Tour

Our original thought was to cycle tour through Italy. Then we mused that a mountain bike road trip might be more like us. The thought of combining the two didn't really emerge until the drive train on my touring bike imploded during a test outing in the Black Forest.

I teach German and a bit of junior French at high school. My French was pretty rough so I decided to apply for, and was fortunate enough to get, a Ministry of Education 'language immersion scholarship' to the south of France. Not content with just sunning it and soaking up the language, food and local vintages for three months - I decided to take my bike along as company.

The ancient Greeks named it after Callista (the most beautiful one), Phoenician sailors called it Kersica (covered by forests), but we call it Corsica. Nestled in the Mediterranean Sea between France and Italy, the island of Corsica is a rugged corner of old Europe.

Like most of Europe, Spain has long been influenced by the ebb and flow of humanity. In the ninth century the church had the good fortune to 'rediscover' the remains of Saint James near the town that became Santiago.

The orange glow of the setting sun is reflected in the towering cliffs ahead. Darkness is gathering, and as the narrow road winds around another corner I wonder if we'll find the village we're looking for before dark.

While making wedding plans and sifting through glossy brochures touting honeymoon-type resorts, Shane and I hastily reassured each other that none of that soft stuff was for us. At some stage Cuba bumped the radar.

When my partner Pam mumbled "cycle touring" between gulps of rough red, I waited for the previously hinted at trip through Arthur's Pass to resurface. But no, Myanmar was now on the radar.

I can still vividly recall the iconic TV footage of people dangling from helicopter skids as the Americans abandoned the Saigon embassy at the end of the Vietnam War. The place held a fascination for me, what with all the movies and books I'd devoured, and its tantalising taboo status for casual travellers.

John O'Groats is a miserable place - relentlessly punished by cruel Arctic winds. It's literally miles from anywhere and it has taken us a full day to ride here through undulating, featureless agricultural land. Its claim to fame is being mainland Great Britain's northern-most point, although technically that honour belongs to a little bay a mile to the east.

I started in Antananarivo, the capital, located bang in the centre of the country. From 'Tana' I headed south and west on the RN7 until I eventually hit Toliara on the coast.

In the last decade Ireland has reinvented itself as the tiger economy of a brave new Europe. We were keen to experience the country's uniqueness before the perils of globalisation quashed its weird ways. Plus it appeared to be small, green and flat - always good attributes for cycle touring.

At the suggestion of winter last year, Fraser and I hastily arranged a trip across the Tasman in search of less severe overnight lows and new terrain to explore by bike. South Australia appealed.