weren't bad enough, Matthew has decided I really need a Chihuahua to improve my street cred. He is lobbying Stuart to buy one for my birthday. "You could fit it in a barbag and sneak it into hotels at night, they'd never notice," he pleads. No way. Getting a family room in a hotel for five is hard enough as it is. Tourist information has been known to shut up shop when they see us coming. And that was without dolly or dog. We have a routine with hotels. I go in first, with Cameron, who is briefed to look cute and say nothing. I tell them we have two children, and also a baby, and could we all share three or four beds in a family room? Quite often they agree, particularly if they see the bikes or its raining, and they show me the room. By the time I have the key it's too late for the owner to backtrack when a strapping three year old 'baby' jumps out of the buggy demanding to know whether there is a TV in her room as she hasn't seen an episode of Mr Bean for days. But now Baby Findley has scuppered any chances of this system working, as they catch sight of him first, assume he is the baby, and want to know why we are trying to cram six people into three single beds.

From now on, we'll have to go back to camping, where it didn't matter how many people, dogs, animals or dollies we crammed into the tent. And I'm not having a dog for my birthday and that's final. Although if it would fit into my bar bag….    

The waiting game

The café on the square looks closed, the tables outside empty, but the door is open. It's an improvement on the other two bars in Cartigliano whose doors are firmly locked for siesta. Where do Italians go for a lunchtime drink or snack?

The kids pile in noisily and head straight for the euro ball machine and I make for the counter. We're gasping for a drink after a hot morning's ride out of Bassano. The Veneto may be easy riding but there's no escaping the heat with little shade between villages on the open plains.

The café is empty except for a silvery haired man behind the counter tidying a display of cigarettes, his brown, wrinkly hands precisely lining up the edges of the packets like a local sculptor might attend to the finer points of his latest cherub statue. I stand at the counter and wait for some kind of acknowledgement, internally practicing my order in Italian over and over, "Vorrei due café per favoure… Vorrei due café.." I feel invisible as he finishes arranging the Marlboro's and turns to wash the only dirty glass.

Two young men enter the bar, visions of Italian soccer blue. They lean on the counter and fix eyes on Sky Sports on the TV above the bar. It's Saturday, the football's on and they seem content to watch and wait for service. The old barista polishes the glass, places it on the rack above his head, takes down another smaller glass and places it on a doily he's already put down on the counter.

An elderly man arrives, his stick clattering along the polished floor. He makes straight for the newspaper rack, carefully unfolding the day's news and laying it out on the counter. He says something to the barista who turns, picks up an espresso cup and without a word shuffles towards the coffee machine and places it under the nozzle.  Is this how you get service?

Two more men arrive, looking hot from a morning labouring in the fields. They pull up a stool, take lottery tickets and pens from the counter and start to mark their lucky numbers. The barista patiently works to separate two conjoined ice cubes and persuade just one into the small glass on the counter. He chases the ice round and round the ice bucket with a spoon. I am transfixed by his actions and my internal mantra.  "Vorrei cinco limonota y due café per favore. Vorrei Cinco limonota y due café per favour…" but there's no point saying it out loud yet. He's not ready to hear me. He doesn't even know I'm here. The ice cubes separate and one slides into the glass. The other is carefully returned to the ice bucket. For later.

A young boy arrives and makes for the food cabinet, distracting me for a moment as he looks over the stale looking panninis, toast and pizza.  Now I feel hungry.  "Vorray cinco limonota y due café y uno pannini y uno pizza per favore…"  The coffee machine dispenses its shot of espresso into the waiting cup. The old man reaches into the fridge, extracts a bottle of mineral water and drowns the single ice cube. He fetches the espresso and places it on the counter next to the bar then drags a stool over to the bar. He looks like he's finishing up and I psych myself up to order. Think like an Italian, talk like an Italian, I tell myself.

The barista pulls up his stool and glances across at me. I open my mouth and he sits down. He picks up the little coffee cup, sips at it and smiles. He sloshes the water around the melting ice cube and sips at that too, placing the glass down carefully on the mat on the bar. He looks up and down the counter surveying the growing queue of customers interrupting his siesta and nods as if to ask, 'Who's first?'