No pics we are in the Hermitage Internet caff- no cameras. So we made it. We will give chapter and verse on St P later when we have had a chance to digest the impact. Our crossing into Russia was uneventful, but visually very impressive. We crossed on foot wheeling our bikes across a bridge over a gorge with matching viking forts on both sides of the border. Paperwork was a doddle. We had planned to stay in Kingisepp ,only 35 km away as we didn't know how long the crossing would take. Surprise, surprise, there were no rooms in any of the hotels in the town. A very obliging receptionist at the the main (bus terminal) hotel telephoned around and found us a room in a petrol service station 20km down the road in the direction, we were going any way, so all the better. The road was quiet and in good condition. The trucks that were backed up on the border were coming through at a rate of about one every 6 mins. so God help the drivers at the back of the 8km queue.

The border crossing was reminiscent of Funeral in Berlin and we felt as if machine guns were being trained on our backs - but instead of heavies in dark cars there was loads of the ubiquitous ladies with bulging carrier bags going in both directions (Citizens of the former CIS can move freely between Estonia and Russia). We wheeled our bikes through the metal detector machine and like everyone else sent off a massive signal that was ignored by all the guards. The difference in economic activity and wealth was immediately obvious, the moment we were in Russia. The road gradually deteriorated and there was no sign of any agriculture (the area is a complete bog which might explain the latter). The motel was a truck stop - our room was nice and clean and had its own bathroom. The walls were pretty thin but the snores of the next door occupant did not keep us awake. We had some fun with the menu in the caff - point and be surprised - but we managed to dredge the word for potatoes into our vocabularly so we were OK. Next morning off into the drizzle. We took a quieter road which started well but got more and more rutted. We were heading for Gatchina - the southern suburb of St P and also the site of an enormous palace. The route was pretty dismal - endless birch forest and the largest angelica plants - big as triffids. We had our usual endless wandering about town when we got to Gatchina trying to locate a hotel that would be able to register our visas. Eventually after asking many people and going backwards and forwards over the same ground we were guided by a man on a bike who took us off into the suburbs and deposited us outside a decaying tower block. Ted went off inside whilst I stayed to look after the bikes. He disappeared for a very long time. It turned out he was closeted with a female member of the Russian athletics team. He eventually emerged somewhat frazzled. Apparently the US/Russian athletics teams were running a joint training session and all the hotels in Gatchina were fully booked - this was established by another receptionist manking loads of phone calls. At that pont we decided to contact the agent through which we had booked our appartment in St P to see if she could fix us up with accommodation in the City. Larissa came up trumps - 2 different flats for the 2 nights we needed before our original booking became available.

Just a quick one on russian roads. The surface is as if there were two layers, the top one about an inch and a half thick. The top layer is absent for about 50% in gaps about 12 inches in diameter. Don't swerve to slalom past the pot holes as the driver behind will wipe you out. Russian drivers pass with a few inches to spare ; they only avoid things that might damage their cars. Often it is better to cycle on the gravel verge. We'll be getting the train for the first 100 km out of ST P on our way to Finland!

The train journey from Gatchina to St P was interesting. The suburban trains are completely different to the intercity ones. The carriages are almost level with the platform and we had the usual helpful person to give us a hand - something that fills me with dread as my bike is bristling with oil. The carriages are also incredibly wide - double the width of a Metropolitan line carriage. We became the object of many dropped jaws as we stood at the end of the carriage reserved for luggage - very convenient for bikes - in our plumage and helmets. A succession of accordion players, magicians and travelling salesmen passed through the carriage to provide additional entertainment.