From quiet Belgian roads to the kindness of Kevin and his housemates
By the third morning, the expedition had begun to feel less like a beginning and more like a life.
The first day had carried me from London to Dunkirk. The second day had taken me from France into Belgium. Now, on Day 3, I woke up in Diksmuide with the road stretching towards Ghent.
The ordinary routine that was already becoming familiar.
Pack the bags.
Check the bicycle.
Look at the map.
Say thank you.
Start cycling.
It sounds simple, but every morning on a journey like this asks something of you. You have to gather yourself again. You have to choose the road again. You have to accept that yesterday’s kilometres do not ride today’s distance for you.
After saying goodbye to Jurgend, I left Diksmuide and began cycling towards Ghent, following a route that carried me through the quiet heart of Flanders.
The map showed a line across villages, fields, smaller roads, train bridges, stretches near highways, and towns that appeared and disappeared with the rhythm of the pedals. Bruges sat further north on the map, Kortrijk further south, but my road cut across the middle, through places that felt more local, more ordinary, and perhaps because of that, more revealing.
These are the roads where a cycling expedition becomes real.
Not the famous squares.
Not the capital cities.
Not the landmarks everyone already knows.
But the smaller roads where people are going to work, bakeries are opening their doors, trains pass overhead, and a loaded bicycle becomes part of the day’s passing scenery.
Somewhere along the route, I reached the village of Zarren.
I stopped at JohAnn Patisserie for a snack, thinking only of food, energy, and the kilometres still ahead. But, as so often happens on the road, a simple stop became a conversation.
They were curious about the bicycle, the bags, and the journey. I told them that I was cycling across Europe, around 23,000 kilometres through 41 countries, in memory of my mum.
And then they did something incredibly kind.
They stocked me up with food, pastries, and milk.
It is difficult to explain how much moments like this matter when you are cycling long distance. Food becomes more than food. A drink becomes more than a drink. A kind word becomes more than a kind word.
When you are carrying everything on a bicycle, exposed to the weather, the road, the wind, the weight, and the unknown, generosity lands differently. It does not feel small. It feels like someone has reached into the day and made it lighter.
I left Zarren with food in my bags and gratitude in my chest.
The road continued.
The landscape changed slowly. Scenic roads opened into villages. Villages gave way to wider roads. Train bridges rose ahead and disappeared behind me. At times I cycled near highways, with cars and lorries moving quickly in the distance while I moved at the pace of my own legs.
There is something strange and beautiful about cycling near fast roads.
Everything around you seems to be in a hurry. Engines, schedules, destinations, speed. But on the bicycle, you cannot pretend. You move as fast as your body can carry you. You feel every incline, every change in surface, every gust of wind, every extra kilogram on the bike.
And yet, because of that, you notice more.
You notice the colour of the fields.
You notice the shape of a church tower in a village.
You notice the smell of bread from a bakery.
You notice a bridge before you cross it.
You notice how far Ghent still feels, and then how suddenly it begins to feel close.
The route carried me through and near towns such as Tielt, Deinze, and De Pinte before the final approach into Ghent. Each one felt like another small marker on the day’s story. Not a place where I stayed, but a place that helped carry me forward.
By then, I was tired.
Not broken. Not defeated. But tired in the honest way that a loaded bike makes you tired. It was the kind of tiredness that enters the shoulders, the legs, the hands, and the mind. The kind of tiredness that makes you deeply aware that this expedition is not only an idea about hope. It is also weight, rain, hunger, navigation, and persistence.
Then Ghent appeared.
What a beautiful city.
After the smaller roads and long stretches across the Flemish landscape, arriving in Ghent felt almost dreamlike. Water, bridges, old buildings, movement, bicycles, trams, people, life. It had the feeling of a city shaped by history and water, but still very much alive in the present.
There are cities that receive you loudly.
Ghent received me beautifully.
I cycled into the city with the strange emotion that comes after a long day on the road. Part exhaustion, part relief, part wonder. I had left Diksmuide that morning and somehow, one pedal stroke at a time, I had arrived here.
That evening, I stayed with Kevin and his housemates.
The first night, I pitched my tent in Kevin’s garden. It felt simple and peaceful. A garden, a tent, a safe place to sleep. After three days on the road, that was already enough to feel grateful.
But the next day, the weather turned.
Heavy rain arrived, and with it the reminder that this journey will not always be romantic. Rain changes everything when you are living from a bicycle. It changes how you pack, how you rest, how you dry clothes, how you sleep, and how quickly small discomforts can become difficult.
Kevin and his housemates saw that and kindly offered me a bed inside the house.
That kindness meant a great deal.
A dry bed. A roof. A place indoors. A little warmth. A chance to stop fighting the weather for a moment.
There is a particular kind of generosity in letting someone into your home, especially someone travelling through with a bicycle, bags, wet clothes and the dust of the road. It says: you can rest here. You are safe here. You do not have to be outside tonight.
I wanted to return that kindness in the way that felt most natural to me.
So I cooked.
Chicken in fresh tomato sauce with potatoes and vegetables.
A simple meal, but cooked with gratitude.
Food has always been at the heart of this journey. My mum loved to cook. Some of my strongest memories of her are connected to food, to the smell of something warm coming from the kitchen, to the feeling that a meal can hold more than ingredients. It can hold love. It can hold memory. It can hold care.
Day 3 took me from Diksmuide to Ghent.
Through villages, roads, bridges, towns, bakeries, rain, and kindness.
From Jurgend’s welcome to Kevin’s garden.
From the quiet roads of Flanders to the beautiful city of Ghent.
And once again, the road reminded me that this journey is made of more than kilometres.
It is made of people.
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