I bet she’s grateful to warm up, I thought, whilst Josh continued reading of Dervla Murphy’s battle through one of Europe’s coldest winters.
It was 2019, the tail end of winter, and Storm Gareth meant we’d spent the day battling ferocious gusts along coastal roads in Northern France. Exhausted and weather-beaten, we’d collapsed into our tent, a hungry puddle of bodies. Sweaty layers off, stove on, pesto pasta boiled and consumed. We mustered just enough energy for our highlight of the evening: reading Dervla Murphy’s Full Tilt.
Our camping light cast a red glow on the tent’s flapping inner walls. In the distance, waves tumbled upon the beach shore. Immersed in my surroundings, I lay, entrenched, listening to J read, my pale cheeks just visible above my sleeping bag.
It was the captivating story of a 32-year-old Dervla fulfilling her dream of cycling alone from Ireland to India in 1963. It is a tale of rugged determination, self-belief, hardship, kindness… For Josh and I, it’s also a story of reverence and inspiration. Because as we read of this pioneering easterly journey in the sixties, we had just begun our own grand adventure, following in Dervla’s footsteps.
As the storm began to shake our tent walls, we were distracted by Dervla’s exploits. She was battling bitter snow in the Black Forest, Germany, when she was welcomed in by two women, utter strangers, who felt pity and admiration for her.
As Dervla warms up, sipping coffee inside her newly-found sanctuary, I feel my muscles relax. I realise the tension that had accumulated in my jaw and shoulders when they loosen, learning of Dervla’s relief at finding temporary solace.
There were 80 years and borders separating Dervla’s journey from our own. And yet, I felt like I travelled alongside her as the pages unfolded. With every triumph and tribulation, I felt awe and trepidation, transported to a distant land, in a different time.
As our bicycles wound a wiggly route across France, it was difficult to comprehend the vastness of the road ahead. Between us and India lay thousands of miles, hundreds of nights in the tent, countless interactions and a world of unknowns. Admittedly, I was unsure of those uncertainties ahead, but my legs quickly settled into the rhythm of simply riding a little further each day. And it was Dervla’s open-minded attitude that taught me to embrace the uncertainty rather than fear it.
Approaching the Italian Alps, the world changed as the devastation of a global pandemic swept across nations. Being close to loved ones felt more important than ever, so in 2020 we returned to the UK.
Looking back, those years on home soil hold remarkably mixed memories. There was joy in rediscovering Britain: time with family and long walks in the hills. But there were also unexpected setbacks. Delayed hospital operations and melanoma diagnoses pushed the clock back four years. Each time we thought we were ready to leave, something forced us to stay.
By the time Josh was finally given the all-clear, it was mid-November 2024 and winter was knocking on the door. “Wait till spring”, was sound advice from loved ones, but we felt our attention being pulled elsewhere. A seed that was planted long ago. Friends were having babies, getting married and putting up Christmas trees. We were considering buying warmer sleeping bags.
Even to us, leaving so close to J’s final surgery plagued us with doubt. And still, we knew waiting another five months would be harder. So, with equal measures of uncertainty and wanderlust, we began riding east for the third time, hoping to find our way to India.
When that ferry door opened in the Netherlands, it felt as though it gave way to a whole new world of endless possibilities. We’d been on UK soil since 2020. Now, everything was alluring and enticing. The sounds of foreign language, the taste of poffertjes, the sight of endless Dutch bicycle lanes. Free at last, I remember Dervla saying.
The tail end of autumn supplied us with fresh, dewy mornings and a fiery backdrop, powering our legs from the flat Dutch pasturelands all the way into Germany. With confidence spurred, we took the road less travelled, feeling alive as we rambled through dense Bavarian woodlands and camped amongst the trees. Days were free, exuberant, moreish.
Slowly, auburn colours faded, fell and turned to mulch on the floor. Nestled in frosted woodland, I woke to our condensation encasing our fly in a thin layer of ice. I thought of Dervla’s thin sleeping bag and old woollen layers. Slowly, I reached into the cooking bag and set up our stove. The flame ignited, and water began to boil. The hot steam passed over my face to thaw out the tent canvas above. Winter is on its way, I thought to myself.
By the time we reached Austria, winter had its claws in. We opted for a mountain route skirting pristine snow-draped peaks and a frozen wonderland. I’d never spent time in landscapes quite like that.
We trudged our way through virgin snow in empty valleys, pushing, barely covering 15 miles on some days. It was arduous, but as soon as you stopped, a sharp chill sank in, bringing fingers and toes to stubs. Accommodation was expensive so our nights were mostly spent in the tent, pushing the limit of our lightweight sleeping bag. The cold became inescapable. And with it came urgency. Our Schengen Visa was soon to expire, and this put us in a mad, frozen, sleep-deprived rush all the way to the Bosnian border.
Adrenaline and inspiration had kept a fire burning within us; Dervla’s strength and fortitude stood as a guiding principle. But by Bosnia, it all came crashing down. We crossed over the border, a bundle of clammy layers and grime. Whilst the visa situation eased, the cold just kept chasing us.
Having ridden the whole way through winter, we didn’t feel like we could keep moving through sleet and snow, now battling busy roads and speeding cars. Doubts crept in. Why did we leave in winter? This can’t be another failed attempt but do we have the ability to keep facing the cold?
Somewhere, deep inside, we found the hidden embers of self-belief still smouldering inside.
Spring found us, on the calendar at least. Camped in the Bosnian hills, my eyes slowly opened; I heard the gentle patter of snow outside – the cold was definitely chasing us. Reluctant to leave my sleeping bag, I pulled on damp layers, clinging to my skin with the previous day’s sweat. Gradually, bags were packed, and our journey began. Our route weaved toward Montenegro as the days grew warmer.
The 1,000-metre climb to the Bosnian-Montenegro border was bordered with daffodils and blossoms. My sleeves were rolled up and I could see J’s thick winter socks bunched at his ankles as we panted uphill. J wiped sweat from his forehead as he took back our passports from the border official.
“I think I need to take off some layers!”, Josh said with a grin as we pedalled into this new land.
Our route continued to rise and fall, leaving us pink-faced and windswept. The air around was crisp as I drank it into my yearning lungs. We saw signs for Durmitor National Park shortly ahead on our GPS, as the smell of damp pine began to fill the air.
We relish the opportunity to have somewhere safe to park the bikes and explore on foot. Bikes secure, we tumbled down the grassy hillside with the dense treeline in our sights.
Fir wafts as we squelch along the forested track. Snow drapes the surrounding peaks towering 2,000 metres ahead. But around us, only the sodden moss remembers the long-thawed snow that was here weeks ago. J pauses, looking down the shadowed avenue created by the towering trees. In that moment, winter was a place we’d been long ago. 50 metres ahead, the tree line broke, and light poured through a haze of greenery. We’d arrived.
Stepping over the coiled roots, I stood in front of Snake Lake (Zminje Jezero). Grand pines encircled the crystal-clear water, which perfectly reflected the sky above, casting a fluffy, dreamy hue stretching out to its banks. Frogs and toads rhythmically chirped. Somewhere behind, I heard a woodpecker building a new home. I stepped further ahead, into the sunlight and felt its warmth wash away the cold, any apprehensions and doubts quietly dissolving.
Looking back, J sat on a tangle of roots, eyes closed, smiling.
“I feel like we’ve been waiting for this for a while…” J muttered, half to himself.
Take a look at the Snake Lake print here
After so many setbacks, it had been difficult to believe this journey was actually happening. It had endured just over the horizon for so many years… then winter came and, casting a flicker of doubt in me, slowly chiselling away.
Back in 2019, I remember reading about Dervla, having battled through such tribulations in winter, first riding into green plains and blooming wildflowers in Persia. It brought me light-headed, light-hearted exhilaration, almost to the point of song, she wrote.
That feeling had persisted inside me and now, perched with Josh beside this lake, I understood that thawing Dervla felt in herself and the landscape around her. Stories begin as words on a page, and for Dervla, she likely had no idea her letters home would morph into an epic tale of inspiration. But the reverberations of her tale ran deep within me. Unknown encounters and unfamiliar experiences lay ahead. But in this moment, the residue of doubt from winter crept back into the distance.
We were finally on our way.
Loving these longer stories! Great work on the website, it looks fab
Hey Sophie, thank you! And thanks for finding us in our opening days 🙂 Looking forward to sharing more stories!