Brazilian music, old friends, Belgian Food, and the first Letter to Europe
I woke up in Brussels after one of the most unexpected and beautiful evenings of the journey so far.
The night before, I had arrived at Alistair, Laurence and and Gaëlle’s place after cycling from Gravaalbos into the city. I had expected to pitch my tent in their garden, but Brussels had other plans for me. There was a neighbours’ feast in the street, long tables outside, food, music, children playing, people talking, and the kind of community atmosphere that makes a city feel like a village.
Then the rain arrived, and once again kindness changed the plan.
Instead of sleeping outside, Alistair and Laurence offered me their huge and very comfortable sofa in the living room.
After five days on the road, that sofa felt like luxury.
The next morning started slowly. I stayed with Alistair, Laurence, and Gaëlle for breakfast, conversation, and a little time to catch up with the expedition website and online content. Already, the journey was teaching me that cycling across Europe is not only about moving forward. Sometimes it is also about accepting the pauses, because the pauses are where the people are.
By the time I packed the bike again, it was later than planned.
But I was still in Brussels, and there was no need to rush.
That day, I was not leaving the city. I was simply moving from the east side of Brussels towards the north-west, where I would stay for the next three days with Kristel and her son, Jonas.
So I cycled slowly.
And for once, slowly felt perfect.
Brussels unfolded around me in layers. Wide streets, canals, bridges, old buildings, neighbourhoods changing character as I moved through them, people going about their Saturday, traffic, bicycles, shopfronts, cafés, languages, and the constant sense of a city that belongs to many stories at once.
I stopped often to take photos and capture little moments on camera.
This was the first capital city of the expedition, and I wanted to feel it properly. Not only as a place to pass through, but as a place to listen to.
Somewhere towards the city centre, I heard music.
Not background music. Not the distant sound of a busker.
This was joyful, alive, full of rhythm.
I followed the sound and found a Brazilian event taking place in the street. There was a band playing Latin music, singers performing Brazilian songs, people dancing, food stalls, colour, movement, and a feeling of happiness everywhere.
For a moment, I forgot that I was on a long expedition.
I stood there with the loaded bike, surrounded by music and people dancing, and simply watched.
There was joy everywhere.
People were smiling, singing, dancing, eating, and celebrating. The Brazilian flags, the music, the food, the voices, the colours, all of it created a little pocket of warmth in the middle of Brussels.
This is one of the beautiful things about Europe. You arrive in a Belgian capital city and suddenly find yourself inside a Brazilian celebration. Cultures meet. Communities gather. People bring their food, their music, their language, their memories, and their joy into the streets of another country.
As I was filming and photographing the event, a lady in a traditional Brazilian outfit noticed me.
She took my hand and asked me to follow her into the shop.
They had seen my bicycle outside, fully loaded, with the expedition signs, and they wanted to know my story.
So I told them.
I told them that I had left London to cycle around 23,000 kilometres across 41 European countries. I told them that the journey was in memory of my mum, who I lost to cancer. I told them that I was raising awareness around cancer prevention and fundraising in aid of the World Cancer Research Fund.
And once again, the road answered with kindness.
They offered me free food and refreshments.
Just like that.
No ceremony. No expectation. Just curiosity, generosity, and human warmth.
I had stopped to capture a moment of music. I left with food, drink, encouragement, and another reminder that this journey is already being carried by people I had never met before.
After a while, I continued towards Kristel’s home.
Kristel and I are both members of the Welcome To My Garden community, a network where people open their gardens to travellers who are looking for a place to pitch a tent. It is such a simple idea, but on the road it means a great deal. A garden is not just a patch of grass. It is safety. It is rest. It is trust.
When I arrived, Kristel welcomed me with a traditional Belgian dish: Meatballs à la Brabançonne.
She had prepared it especially for that day.
That touched me deeply.
When someone cooks for you, especially when you are travelling, it becomes more than a meal. It becomes a welcome. It says: you are not just passing through. For this evening, you belong here.
The food was delicious.
It also felt beautifully aligned with the spirit of the expedition. This journey began with memories of my mum and her cooking. Food has always been at the centre of the story, not as something separate from health, culture, and community, but as the place where all of those things meet.
Kristel’s meal reminded me of that again.
Later in the evening, Kristel took me for a walk around the area. We ended up at the local community centre and had a drink. It was a quiet, lovely evening, the kind that allows conversation to open naturally.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
Inside the community centre there was a theatre. At some point, a door opened and around 100 people filled the room, speaking Greek.
Greek.
In a Brussels suburb.
What were the odds?
I had cycled from London, through France and Belgium, arrived at the home of a host I had met through Welcome To My Garden, gone for a walk in her neighbourhood, ended up in a local community centre, and suddenly found myself surrounded by Greek voices because a theatre play for Greeks was taking place there.
The world is small.
Or perhaps the road makes it feel small.
I stood there amazed, listening to a language that carries home for me. After days of moving through new places, new sounds, and new streets, Greek appeared suddenly in the middle of Brussels, like a small door opening back towards Athens.
It was incredible.
Kristel was also an avid and very experienced hiker, and over the next days she gave me advice that would change the way I travelled.
She looked at my equipment with the eyes of someone who knows what it means to carry weight over distance. She immediately saw what could be improved. Heavy gear. Too much clothing. Items that were not made for long-distance outdoor travel.
And then there was the towel.
I had brought a bulky, heavy home towel.
I still remember her surprise when she saw it.
In my mind, it was just a towel. In her mind, it was unnecessary weight and unnecessary volume. She explained that hiking and camping gear exists for a reason. It is not only about comfort. It is about making the whole journey more sustainable for the body.
When you are cycling across Europe on a loaded bike, every extra kilogram matters.
Every piece of fabric matters.
Every duplicate item matters.
Every heavy object you thought was harmless becomes part of the weight you push up every hill.
Kristel’s advice was golden.
The next morning, my dear friend Andrew arrived. He had driven all the way from London to Brussels to visit another friend of ours, Aggelos, who had moved to Brussels from Athens shortly after Andrew and I moved to London.
Andrew picked me up from Kristel’s place, and we went to meet Aggelos in central Brussels.
I had not seen Aggelos for more than ten years.
Seeing him again was very emotional.
There are friendships that carry entire chapters of your life inside them. Aggelos belongs to my Athens years, to a younger version of myself, to memories from before London, before this expedition, before so many things changed. Seeing him again in Brussels, while I was in the middle of this journey, felt like two different lives meeting in the same room.
We spent the morning talking about our lives abroad and remembering our younger years in Athens.
Time had passed. We had changed. We had left Greece, built lives elsewhere, carried our own struggles, our own stories, our own versions of survival.
And yet, sitting together again, something familiar returned.
Friendship has a way of collapsing time.
After spending the morning with Andrew and Aggelos, I went back to Kristel’s and prepared to cycle to the Atomium.
This was an important moment.
At the Atomium, I would record my first Letter to Europe.
Brussels was the first capital city of the expedition, and the first message would be about Unity.
It was a cloudy day, and hundreds of people were visiting Belgium’s iconic landmark. The Atomium rose above the park like a symbol from the future, metal spheres connected by lines, a structure that seems to speak about connection before you even know its history.
It felt right for Brussels.
It felt right for the first letter.
Unity.
This journey is not only about cycling across countries. It is about asking what each capital city can teach us about how to live better, healthier, kinder, and more connected lives.
In Brussels, the lesson felt clear.
Unity is not abstract when you are on the road.
Unity is a woman offering you lemonade when she sees you stopped with a bicycle.
Unity is neighbours closing a street and sharing food.
Unity is a Brazilian community filling a Brussels street with music.
Unity is a Belgian host cooking for a stranger.
Unity is Greek voices suddenly appearing in a local theatre.
Unity is old friends crossing borders to meet again.
So at the Atomium, with the bike beside me and the first days of the journey already behind me, I recorded the first Letter to Europe.
A message from Brussels.
A message for healthier lives, cancer prevention, and a future without cancer.
The next day, Monday 8 June, Kristel took me to a local shop specialising in outdoor and sports equipment.
The first thing I bought was a microfibre towel.
It was three times larger than my home towel, ten times smaller in volume, and feather light.
It was such a simple change, but it symbolised something bigger.
This expedition would require adaptation.
I could not carry old habits across 23,000 kilometres. I could not hold on to things simply because I had packed them in London. The road would teach me what was necessary and what was not.
Since then, with Kristel’s advice, I have reduced the weight of my bike by more than 10 kilograms.
That is not a small thing.
A lighter bike means less strain on the body. Less pressure on the knees. Less effort on climbs. Less fatigue at the end of each day. More chance of continuing.
Sometimes the journey changes because of a dramatic event.
Sometimes it changes because someone looks at your towel and tells you the truth.
Brussels gave me many things.
It gave me music.
It gave me food.
It gave me old friends.
It gave me Greek voices in an unexpected place.
It gave me the Atomium and the first Letter to Europe.
It gave me Kristel, Jonas, and a lesson in carrying less.
Most of all, it gave me the feeling that this expedition was beginning to become what I had hoped it would be.
Not just a ride.
A moving conversation.
A journey through people, food, kindness, memory, health, and hope.
Day 6 was not about distance.
It was about connection.
And perhaps that was exactly what Brussels needed to teach me before I moved on.
Unity does not always begin with grand ideas.
Sometimes it begins with a meal.
A song.
A friend.
A host.
A shared language.
A lighter towel.
A bicycle bell beneath the Atomium.
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