It’s a hard slog to get to Antwerp, and we arrive with stiff legs and sore arses. My tired old GPS unit shows us crossing the river Scheldt on a bike route running right by the motorway. It must be an enormous bridge – the river is nearly half a kilometre across at this point. But as we get closer, there is no bridge in sight. My old Garmin device can be a glitchy little shithead at times, but it cannot possibly have invented a 400m long bridge. Bike signs direct us on a downward slope, and it doesn’t make any sense until we turn a corner and see a lift with half a dozen bikes in a queue for it. We wait our turn, and the lift takes us deep down underground and deposits us into a tunnel that runs underneath the river bed. The motorway does the same. It will surprise nobody at all that this is partly the result of German engineering. The cool air in the tunnel helps my aching legs and saddle sores, which are all on fire.

We’re in Antwerp for the Labour Day public holiday, and there’s glorious weather and a lovely market. We visit the incredibly impressive cathedral, which houses some Rubens masterpieces amongst some other incredible art and architecture. Even Richard enjoys it.

Belgium though is unbelievably expensive. We treat ourselves to a couple of restaurant meals, and even though we avoid expensive places, I would say that for two people with a main course and a drink each, the bill is at least 20 euro more than in France.

The camping shop in Antwerp can’t guarantee when the item we’re searching for will arrive, and after waiting a couple of days we can’t leave it any longer, so aim for Dusseldorf instead. The break does us the world of good though, and we recover enough to make the next few days much less painful.

Feeling a little more upbeat, and in less agony, I’m motivated to do all the little adjustments to my bike that I’d been putting off until “next time.” In the time between knowing I need to do them and “next time” they all just become bigger problems. My bar ends were slightly too tilted on one side, and that went from some pins and needles to shooting pain through my left shoulder. Next up, saddle position, and there’s some instant relief from that adjustment.

There’s some nice riding along river bike paths, somewhat spoilt by the number of massive groups of road cyclist charging everywhere and giving very little space. We stop at a cafe beside the river for a morning fix, and ordering in French is met with disdain. We hadn’t really appreciated the difference between Wallonia and Flanders before, having mostly travelled in the former, but there is some hostility between the regions.

At our final camping spot in Belgium, we meet a couple of Dutch tandem bikers who are spending their Bank Holiday weekend doing a cycling trip. When we say where we’re from one of them is effusive about how much she loves the UK. When I respond with (at best) a look of scepticism, she replies with “Ah, you don’t see it. The UK is beautiful and I think the people are wonderful.” They seemed otherwise sane.

We cycle into Holland the next day, and stay there just the one night. In the morning we pass through Roermond, where the national festival celebrating the end of Nazi occupation is taking place in the town square. It is the 80^th anniversary of VE day this week, with the Netherlands’ annual commemoration – Liberation Day/Bevrijdingsdag – taking place on 5^th May. This part of Holland was at the front line of fighting in Operation Grenade, which was the start of the Allied invasion of Germany. Roermond itself was liberated by the 35^th US Infantry Division, and part of the day’s parade include several US army vehicles from that time.

We cross to Germany later that day, with just a small sign marking an inconspicuous border.

Our stop for the night is at a rural campsite. Once we pitch up, a German guy wanders over to welcome us unrestrainedly, telling us where we might eat, shop, visit and ride, giving us tips on how to get more hot water from the shower and offering up leaflets and takeaway menus. He finishes up by telling us that “If you want anything you can just ask me if I’m here. If I’m not here you can’t ask me.” Who says the Germans don’t have a sense of humour?

The first bit of cycling in Germany takes us through forested parks and nature reserves, where we see deer, but not the eagles which are most famous here. It’s tranquil, beautiful and gives us the first small hills we’ve encountered so far. Our fitness has already improved, and Richard also mentions that his knee has given him no trouble at all, and in fact feels really strong. I suggest that we go and cross the Alps. He tries to temper my wild ideas a bit. This is how we usually decide where we’ll go.

We both agree that it is far too cold at night. Richard’s knee is strong for cycling, but the cold is giving him problems, nor is it doing any good for my joints or my mood. So somewhat predictably, we’ve now changed our plans. We want to go south in search of warmer nights, the wind at our backs and the beautiful Rhine in Germany, that we know we love. This plan is strengthened after a gnarly ride into Dusseldorf and over some weissbier and an enormous meal of schnitzel.

A playlist for the ride: