Pre Dash - Rail and Sail

For the least taxing of cycle tours, the particularly flat section of the Nord Zee Coastal Route is hard to beat. In fact, this route is so flat that taking a step into a cafe will double your day’s elevation. Apart from a couple of bridges and aforementioned steps, you will find very little in the way of hillage between The Hook of Holland and Dunkerque. Though, if you go east to west, you may encounter a fierce headwind and so the reverse route maybe preferable. This short trip covers roughly 160 miles of quiet cycle routes, most of which are on dedicated cycle paths and convey you along surprisingly spectacular scenery – and all of it man-made.

Rail and Sail

This is a deal offered by a combination of Stena Line, Greater Anglia, and the Dutch railway, NS. The night-crossing starts at a basic £65 (2014) or thereabouts, a price that includes rail travel from any Greater Anglia station to Harwich International, the boat fare, a mandatory cabin (£30 for a single), and a single train journey from the ferry to anywhere in Holland. 

Several evening trains from Liverpool Street head to Harwich – be aware of the stopper that requires a change at Manningtree. Boarding at the ferry is very quick and you can do so two hours before the boat casts off/sets sail etc.

The boat is very new and there are still washing instruction labels stuck here and there. The single cabin is great value with a nice desk upon which, if you feel so inclined, you can write a very original novel involving a large boat. There is also free wifi everywhere and the wee cabin has very nice en suite facilities. However, the ferry's is not cheap food and drink wise. A beer is nearly a fiver a pint and tea at the Ritz is probably cheaper than the full breakfast priced at £12.99 – though there is plenty of variety and loads of it so slip a bin-liner into your pocket as a supersize doggy bag.

The crossing was especially smooth for what is a notoriously rough section of the channel, being, as it is, at the junction with the North Sea.

Handy mappage for route: Michelin 511, 532 and 533 and OS179.

Day One : Hook Van Holland – Vlissingen.

Having arrived at 7.45 O'clock hours am local time, disembarkation for the twenty or so bikes stowed on the racks deep in the bowels of the boat was very, er, constipated, taking the best part of half an hour. Once out, we were greeted by a tiny port. We had heard on the grapevine that signposts for the NZCR would be immediately visible.Of course, the sign was nowhere to be seen and so we crossed the level crossing – the NS railway station is bang next to the ‘port’ – and took a right into Prinz Hendrikstraat. A feral youth serving behind the counter of a fairly large cycle shop in said thoroughfare, said he’d never heard of the NZCR. Well, I bet he had but was just being difficult. He suggested I return to the ferryport and seek out a little Macadammed (my word, not the ne’er-do-well’s) path in its environs. Ignoring his surly advice, we continued along Prinz whatisface’s straat until we picked up the required signage, indicating cycle paths to the right. 

In the time it takes to say Maeslantkeringweg, we were cycling tight by the Rhine on the Maeslantkeringweg and heading east towards Maassluis. This stretch of water was, for many years, home to the busiest port complex in the world, if not the universe. The Rhine Delta-Eurpoort-Rotterdam agglomeration accommodates vast oil refineries and fuel storage along with the usual container-stuffed docks – and, admittedly, not normally the stuff of genteel cycle touring. But, as industrial landscapes go, it is quite spectacular what with the massive river and its heavy traffic. Did pong a bit though and the ochre stain of a chemical horizon looked decidedly noxious.

Forty minutes along the bank, the Maassluis ferry at 1.25 euros crosses the Rhine to an islet and Rozenbourg. This ride is a boat version of trying to run across the Euston Road at rush hour.

A cycle path takes you west, around a housing estate and into a brief spot of countryside (including pheasants) before you turn east to cross the river to the mainland over an imposing drawbridge. 

The route continues among motorways by way of an elevated cycle path. These well-maintained, separate cycle paths, complete with handy traffic lights, should be the benchmark for every other country.

After Totaal Footbaall, Golden Eaaaaring and tuulips, bicycles make Holland famous. And, everyone is on one – in all manner of shapes and sizes. The Dutch bike industry hasn't much presence in the UK. Bike design is for the flat, often with handlebars you lean on rather than hold and with cute baskets and pannier combos.

Once away from the motorways and port we were able to enjoy quiet lanes and canal paths as we aimed for Hellevoetsluis. From there we made our way up through Quack, passing by the sinister Fort Haerlem, to Haringvietdam, the first of the stormvloedkering – the storm/flood barriers that protect south Holland from the seas that flooded the area in 1953. 

These barriers are enormous and do what they say on the tin by plugging the gaps between the four fingers of the Delta. They also create vast natural parks and space for messing about on the water. Huge, graceful wind turbines take advantage of the persistent wind and are no more obnoxious or numerous as the quaint wooden jobbies are and were two hundred years ago.

The cycle path is separate from the road as it takes you to Goeree Overflakkee, the second finger down of the delta. We stopped for coffee in the quaint town of Goedereede before taking a cycle path around through the northern dunes to the next dam, Brouwersdam, to traverse Grevelingenmeer to Schouwen Duiveland for lunch at Renesse.

The third and final stormvloedkering, connecting Schouwen Duiveland to Noord Beveland, is the 5-mile long Oosterscheldekering, described in some parts as the seventh or eighth wonder of the modern world. It is a mind-blowing sight – Man’s manipulation of the elements, temporarily at least, to take the edge off high tides.

Fortunately, we’d crossed The Delta on a sunny and virtually windless day. The prevailing wind in these parts is a south-westerly and throw in some rain, this 50 miles could be a drag.

Vlissingen is a small resort and that is about it. There is the ferry to Breskens, a few cannons, and a windmill on the front. We had a few beers and an average pizza in the town square and hit the sack in the pleasant De Ruiter Hotel, with its vertical staircase, slightly cramped twin room but great breakfast.

Vlissingen to Dunkerque

During the night, the tickly cough turned into a mild fever but the intrepid N shrugged off the worst of it. With a hop, skip and a jump, however awkward on a bike, we were at the ferry terminal for the 10.05 to Breskens. The ferry is east along the front, past The Three Cannons and The Windmill (not a pub) and over a lock gate. Veolia, who also run the dustcarts in Camden, operates the service. Four euros with the bike and a twenty-minute crossing over to the little bit of Holland that remains before Belgium.

Here the NZCR goes inland and along a canal from Sluis into Bruges. As we approached Sluis, N heard a crack like a whip cracking away, which, after looking around for something that may or may not have fallen from his steed, turned out to have been the playful sound of spoke snapping on the back wheel’s drive side. I’d suggested that I bring my chain whip but where do you draw the line on tools and spares? Spoke replacement can involve big spanners and other miscellany and, along with other choice just-in-case toolage, all of a sudden you’re a mobile hardware store. Just the one down and thirty-one sharing the load, we carried on.
The canal is the Damse Vaart Kanaal Oost then Zuid as it crosses the unfortunately named Leopoldsvaart Kanaal. They are many other interesting Dutch words:

I am sure there are many English words such as basket, filing cabinet and teaspoon that are hilarious Dutch words, probably .

Many, many years ago, a forward thinking Belgian planted hundreds of tiny, tiny saplings along the banks of this functional but dreary canal just so that many, many years later, the likes of N and myself would think that the canal and its cycle path hemmed with rows of massive trees were very photogenic. As an added bonus, the likes of N and myself were a wee bit perplexed as to the mystery of why there were so many trees.

Bruges and its famed Markt, was ram-a-jam and a shock after the vast spaces of the Delta. So the main thing to do in Bruges, in our case, was get out sharpish.

N’s sterling fight against his fever was beginning to wane and we were trundling along at 11mph. I'd have started crying and caught the train had it been me.

We had thought to visit Dixmuide and its WW1 trenches but speed was now of the essence and we headed west to Veurne. After a forgettable lunch of chips and skewered meat, we entered the graveyard shift as we cycled into an irritating headwind beneath a gloomy sky and dropped to 8mph. 

After a cuppa in Veurne, N’s spirits and the pace picked up for the 20 miles to the hotel. Dunkerque is a lot bigger than it seems on the map (obviously it is not couple of inches across) and it was 7.30pm when we got to St Pol sur Mer and the poorly located Premiere Class – and the poorly located Mer that was nowhere to be seen, being three miles north. I am certain the real name for this place was St, Pol sur Merde but they have dropped the 'de' over the years. This place was about as low budget as you can get without having to share a dormitory with fifty bubbly backpackers. The man at reception was adamant that the best place for the bikes was in the room, if not chained to us in the beds. We had to reorganise the room to squeeze the steeds in then walk a couple of miles only to find there nothing to eat except more cheese-drizzled starch (pizza). N, having spent the day fighting the fever, now had to fight the urge to say something involving several short words.
During the night there were rustlings and whisperings from outside the door and a general low level but sinister barkage (a term usually applied only to campsites) but no-one had snuck in during the night and whipped our gear. I imagine burglars would have got lost trying to find the place.

Day Three St. Pol to Canterbury

The cheap and reasonably plentiful breakfast was a surprise given the pathetic promotional picture of its meagre offerings that was stuck on the toilet door in our room. But, after du pain with nutella, du café, du light and airy rolls with honey, yoghurt, lemon cake, some strange apple puree, more du café, our levels of stodge returned to dangerously high and so, with a wee bit of nutella stuck on the sides of our mouths, we slipped out of the Carrefour car park, the hotel’s unlikely location, and onto the D1.

The continental leg of De Dash finished as it started with the peace and quiet of an oil refinery. The somewhat bizarre route from the hotel along the D1 took us through the industrial wastes of Grand Synthe and Fort Mardyck before we rolled up at the DFDS ferry.

courtesy of N Smith

The boat was choc-a-bloc with continental types in their nice looking Mercs and Beamers eager to enjoy the traffic jams and tailbacks of a British Easter week.

We were back on the saddles at 2pm and heading around to the London Rd. Up through Dover until we hung a right onto a ridiculously steep B-road to Whitfield.

From there, fifteen miles of great cycling down narrow lanes cutting through blankets of rapeseed, blooming in Technicolour yellow, passing olde worlde hophouses, a disused mine's winding house, and the very ancient looking church of St. Nicholas in Barfrestone.
Both these relics of the past were probably eyesores when they first appeared. Now, of course, they are simply charming, aren't they quite.

Cycle route 16 briefly goes traffic-free, between Patrixbourne and Canterbury.

Epilogue
What with leaving the Strava off for some short bits involving ferries, the total mileage was 180 miles with just the one hill up to Whitfield. This trip is doabubble on any kind of bike while wearing trainers and a floppy hat (one with full safety features though), and apart from a few miles in France, the route is car-free. Dunkerque is a fairly forgettable place as a destination. Ypres is a better place to aim for though it leaves a flattish 40 miles or so to the ferry (see Cycling Western Front and Cycling Ypres).

The route featured a good deal of Man's exploitation of nature and his defence against it. In the space of 50 miles were the cause of global warming - the oil - and its consequences - and its consequences the rising sea bearing down upon the stormdams. Intermingled with the shiny modern stuff were the simple but ingenious fuel-less and quaint windmills. Did nimbies of the 16th-19th centuries complain against the humble moulin? - 'not in my cholera and Black Death infested swill pit masquerading as a backyard, pal!'