My forks had been damaged by baggage handlers and it didn’t look like the front wheel would fit back in. I will admit to some choice language at this point but no way was I giving in. So with a wooden chock and a technique that would make any cycle mechanic cry, I eventually forced the wheel in. The holiday was on.

After some enigmatic photographs on the banks of the Danube and being struck on the head by an errant horse chestnut we were underway. The first thing we noticed was the amazing cycling infrastructure. Well engineered hard surfaced cycle paths, cycling specific traffic light systems, secure bike parking and well-designed clear signposts. Not that this helped us as we struggled to find our way out of Budapest taking the wrong branch of the Danube but still it was heading south so not too much of a problem.

Early afternoon we decided to stop for a drink and happened upon a small shop, well I say shop it was really a garden with a couple of picnic chairs and a fridge. Still it sold cheap beer which made me happy. A couple of locals and the lady owner were also happy with the beer and looked like they’d been happy all afternoon and suddenly an idea struck them. “Pumpa pumpa pumpa” they exclaimed to me. After conversing in the international convention of hand signals I worked out the lady had a flat on her bike and wanted to borrow my pump. Cyclist karma is a powerful magic so I pumped up the offending wheel and was rewarded with 4 cans of free beer. Of course I really didn’t want the extra weight but I begrudgingly accepted and we rode on.

At Rackeve we left the wrong branch of the Danube and turned east. We saw a sign for a bridge to cross the correct branch and headed towards it. There wasn’t a bridge, it was a ferry. We’d never seen one of these before and because it was a Sunday we were worried it wouldn’t be running or be expensive. Our worries were unfounded and for a few Forint we crossed on a lovely warm evening.

The original plan had been to ride to Lake Balaton. Well Julies plan had been to ride to Lake Balaton and it now became obvious we wouldn’t get there that day and so we decided on Lake Velence and without much trouble found accommodation on the lake shore, in a huge Communist era hotel in which I still think we were the only guests. An amazing sunset later we had some great local cuisine, a bottle of Egri Bikaver and talked about the day. The joy of touring was back, we already had stories to tell and memories to savour and baggage handlers and homicidal conkers hadn’t stopped us.