From the canals of Ghent to a forest bivak zone near Meldert.
I left Ghent with the feeling that I was leaving more than a city.
After two nights with Kevin and his housemates, after the garden, the rain, the bed they kindly offered me, and the meal I cooked for them, Ghent had become part of the journey in a very human way. It was no longer just a beautiful Belgian city on the map. It was a place where strangers had made space for me, where I had rested, dried out, cooked, shared stories, and felt looked after.
That is what makes leaving places difficult on a journey like this.
You arrive tired.
People welcome you.
You begin to feel connected.
Then, almost as soon as that connection begins to form, you pack the bicycle and leave again.
On Day 4, I started making my way towards Brussels.
Brussels was the first capital city of the expedition, and reaching it felt important. It would be the first official capital city message of Cycling Across Europe for a Future Without Cancer. It would be the first time the wider idea of the journey, capital cities, community, cancer prevention, and hope, would begin to take shape on the road.
But I did not want to rush there.
The route from Ghent towards Brussels offered another kind of story first.
I left the beautiful streets and waterways of Ghent and began following the Scheldt River Cycle Path. There is something calming about cycling beside a river. The road feels guided. The water seems to carry the day forward, even when your legs are tired and the bike feels heavy.
The Scheldt became a companion for part of the ride.
After the city, the route opened into quieter landscapes. The movement of Ghent slowly disappeared behind me, replaced by cycle paths, fields, small roads, villages, and the rhythm of the bicycle. This is the kind of riding that does not always look dramatic in photographs, but it is where the expedition breathes.
These are the spaces between the big places.
The miles where you think.
The roads where the mind wanders back to home, to your purpose, to your body, to the people you have met, to the people you have lost.
The more I ride, the more I realise that the journey is not only about reaching cities. It is also about what happens between them.
A quiet path.
A village.
A field of horses.
A local conversation.
A forest.
A meal.
A place to pitch a tent.
The road took me through Aalst, a city that gave the day a different kind of energy. After the quieter roads, Aalst felt lively, built up, and full of everyday movement. I passed through knowing that Brussels was getting closer, but I was already thinking about where to sleep before reaching it.
Long-distance cycling is full of these practical thoughts.
Where will I stop?
Will there be water?
Will there be food?
Will the weather hold?
Will I find somewhere safe to sleep?
From Aalst, the route continued through more rural stretches, past horse farms and open land. Horses have a peaceful presence when you pass them by bicycle. They look up, watch for a moment, and return to their own world. There is no rush in them. No urgency. Just strength and stillness.
The road eventually took me towards the Kluizenbos natural reserve. The landscape became greener, quieter, and more enclosed. After the city and the open roads, the approach to the forest felt like a gentle lowering of the volume.
I had decided to stop for the night at the Stinnekesaan bivak zone in Meldert, in the Gravaalbos area.
A bivak zone is a simple thing, but when you are travelling by bicycle, simplicity can feel like luxury. A patch of ground. A place where you are allowed to stop. A place where the day can end.
The Stinnekesaan bivak zone was on private land, tucked beside the green surroundings, and next to it was Café Stinne.
That small detail changed the whole evening.
I pitched my tent, grateful to have somewhere to sleep, then went to Café Stinne for dinner. I expected food, perhaps a quiet meal, and then an early night in the tent.
Instead, I found people.
Local people.
Conversation.
Curiosity.
Warmth.
They asked about the bicycle, the journey, the distance, the countries, and why I was doing it. I told them about the expedition, about cycling across 41 countries, about raising awareness for cancer prevention, and about fundraising in aid of the World Cancer Research Fund.
At Café Stinne, surrounded by people I had only just met, the mission became real again. Not as a website, a campaign page, or a planned route, but as a conversation across a table.
That is the heart of this expedition.
To cycle.
To meet people.
To share food.
To talk about how we live, how we move, how we eat, and how we look after one another.
By the time I returned to my tent, the day felt complete.
Not because I had reached the capital.
Not yet.
But because I had reached another human moment on the road.
Leave a Reply