What colour is independence? And why do I instantly think it’s orange? What’s more, why do I even want to know?

Sleepily, I roll over on my Lilo and crack open an eye. A hot bright light shrinks my pupil, as it burns through the milky orange walls of our tent, flooding the tiny space we sleep in. Well, I suppose that’s one reason I think independence might be orange.

Nicky hears the rubbery squelch as I roll over and turns to face me. “Morning,” she says.

“Morning,” I say, as I have done for the last 30 odd years. “It’s hot in here isn’t it, feels like it might be a decent day.”

“That would be amazing after last night, did you hear it? really hammered it down.”

We are both buoyed up by the prospect of warm sun; getting up on a wet morning takes a real effort. If the overnight rain has cleared this is great news. If we had an excitement dial it might be showing a solid eight. I unzip the inner tent, reach over last night’s beer cans and empty crisp packets and unzip the outer tent, helpfully releasing the overnight fug we’ve created, and allowing more wholesome air to flood in.

This first action of the day reveals a sky that wouldn’t have looked out of place on The Simpsons. Brilliant white dumplings are floating across the vivid blue sea above, teasingly they hide the fierce orange sun and then release its power again moments later. I bet the sun feels independent.

We haul ourselves out of our cocoons, and survey lasts night’s teacups that are now half full of rainwater. It must have properly chucked it down. The grass is soaking wet and chilly on my bare feet as I tiptoe over to a camp chair to put on my shoes and socks. Unlike in our stone home, we have a shoes-off policy in our nylon one. Anyway, it’s impossible to get shoes on in a two-man hiking tent. Thankfully we turned the chairs over last night before crawling into our pits, so I don’t get a wet bum and toes before breakfast.

We happily slot into our morning routine. The silent packing dance is performed at the same time as we munch on our cereal bars and slurp tepid tea from our hideously stained cups. A final check that there’s no trace of our stay, except for the flattened and dry patch of grass we slept on, then it’s time to head on again. We wave to the man sweeping outside the campsite bar, then commence the well-practiced starting ritual. We slip through the gears and quickly reach cruising speed, with the familiar thrumming sound of wind in our ears. However, before our hearts and lungs fully realise that they’re being asked to perform yet again, we frustratedly haul on the anchors and grind to a halt.

Somehow, we’re now on the hard shoulder of a busy dual carriageway. Morning rush-hour commuters and time-pressured delivery drivers are flying past us, inches away. We’ve been ‘Komooted’ and to add to the fun it’s just started raining again.

After leaving home 32 days ago and pedalling 1100 miles from the Mendip Hills of Somerset, our navigation app’ Komoot has decided it’s the perfect time to give us another set of bum directions. We look at each other and indicate, by raising damp eyebrows, that this is most definitely the other one’s fault. Of course, we both know apportioning blame is pointless, we just need to sort ourselves out. Again.

With the excitement dial now firmly reading sub three, and our shower proof jackets already allowing water through on the shoulder seams, we haul our weary bodies and soggy belongings over the Armco crash barrier, and push back through the long, wet verge. A determined cross-country trudge towards a pedestrian bridge enables us to pass over the morning stampede and into a shopping mall carpark. We can regroup here.

This is not the picture we had in in our minds when we first talked about going on a ‘Safe adventure’ - when the dangerous question, “What are we going to do with our lives now?” was first mooted.

Experience has taught us that what we need is more breakfast. We lock all our possessions to a trolley park railing and go hunting. The cheery looking man behind the counter of the supermercado café smiles as he observes the two old people squelching towards him. He graciously interprets our pointing, smiling, and hapless attempts at his language, then serves us with a couple of espressos and a big slice of what turns out to be ‘Tortilla’ or Spanish omelette. We find a table, take a breath and smile at each other; food always helps; things are starting to look better again.

When we emerge from the café, the sun is fighting back and burning away the rain clouds. A few minutes later we’re gliding past the sea-front hotels of San Sebastian on the impressive La Concha Promenade. Steam is rising from our backs and we’re heading west along the Basque coast, with smiles on our sun and wind hewn faces again; post children, post serious jobs, and pushing 60, our new life within a life, is back on track. For now, anyway

Until our mid-fifties, our marriage was relatively conventional. There had been the six-year affair with the ‘Nautical beauty’ from Cornwall, but we had stuck together and moved on from that dalliance. However, once our children were independent, we wondered if we should change things up a bit, be brave. Reinvent ourselves. Would adding a third member restore our ‘Joie de vivre’, and give a renewed purpose to the next season of our lives? We would never know until we tried, so we took the plunge and dived head long, into a new marital adventure. Four years on and the three of us are still together. I’ll let our newest member have her say and fill in more of the story to date.

I’ll introduce myself in a moment, but I like to think that since becoming part of this family, I’ve brought a balance and togetherness that they had not experienced before. The original ‘deux’ in our ‘menage à trois’ are Chris and Nicky Clark, married for 30 years before I rolled along, parents to Dan, Matt, Olly, and Freya, and grandparents to three and counting.

I won’t talk much about their life before me, I’m sure they will fill you in during the telling of this story, suffice to say that their family life has been busy, and their work lives have been eclectic.

I think Chris’ confession about his affair, requires more explanation. This ‘Nautical Beauty from Cornwall’ was called Edith, a hooker from Polperro. Apparently, she was a stunner, captivating Chris from the moment he saw her sea-kindly curves reclining on a seaweed covered slipway.

For 6 years she emptied his pockets, with demands for board and lodging, rope, shackles, and paint. In return she made him her captain, and they enjoyed adventures he’d only dreamt of. He claims that this salt-soaked, 105-year-old lady was worth every penny, but inevitably the affair had to end. Apparently, he stroked her gunwales, choked a tearful goodbye, and left her with a new lover, swinging on a mooring at Restronguet; back in Cornwall where she was born.

For 25 years Chris and Nicky, The Wrinklies as I call them, well, they are 50 years older than me, watched nativity plays from tiny chairs, applauded graduations in ever tightening suits, and then marvelled as brand-new grandchildren gripped their fingers.

With more time on their hands, they tried to remember what they did before children; they felt there had to be more to later life than “Ready Steady Cook” and “Countdown”. With a moment of unexpected clarity, Chris distilled their dilemma, “Our children have become independent of us, how do we become independent of our children?” The urge to spice things up and rekindle their relationship, eventually led to a website, where they saw me and unsurprisingly fell in love.

They were measured, weighed, and quizzed before we could meet. They spent an hour riding one of my sisters up and down the lanes of Bridgwater, to see if they could handle me. After a shaky start they managed to ride her satisfactorily, and we were then allowed to meet. Let me give you my vital statistics. I'm a Thorn, Raven Twin, with a 14-speed Rohloff hub gear. Born in Bridgwater, I'm a flame orange, custom made, touring tandem. They called me Edith as well, and I think it suits me. Edith the hooker sounds like an amazing lady - I wish I’d met her.

So far, we’re a mostly happy threesome. Our first practice trip was a gentle 100-mile, round trip to Lyme Regis and back. He complained about his knees hurting, she hated the traffic. They were better on a longer trip to Falmouth, visiting family, where incidentally we were within spitting distance of where Edith the hooker now lives. There have been a couple of other good trips, but it’s now 2023 and I’ll leave the story with them. I will chip in however, when I feel you are being misled and I need to put the record straight. For clarity, when I write it will be in orange italics, and you’ll see this picture.

Prologue

Doritos, Dilemmas & Destinations