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Flash Flood In the morning, we awoke to rain. Everyone dashed around camp in an attempt to cover panniers and gear. After the downpour, Arran and Rebecca scouted out the sky to determine if it was a suitable riding day. They reported: high winds, but the clouds were clearing. Arran and Rebecca left for the chalk Møns Klint cliffs located at the end of the island. It rained sporadically. Sharon and I waited until it stopped raining and then we set off, congratulating ourselves on our astute timing. It lasted until the corner. Looking skyward, there was no clearing in sight, so we stopped to don rain coats. Arran and Rebecca made fine weather forecasters. Off we headed to see the cliffs of Møn. I hoped it wasn't going to be a similar day as the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. The route was mainly through uninteresting yellow stubbly straw fields. Seen one stubbly field, seen them all. We hadn't even made it to the cliffs when we spotted a bakery and wheeled in for Danishes. I figured I could never have too many Danishes. We found a huge field of sunflowers and stopped for a photo opportunity. Sharon went into the field; the sunflowers towered over her. The way their heads drooped, it appeared they were holding a conspirational conversation with her. A dirt road through a forest deposited us right at the entrance to the cliffs. We hiked up the stairs to the scenic overlook. My camera had an itchy shutter since Sharon's big fall with my bag. I was still moving the camera trying to compose the picture when the shutter released. Guess it thought I was taking too long. The cliff is unstable and subject to erosion; a fence ran along the edge. At the lookout, someone drilled a fence post sized hole through the ground to show people, that going past the fence, they would be standing on a severely undercut ledge. At first, I thought some over-ambitious gopher got a big surprise. An effective caution sign to overzealous tourists who normally were in the habit of jumping over fences for a better view; the hole was only about a foot thick. The drop to the sea was a thousand feet below. The houses had straw roofs with black wooden ribs. Were the ribs for keeping the thatch from blowing away in the strong winds? There was a mighty headwind on the way to the ferry. Sharon and I had to ride hard to meet Arran and Rebecca. They were already waiting for the ferry when we arrived; exhausted by the strong winds, we were ready to head for camp. Arran and Rebecca had missed the earlier ferry by five minutes. It was a good thing Sharon and I arrived when we did--just before the last ferry today. The fare cost the equivalent of six Danishes each. Once we looked at it that way, Arran and I almost cycled around to the bridge. There were six other cyclists making the crossing. No cars were on board. The other cyclists were a somber bunch who spent the entire time staring stone faced at the four of us as we laughed and exchanged our tales for the day. The dock at Stubingcobing had a deserted air. A chain clanged steadily against a metal mast and the wind whistled loudly through the marina. Arran claimed the place was reminiscent of home. Personally, the clanging chain reminded me of a sleepless night I had spent in a school yard in Jeffrey City, the armpit of America. After picking up groceries in Bogo, we took a road dead ending at a shooting range above the sea. We set our tents up on the level gravel pad where target shooters laid to shoot targets. Black clouds rolled in. Booming thunder crashed, and lightning crackled overhead. A downpour ensued. The four of us scrambled to get ourselves and our supper underneath a small shelter. Then we stood back and smugly watched the rain fall. Only one small miscalculation: A miniature flash flood bounded towards us. The stream of water ran off the nearby hill, down a gully in the parking lot and made a beeline for our tent. Our smugness turned to panic as we tried to divert the water from our tent. I attempted trenching, while the resourceful Kiwi's experimented with diverting the stream. Sharon, always the practical one, simply scrambled for her rain jacket. We eventually abandoned our location. With Arran and Rebecca's help, we grabbed the corners of our tent and lifted it and everything inside, to a drier spot on the grass. Mud had splattered us; the downpour had soaked our outerwear; the icy water had instantly frozen our hands. Original plans for supper were abandoned and we went straight to dessert. A group effort produced flan cake covered with custard, topped with sugar sweetened blackberries and ice cream. |
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