Drawing to a Close
Lately while wandering around campus, I’ve felt a sense of finality coursing through almost everything that I observe. The little ducklings that plague the uni are almost all fully grown up now, friends have become healthier both mentally and physically and most of my classmates all have plans about what they are doing next year. Although I will leave Canberra permanently in less than a month, I feel content; I feel that when I leave, everything will be just fine in my absence; Canberra doesn’t need me any more nor do I need it. Of course, it isn’t my intention to sound as though a whole city depends on me and needs me, that’s far from the truth, all it is, is just a feeling really; I feel that the time is right; I feel neither happy nor sad to be leaving, it is just something that I have to do. I guess to convey it a little better, what I’m feeling is the same as when you are just about to finish a really good book: as you draw ever closer to the back cover, things start wrapping up as the writer prepares a thoughtfully constructed goodbye to the characters you’ve become so attached to, then the end inevitably comes and you place the book up on your shelf as a reminder of a world you briefly lived in.

So soon it is time to go, but until then, there is one last thing to do here, and that, of course, is to get through my exams, which incidentally are quite soon.

Anyway, back to the final day of the bike ride…

Day 3 – The Final Day
Call it a gift or a curse, but I always seem to wake up just a bit earlier than everyone else. On the plus side, it means that I don’t get woken up by those annoyingly over perky morning people (you know the ones I mean). That morning my legs were aching again, and again I didn’t want to get back on my bike, but inevitably the time came and we were on the road one final time.

By the time the town stirred, we were gone; we were no more than a fading memory in the minds of the townsfolk. While the discarded cups and chip packets that littered the main street were clear evidence a festival had been held the day before, we left no trace. Perhaps though, if you looked really closely, you might have been able to see the faint tracks of 15 bicycles, on the road.

The ride was much the same as each of the other days, except that we were all a little more fatigued. On this last day, I had a love hate relationship with the little green indicators on the side of the road. When they indicated “Y 50” I was furious, how dare they lie like that, Yass must be closer than 50km, I’m sure I’ve cycled more than 10 km. But when they indicated “Y 5” I was most happy with them, Oh little indicator, you’ve brought me so much joy. I know that must sound a little strange, but you have to keep yourself amused somehow out there.

Eventually it was ‘Y 0’ and hence we were in Yass. We stopped in the park and collapsed on the grass. The support drivers brought around snacks and lollies, which we took with outstretched hands. I got up and hobbled over to a support car to get my phone out and message my parents and Sherly that I was alive and well, now that we had phone reception again. We were all rather quiet and were focused on finishing off the final stretch of the ride. Artou’s knee was giving him a lot of pain, but he wanted to keep going, so we brought out the tiger balm and also taped his knee up. Another rider, Erin, decided she couldn’t go on, for no better reason than she didn’t feel like it. We’d also lost another rider at the end of the second day, as she had to attend something in Sydney, so now there were 13.

After the short break, we all dragged our aching bodies back onto our bikes. We cycled through hilly Yass and eventually came to the busy Barton highway, which is the road that links Canberra to the Hume highway. The little green indicators now read “C”; a sure sign that we were almost home. Before “C” though, we reached. “M”, or Murrembatemen, which is the last small town you pass through before reaching Canberra. As I was cycling in to the rest area, where supposedly people from college were going to meet us and bring lunch, I heard wind rushing past and then felt something whack me behind the ear. What the... After a moment of confusion I discovered the culprit: a black and white magpie, who was soaring off into the distance. Oh no, magpies... The magpies were in the trees right by the rest area and were being over zealous in their attempts to keep their babies safe and so were swooping at everything that moved. Considering this and the fact that the people from college with our lunch, were running late, we decided to press on, which was a decision greeted with much groaning.

A few kilometres out, Artou’s knee finally gave out and he couldn’t go on any further. We sadly loaded him and his bike into the support car and waved goodbye. And then there were 12. The mounting casualties were starting to play with my mind, and all of a sudden I felt incredibly sick and starting considering what would happen if I had to be sick whilst cycling along. I felt sorry for the person behind me. Stop worrying, you can always pull over if you really think you can’t hold it in. I pressed on.

The stretch between Murrembatemen and our lunch stop was the hardest of all, I felt. The suns rays beat down on us relentlessly and the hills didn’t seem to end. When we finally arrived, we all collapsed. I really didn’t know how I could go any further; I was cursing my big heavy bike. It was only 20km to go, but it seemed like a massive task now. I wiped my forehead, but the sweat had dried up long ago and had left salt; I wasn’t in the best shape. I quickly fuelled up on some lunch and felt mildly better. It was time to set off again.

I got a burst of energy when we crossed the ACT border line and when a car full of John’s people, driving back home after the long weekend, honked at us in encouragement. Soon enough, we arrived at Gold Creek, our final rest point before reaching college. From here on in it was all bike paths.

After a brief rest we were on our way home; the final stretch. Erin and Artou joined us once more. We weaved through the narrow bike paths and grew in speed and energy as everything started becoming familiar again; we were almost there. Couples walking together gave us startled looks as we whooshed past, ringing our bells. Eventually we got to the car park of the O’Connor bowls club, where we were to regroup before riding in together. College was only an easy two kilometre ride from now, but as it turned out, things weren’t that simple. One of the riders, Kiwi, had managed to get lost, even though we had been keeping tabs on everyone. We all looked for him frantically but with no luck. After about half an hour, we had to leave, as people were waiting for us at college, so we all sent our thoughts out to Kiwi and rode off. As we rounded the final corner before college, we rang our bells and heard the cheers of 100 or more of our fellow residents who had turned up to greet us. We were surrounded by cheering residents all shouting words of encouragement.

We were subjected to boring self promoting speeches by politicians who had given up their afternoons, and soon after the crowd began to disperse. After sitting down for a while, we saw Kiwi, in his bright blue bike shorts, running beside his bike, rounding the corner. We all rushed out to greet him. He was sweating profusely as he had run the final stretch since he had had a puncture. We all smiled, laughed and slapped him on the back. What a character.

After some more formalities, I headed back to my room, had a shower and just lay on my bed for a good 20 minutes. As I stared at the speckled ceiling, I smiled. I had done it. And then I thought, never again!

After the ride…
Everything went on pretty much as usual; I went to classes and I studied. The following weekend I hopped a train and headed back to Melbourne. I couldn’t stand it any longer in Canberra; I wanted to see my girlfriend, Sherly, again.

As I walked along the platform I saw her standing by the entrance. She looked so beautiful. I rushed over to give here a big hug. We headed back to her place and she fed me some tasty soup that she had made. After spending time with her, the previous three weeks, the bike ride and everything else, drifted away, and all seemed right again; I was relaxed and happy. I saw her the following night and we shared a nice meal that we had both helped prepare. The next morning I woke up early and cooked eggs benedict for Sherly and brought them down to her room. I looked at my watch and realised that I was late and that I should have left already to make my train. I started to panic and Sherly just smirked to herself in silence as I rushed around, gobbled my breakfast and rang the taxi company. It was far from a perfect goodbye, but realistically any kind of goodbye was always going to feel bad.

The taxi got me to the station very quickly and the train was late anyway, so I needn’t have worried. Oh well. Soon enough I was sitting on the train and rattling my way back to Canberra.

Fluff; harbinger of tragedy

Exams are looming, theses are almost due and assignments are abundant, so it is no wonder that most of us are becoming a little more superstitious than usual. One delightful little superstition, that is unique to the ANU, is linked to the so called ‘fluff of doom’ phenomenon. Every year at some time in October or November, the row of trees near union court drop their fluffy white spores, which drift gently to the ground and dance in the wind with the grace of snowflakes. By the end of the day, the ground is covered by a fluffy white blanket of snow-like spores and the hay fever sufferers walk around with red eyes and red noses; they curse Canberra spring under their breath. Anyway, legend has it that if you haven’t started studying by the time the fluff falls, you will fail your exams. On Wednesday the fluff fell, much earlier than usual, its arrival a massive kick to the self confidence of students. However, if you aren’t superstitious and don’t suffer from hay fever, it really is a spectacular event.

If the fluffy white spores are like snow, then the next day was a blizzard of seeds from another variety of trees. It was a very windy day, and thousands of flat sharp seeds blew all around the campus. Walking to class was like walking through a severe snowstorm. This week, only the aftermath remains. Like an unsuccessful invasion, tiny seed warriors lay sprawled in piles all over campus along with their fluffy brethren, not to bother us again for another year.

Anyway, I should get back to talking about the bike ride…

Day 2
When I can’t muster the motivation to get out of bed in the morning, I focus everything and spring out of bed like a madman in a sudden burst of energy. That’s what I did that morning, except I was zipped up in my sleeping back, so it didn’t really work properly, and all that happened was that I writhed in my sleeping bag, but was still stuck inside. Eventually though I got out, and as soon as I stood, my leg muscles screamed in complaint, “You want me to ride another 80 odd kilometres? You must be mad!” of course it wasn’t in words, but rather spasms of sharp pain, but nevertheless the message was clear.

We shared a modest breakfast, got ready and we all groaned in discomfort as we sat back on our bikes. By 8:30am we were on the road, pedalling out of Cowra. The day before, we’d all found it hilarious and inspiring when Kiwi played ‘Bicycle’ by Queen, but today when he played it, we wanted to pelt him with rocks. After the angry curses of the mob, Kiwi quickly played something else.

We cycled along, passing much the same scenery as the day before, stopping every now and then in rest areas or simply in the driveways of farm properties that all had insipid saccharine names, like: hill view, rock haven, green pastures or happy meadows.

If all roads lead to Rome, then you could say that hardly any roads lead to Boorowa, but the ones that do are all frustratingly hilly. One hill was particularly demoralising; it seemingly kept going. Just when you thought you’d reached the top, you’d come around a bend to see the road steeply sloping up to the horizon. I’d had quite enough, so I abandoned sticking with the pack and took off by myself. I feel the best way to get up a hill is to do it as quickly as possible. I zoomed past the other riders and several of the more competitive ones followed. I pedalled like a madman, huffed and puffed like a steam engine, and finally reached the peak, where there was a pull in area and a well earned rest. I skidded my bike to a halt and smiled in accomplishment along with the other ‘breakaway’ riders. We waited for the others.

After a few minutes, it was clear that the hill had claimed a casualty. Zane, not far from the top, snapped the rod that joins the pedals together, hence rendering his bike unusable. The support car collected his bike, but not him, no, Zane, being the proud man that he is, jogged the rest of the way up the hill. We all clapped and hummed chariots of fire as he came in, sweat pouring from his face. During the break we fitted him up with a replacement bike and we were all ready to roll again.

We were going at a steady pace, so we put off having lunch until we got to Boorowa. Finally, after a long day of cycling, and covering around 85 kilometres, we arrived and rolled through the streets of Boorowa. The tiny town had a festival atmosphere brought on by, of all things, a festival, specifically the ‘Irish Wool fest’. As we rolled past one of the many pubs, several drinkers enjoying their lazy Sunday afternoon spurred us on.

We arrived at the church where we would be spending the night. It was the same place we’d stayed at last year on the ride when we had passed through Boorowa, so I couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. We were all rather famished, so the first thing we did was scoff down a simple lunch. We brought the bags inside and all claimed a spot on the carpet for the night. Within minutes of settling in, the girls all had their phones out and had befuddled looks on their faces. “I’m not getting a signal.” “Me either.” “Who are you with?” “Optus”… “Telstra”… “Vodaphone”… “Orange” laughter. None of the carriers had a signal, except for the CDMA network, but who has that, honestly? So we faced the prospect of no communication until the following day. The girls had been through a lot: no showers, having to pee in bushes by the side of the road, having to put up with being outnumbered by guys, but this was too much for them; they were distraught. Actually I was a little annoyed as well, but only because it meant I couldn’t get a message out to my family or my caring girlfriend that I was ok. I was hoping that they’d figured that there may be no reception.

The first thing on my mind was a shower, but the prospect of a country town festival was too much, so I headed into town with the others. We cut through deserted streets, dirt fields and past overbearing wheat silos before reaching a dog show, of sorts. Various teams in matching brightly coloured shirts with tasteless names like ‘The K9s’, raced their dogs through an obstacle course. We were all in our matching ride shirts, so several of the teams were eyeing us off as the competition, “Hey Brandine, lookie ‘ere and them blue shirts, they darn tooten don’t e’en ‘ave a dog b’ween ‘em, ah-hyuck.” Actually that’s a little too harsh, the people of Boorowa seemed rather cultured and nice, and the ones actually racing the dogs were yuppies from Sydney, with too much time and money on their hands.

Our favourite dog was a docile, awkward Irish wolf hound. They’re the ones that look like a large mutant dog-man beast; they’re massive. Surely, this obstacle course designed for little dogs was no match for such a creature, but we were wrong, very wrong. The wolf hound lumbered lazily and goofily and three little dogs finished in the time that it took to finish. Still, we loved it all the more, and became its only fans. We cheered and cheered for the goofy wolfhound.

When we got sick of that, we swarmed on the main street like a new gang announcing its arrival in a city. We missed the running of the sheep, where a herd of sheep are set loose and they run through the main street. I was a little disappointed by that. Little stalls selling crafts or food were dotted along the street and a sizeable mix of locals and tourists were taking part in the festivities. The thing on our minds more than anything else though were drinks and ice-cream, so a local pointed us in the direction of a good ice-cream store, even offering us tips, “It is better to get two scoops, since it is only $3, but one scoop is $2.50.” Who would have thought the locals would have such a grip on consumerism. Perhaps I should have argued with her that if your enjoyment of the ice-cream is a diminishing curve related to the amount eaten, then it’s possible that one scoop is actually more efficient, but I kept my mouth shut and instead said something appropriately stupid, “Mmm… ice-cream. I like ice-cream.”

One thing I’ve noticed with country towns, and perhaps Australia in general, is that they are all so celebratory of their heritage and history. At the festival, there were people dressed up in ‘olden day’ clothes and there were steam trains rolling through the streets. The town isn’t even 200 years old though. In Europe, people probably ride bicycles that are older than that. Australia is a very young country, and people can’t seem to come to terms with that. Imagine if Singapore (also a young country) did the same thing as Australia: at festivals people would dress up in clothes from the 70’s and talk about what life was like back then in the ‘olden days’. Well I guess it is important to remember your heritage to some extent.

We all got a little bored of the town, so most of the riders headed to the pub, but I thought I’d head back and take a shower instead. It turned out a few of us had the same idea, so we took a car down to the caravan park. I brought my ‘Bi-lo’ thongs and borrowed towel and walked into the caravan park’s amenity block and took a soothing shower.

I waited outside for the girls to finish. I waited and waited. Bored, I took a look at the surrounds. I loath caravan parks. They are full of annoying old people who clog up the roads lugging their caravans, and then when they reach their destination they live exactly how they would at home; complaining about young people and decorating tackily. My youthfulness was attracting attention and several well to do caravaners reported me to the manager. Minutes after standing there scornfully observing the surrounds, minding my own business, Tina Turner, the large middle aged grumpy manager of the caravan park, came barrelling out from her office accusing me. Tina shouted, “Can I help you?” I casually replied,“I’m just waiting for my friends. They’re in the shower. You know girls, they take forever.” Tina was not impressed. In a menacing voice she asked, “Well have you paid to use the showers?” I was feeling on top of the world and cool as ice after the shower, so I just calmly offered “Well no, but we’re on a charity bike ride and I believe we were offered a shower by the park. We left a donation last year when we used the showers.” Tina’s scowling face returned to normal and she muttered “Oh… yes yes” and walked away. I laughed to myself and waved to the group of old people who had dobbed me in. I tried to intimidate them from a distance as much as I could with my youth and found the effect I had on them hilarious. Finally, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, the girls came out of the showers reporting similar incidents with the old caravaners.

A while after getting back to the church, the rotary club arrived to cook us some dinner. Most of the group, including our leader, were still in the pub, so we had to talk to the Rotary club to keep them busy until our leader got back. I made the mistake of calling them the Lions club, who I’m sure are the Rotary club’s sworn enemy, oh well. Soon enough, everyone was back and the familiar sizzling of the barbeque could be heard.

After the dinner, the group wanted to go to the pub (again) to watch the rugby league grand final. I thought I’d go along for lack of anything better to do. Drunken locals crowded around the big screen with beers in their hands, laughing and slapping each other on their backs, several wore akubra hats. I was amused at the scene at first, but a short while later I got bored, so several of us decided to go to the café across the road instead.

The ‘café’ was more like an ‘open till late’ grease house and had the serving staff to match. They were large women who looked as gruff as men, with arms as thick as tree trunks. Their bulging muscles flexed as they flipped burgers or dipped chips into the deep fryer. I lost my appetite, but the others got milkshakes and we sat on the street and chatted.

After an hour or so the others emerged from the pub and we walked back to the church and turned in for the night. I slept well in the knowledge that there was only one more day to go.

Le Tour de NSW
I don’t think I want to even look at a bicycle for at least a week, let alone ride one. The good news is that I survived, more or less unscathed as well, apart from the temporary groaning of my muscles. Pain and sunburn aside, I feel good; I feel I’ve achieved something. And I’ve managed to raise around $140 for the ‘Solomon Islands Appeal’ – the college’s own charity project whereby infrastructure is built in poor communities.

The Day Before
It all began with a cramped car trip up to Orange late on Friday afternoon. Our driver, Dave, was a real man of the country; a true Aussie bloke. The various stickers on the back window of his four wheel drive combined with his accent and manner left no doubt in my mind that this was the case. I’m probably the opposite in most respects to the stereotypical Aussie country bloke; a city slicker at heart. I think this is the reason we’d never really gotten to know each other that well before the trip; there seemed very little point.

Seven of us in total crammed into the four wheel drive, luggage and all, and it was tight to say the least. By 5:30pm we were on the road and began the trip to Orange. All in all, it took a bit over 3 hours and my legs were cramped by the end of it. I spent most of the trip anxiously assessing the height of each hill we went over in the knowledge that we were riding back exactly the same way.

After a little trouble finding the others in Orange, we finally pulled in at destination – an incredibly wealthy and expansive private school. I did what I always do after a long trip, I got out and groaned loudly whilst stretching all of my muscles. The aroma of the awaiting barbeque caught the attention of each of us – the weary travellers. Before eating, we were shown where we would be sleeping and we carried our luggage with us. The school was most impressive. On the way to our sleeping quarters, we walked past an indoor pool then through a mega gymnasium, past weights rooms, up the stairs past a room filled with billiard tables, then past several squash courts until we arrived at a floor with a cushioned mat rolled across. We were all a little awestruck; none of us could remember school being so luxurious. The facilities wouldn’t be put to shame by even the AIS, and this was just the sports section.

After ooh-ing and ahh-ing, we headed back outside to the car, where our dinner was awaiting. We were provided steak sandwiches by the ‘Lions club’ and ate them in a science laboratory. On the walls, posters encouraged students to eat beef, while other posters showed the various stages of the cattle slaughter process. This was a county school for certain, and not just any country school, a mega rich one for mega rich farmers. The posters and the lab environment made me a little queasy as I ate, but I was hungry after the journey, so I still managed to eat all of my dinner.

Ideally we all should have gone to bed early, given the enormity of the task ahead of us, but due to the impressive nature of the facilities, we all stayed up late playing. I shot a few hoops with some of the guys, I watched as others balanced on gymnastic beams and I revelled in the foam pit. It was like a 5 year old kid’s dream of being locked in the school gym overnight and being able to do whatever they wanted. I just loved jumping and somersaulting into the soft foam pit.
At one point whilst we all gleefully enjoying the facilities, Zane abruptly halted and yelled out an obscenity. Zane is an awkwardly built, loud talking, crude thinking Aussie bloke. He looks like a thirty-something typical Australian tradesman and has the mouth to match. Each phrase that comes out of his mouth is either some joke about sex or about toilets. Despite all these arguably lacklustre attributes, when combined, somehow he becomes a real character and a funny guy. After cursing, in a strine accent, he conceded “I’ve forgot my towel.” Just I was about to laugh sympathetically, I realised I’d forgotten my towel as well. Bother. Later in the night I realised I’d forgotten thongs for the shower as well. Fortunately though, one of the support car drivers gave me his towel, as he was driving back to Canberra the next day anyway.

As the night wore on, our joyous playing in the gym continued. Eventually though, our logic overruled our youthful frivolity, and we all went to bed. We all slept in our sleeping bags on the padded floor spaced closely to each other; it was just like camp again. I lay there staring at the ceiling, worrying, until a gentle calm washed over my mind and I fell into a blissful slumber.

Day 1
We shared an anxious breakfast together. People hardly spoke except for the more flamboyant characters. We weren’t ready to ride for hours, and each minute waiting was agonising; I just wanted to get started. Eventually though, we were underway and rolled out of Orange. Once out of town, the pack opened up and we all went at our own pace. I was enjoying the country scenery and couldn’t imagine why I had been worrying so much; surely the ride wouldn’t be that bad, after all, I’d survived it the year before. Ten kilometres into the ride, we were told to ride in a tight pack together, so we all stuck behind Kiwi, the mad New Zealander with bright blue bike shorts and a blaring stereo strapped to his bike.

The start of the ride was pleasant. I enjoyed the scenery and the remoteness of the areas which we cycled through. Unlike Melbourne where points of interested are separated by a labyrinth of streets dotted with houses or other buildings, out in the country, tiny towns are spread far apart, and in between them is void of anything that resembles civilisation, bar fences. Some fields were barren, some had sheep, and the more interesting ones were a glorious golden colour made up of canola flowers. Golden rolling hills looked like sand dunes under the clear blue sky. Just outside a town named ‘Blaney’, lush green hills had large white wind generators on their peaks. I don’t know how people can complain about how wind generators look; I think they look great, a welcome break from barren fields.

We passed many kangaroos, but unfortunately they were of the ‘road kill’ variety, and each time we passed one, we copped a lungful of pungent air. Most of the day was spent keeping left of the white lines that marked the shoulder of the road, whilst trying to avoid potholes or debris. Soon enough the hills started, but fortunately on the first day, they were mostly downward sloping. I began to realise how slow my bike was compared to everyone else’s when we got to the steep downhills. My bike is a big black, heavy and of the ‘dual suspension for the sake of dual suspension’ variety. In other words, it is meant to be cool for a kid, but not really meant for long distance riding. While I was in my top gear and peddling madly, the other riders drifted past me effortlessly, without even peddling. My front forks shuddered and made a terrible sound as if they were about to collapse. I lost ground going downhills, but made it up again going up them. So although uphills were harder, for the sake of keeping up with the other riders, they were better.

Several hours and sixty odd kilometres later it was time for lunch. We pulled into a rest area and unloaded the ute. The area was nothing more than a small clearing by the railway line with one decrepit picnic table. It felt good to take a break and we all enjoyed it in our own ways. Artou, a Russian exchange student, immediately got out some tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette, not exactly the image you associate with cyclists. Each to his own, I guess. Artou is pretty much everything that you’d imagine a Russian person to be; he drinks heavily, smokes heavily, has a thick accent and is very loud and confident.

It was just about time for the Grand Final to start back in Melbourne, so Kiwi tuned into the radio to the broadcast and we spent the rest of the day’s riding listening to the final. The sound didn’t travel all that well, so at times we had to pass the score along, yelling from rider to rider. One bike had broken down just a few minutes after lunch, so we quickly swapped it for the spare bike that was brought along.

After a long exhausting 105 kilometres of riding, we finally pulled into ‘Cowra Public School’. This school was far less impressive, but as soon as we arrived, the ‘Lions club’ fired up a barbeque, which made us quickly forget about anything else.

After a satisfying dinner, we began to settle down for the day. We were all exhausted and looked in bad shape. Our legs were already aching and a few riders were red as beetroots – sunburnt all over. I learned that there were no showers available, so we would have to wait until Boorowa to take one. This news was most unwelcome to the other riders and I; we were going to have to rough it and put up with the smell.

Most people wanted to check out the local pub, but I wasn’t really interested, so I stayed back. I looked over my bike, and realised that the mechanic at uni, a docile old man who would be at least 90 years old, had made my brakes too tight, so it was as though I had been riding with my brakes partially on the whole way. I quickly got out my allen key and fixed them up, checking over the bike afterwards. When I’d sorted out everything else and washed myself as best I could without a shower, I decided to check out the town of Cowra.

Apparently Cowra had a fairly sizeable Japanese prisoner of war camp during the 2nd world war, but I’m not sure if it was for actual soldiers or just Japanese people living in Australia at the time. Anyway, now the town has quite a bit of Japanese culture, including a Japanese garden and several restaurants. The garden was out of town and would have been closed, so I instead decided to walk through the main street. It was a bit like every other country town in Australia really; several pubs and an ad hoc mixture of family owned shops in old buildings and large multinational franchises. Only the pubs and ‘Bi-lo’ were open, so I went there and got myself some thongs for the shower in Boorowa – I didn’t fancy exposing my feet to the kind of germs that would be present in a caravan park shower block.

By about 10:30pm almost everyone was back, and we all fell asleep pretty quickly, to a cacophony of snorers

Days 2 and 3 to follow. Stay tuned.