From China we fly to Bangkok for a few days. By this time we know we’re returning to the UK, so the stop in Bangkok is extraneous and a bit annoying. But it was necessary to book it at the time, because we had to show a flight out of China to be able to get in. We’ve become a bit fed up with always having to have these things booked in advance, when we don’t want to plan ahead and often change plans anyway. It’s been a big difference travelling in the last couple of years that most countries want to see an outward flight before you can enter, and airlines now strictly enforce this. It has made spontaneity difficult and mistakes very expensive.

In the morning we walk through a food market in search of the “Big Pork Rice” stall, sit at a cafe, and I become wistful. Thailand has a particular feel. Even closing my eyes, there’s a combination of smell and sound that is instantly recognisable. It’s been a comfort country for us. As I sit and drink Thai milk tea, which is one of the wonders of the world, I wonder if we’re making the right decision. I get the powerful feeling I want to stay here. Maybe we can set off here again. Even though we’ve spent a huge amount of time in this region, surely there’s more to see? Perhaps we can bike south along the coast, finding different roads. We’ve done it twice before, but it’s one of my favourite places in the world and I don’t want to leave it behind. But, as above, we had to book a flight out to get in, so that ship has sailed. We step outside and walk to a non-food market. It’s now full sun and full humidity and maybe I’ve changed my mind.

Later on we go to a small bar for some beer. It’s quite dark even though it’s the afternoon, and the menu is printed in the smallest font possible. The bar woman realises we can’t read it, and in the absence of anything else brings over a large table lamp so the old people can read the menu. The rest of the place is filled with young locals getting ready for a gig, and it’s sad to now feel so out of place.

Back in the UK, we stay with family in Northern Ireland for a few weeks, and the rest does us the power of good. It feels as though the travel weariness and lassitude have healed. Our decision to carry on travelling is taken somewhat out of our hands, but when it is, it feels like the right thing. When we were in China, I thought we had to stop. We were physically and emotionally spent. When I imagined continuing, even to new places I used to dream of, there was no appetite for it. Now the wanderlust is back, and it’s a bit like being hungry but for travel rather than cake.

We have a commitment in the UK in a few week’s time, but with our feet now itchy again, we decide to set off on a short tour of Belgium and northern France in the meantime.

I love Calais. We’ve left from here on long journeys a couple of times now, so it has an association with adventure and anticipation for me.

We joyously set off across the flat farmland of northern France and Belgium. Beautiful scenery, stunning regional churches and small town architecture, and everything closed for no reason.

It’s cold at night, but great nevertheless to be camping again. I have even missed the European campsite staple of being placed under a billion watt bulb, so when I wake up I think I’ve pitched my tent in a hospital theatre. French campsites rarely have soap, and never have loo seats, but that’s the least of the worries when there’s no loo roll either. 

We’re quite noticeably less fit than when we hauled ourselves up mountains in Yunnan, which means we’re tired enough to rest well through the cold and blinding lights.

We head to a farm campsite in Belgium that we stayed in a few years ago, and loved. Little has changed. We are tired after a long day, but there’s beer, and then platefuls of hearty Flemish food. 

I get my hands on an order form for bread and pastries to pick up in the morning. Richard finds out I ordered a “butter cake” and is annoyed that it’s probably going to be a whole cake, rather than the slice I imagined. I sheepishly tell him I have also ordered a chocolate cake, but really I see absolutely no problem with this. 

We tramp through woods and fields to get to an out of the way British WW1 cemetery. There’s no paved road to it, and spring is not yet in full swing, so the grass tracks are a bit muddy and not yet cut, but the cemetery itself is immaculate, as they always are.

Our next ride takes us through Ypres, which is stunning, and then into horrendous headwind to the Yorkshire dugout, a British underground shelter and trenches dating back to 1915, and only discovered in 1992.

We make our way to another farm camp. The wind is fierce, it’s freezing, and there is a very noisy pony in the next field, but it’s a lovely place. The campsite sells their own beer, there’s a covered barn we can sit and cook in, and the pony is only set off at feeding time. Rather than pack up in the frosty morning, we base ourselves there for a couple of nights and walk or ride to see some of the memorials. The whole Ypres area was a major part of the Western Front in WW1 and is strewn with battle sites, bomb craters, museums, cemeteries and memorials. Seeing the area on bike and on foot means we can stop at the all the smaller places.

Ypres itself is also within cycling range. Still today, and with the exception of the years of German occupation during the Second World War, the Last Post has been sounded at the Menin Gate in Ypres each and every night dating back to 1^st May 1929, in remembrance of the fallen British and Commonwealth soldiers who died in this area in the 1914-1918 war. The Menin Gate itself bears the names of all those missing, whose bodies were never recovered. Every night, traffic stops and the road shuts for the ceremony, as it has done for most of the last 97 years.

The commitment to history, to remembrance, is all around us.

Educated and rejuvenated, we head back to the UK for a few days. After that it’s another long haul journey, across Europe again at first, and I cannot wait.