Paris - London - Great Malvern - home: day 21
It'd been three weeks.
I'd peddled, and caught a couple of trains, and at 6 am on day 21, I was stood in the corridor of one of them, leaning against the window and watching the mist clear as the sun rose.
I'd slept okay; washed in the funny little cubicles they have on sleeper trains, and watched as France flicked past the window.
Town after town, all small; all looking the same. Only once did I see a sign that gave the name of a place.
Avricourt.
I grinned and laughed.
As far as I'm aware, Avricourt is the only place I went through twice on my journey. I'd cycled past its church a couple of weeks before, only noting the name because it's so close to Agincourt. What were the chances I'd have looked out to see it as the train ripped through?
After that, I climbed back into my berth and grabbed another couple of hours sleep.
We arrived into Paris late, but still with plenty of time to spare for my connection.
I checked in my bike (if you're ever using the Eurostar to repatriate your bicycle, make sure you've got a good half an hour more than you'd normally assign. It's a long walk to the Eurodispatch point at the end of platform 2; there are no signs, and the guys running the show? There are cigarettes to be smoked before anything can be done. Priorities, yeah?), before heading to the departure lounge.
After so long travelling, hours kind of melt away, so it wasn't such a long wait.
I spent my last Euros on coffee and two pastries, before settling onto train number 3.
As far as I'm aware, the Eurostar is witchcraft.
You're in France. It all goes dark. Then you're in Kent. Without getting wet!
I whiled away the time talking to the woman in the seat next to me.
It turns out, I'm probably going to meet her boyfriend in the next couple of weeks. He's about to start the final year of his History doctorate at the same university that I'm about to start my first. Funny old world.
Then I was back in London, struggling through St Pancras with my panniers and bungees. I collected my bike (shockingly quickly - great service), reattached my stuff, stopped for selfies (obviously), and headed down the Euston Road to Paddington.
M&S provided a late lunch and Caffè Nero a large and necessary coffee. I was flagging again.
I caught the 16:42 to Great Malvern, the end of the line.
I know that route incredibly well and each station felt like a pat of the back.
Then I got a phone call from a good friend.
'Where are you on the line?'
'Worcester Foregate Street, why?'
'I'm on the train waiting for yours to come out of the station.' I laughed.
'Right, I'm in the last carriage. I'll wave.'
'This is the saddest game in history.'
I could agree more, but it was fun. This was the friend who'd told me I was going to be killed by an Italian truck driver, so I knew he was more pleased than he'd say that I'd made it back in one piece. We ended up waving at a blur of glass and paint work, but that's not the point.
My friends have been quietly but consistently supportive, and having that interaction with one as I made my final approach into Malvern was satisfying.
I wheeled my bike off the platform, and climbed onto it.
The sun had set and the sky was a soft peach, darkening to blue above. A perfect pale gold moon hung above the horizon. It was the most beautiful of the trip, and I stopped to take photographs before pushing for home.
5 miles later, I was in the village with Thin Lizzy in my ears.
Then I was on the driveway.
I rolled past the cars and onto the grass and jumped off the bike (no metaphor; my lace caught and I nearly totalled myself, but managed to rescue it... it was smooth... no, really, it was), then that was it. I was finished. I was home.
There was hot foot and a hot bath and a bed and shed loads of post to open. There was a family to greet.
"Where'd you go?"
"Oh, not so far. Venice."
"Fair enough."
