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Prologue
This is the tale of one woman’s journey by bicycle from John O’Groats to Land’s End whilst making a pillock
of herself.
I had spent years contemplating cycling the distance, and knew I would do it one day. So when I suddenly realised that if
I didn’t do something about it, it might never happen, I started planning.
I am a part time library assistant in a community library in Nottingham, but there are plenty of other activities that fill
my time too. I was forty-eight years old. My daughter Anna lived in Edinburgh at the time, studying linguistics, history
and astronomy. My husband Bob is a stress engineer, helping to design trains by day, and by night turning into Wind Turbine
Man. Bob drove me to the starting point, met me at the two weekends, and picked me up at the end. He brought me more figs,
my mail and clean clothes, and took away the dirties. He checked my bike over too.
I have never undertaken anything like this bike ride before. Twenty-five years ago I once spent two days cycling from Nottingham
to
Woodbridge, Suffolk, and that is the nearest I have come to cycling long distances. In the last few years I have become
fairly fit, mainly by working out in a gym, cycling occasionally and eating a low-fat wholefood vegetarian diet. I also eat
dried figs by the bagful, and find them particularly comforting in moments of crisis. Roots, a local wholefood shop, arranged
for me to be donated a large quantity of figs, and the local free paper printed a picture of me stuffing my face with them.
I didn’t undertake any special training for the ride, arguing that cycling the first few days would be training for the
next.
I didn’t push myself hard very often, but took it easily in three weeks. I thought that cycling a long way would be
just
like cycling a short way – but lots. I was right.
I decided to cycle at the end of May and beginning of June because I would get long days then. I also managed to pass through
the Scottish Highlands just before the midges got seriously nasty, and the timing fitted in with visiting Anna in Edinburgh.
This meant I would be cycling during a general election, and the backdrop to my journey was a succession of changing election
posters. I was also cycling during the period of foot and mouth disease, which had not hit the north of Scotland at all,
but was rife in many other parts I cycled through, particularly Cumbria, Lancashire and the West Country. In those places
I was frequently cycling over disinfectant mats fastened across roads, but as I stayed on roads and lanes I never had to divert
from my route because of it.
The route I rode was based very closely on the
Cyclists’ Touring Club B&B route, which followed minor roads and country
lanes
as much as possible. I detoured from this to avoid the Forth Road Bridge, when I was lost, when I thought I could see an
easier way of doing it and when I got plain fed up with too many hills or too much navigating. However, I did cycle the route
backwards, starting at John O’Groats and finishing at Land’s End. Most people do it the other way as the prevailing
winds
are said to favour that.
My bike is an
Orbit Romany, which is small enough for me, fitting perfectly. It has twenty-four gears and added “cow
horn”
handlebars so that I can ride without any weight on my hands. Lots of technical things, which I knew when I bought it, are
excellent about it, but I love it because it’s right for me and we are friends. It cost a lot of money the previous
year,
and had been on holiday to the Czech Republic with us then. Apart from two punctures, I had no problems with the bike at
all. I didn’t even need new brake blocks.
It carried four Ortlieb panniers, filled with clothes, figs, shoes, toiletries, figs, repair kit, figs, rainwear, mobile phone,
figs, bike lock, first aid kit, figs, tiny radio, notebooks, a small tube of travel wash, figs, herbal teabags, vitamins and
snacks. I also took a book because I hate to be without one, but only managed to read two pages of it in the entire three
weeks. I was usually too tired, and had my diary to write, TV to watch and local information supplied in most bedrooms to
read. In the first weeks I had a “dog blaster” which would emit a frightening high-pitched sound at any dog fool
enough to
mess with me, but I couldn’t have reached it quickly enough in the panniers and had never tested it, so it went.
I also had two water bottles and a tiny pump, a map case on the handlebars and a plastic wallet bungeed on the back carrier
with spare maps, the route and accommodation addresses. Round my waist was a bag with camera, tissues, pen, tiny notebook
and purse. A small triangular bag attached to the frame carried lights, spare sunblock and other things I might need en route.
I wore a helmet, gel cycling gloves (I have problems with my hands otherwise) and wrap-around glasses to keep insects and
dirt out of my eyes.
Bob had bought me the tiny Roberts radio (one of the few to have long wave) because I like to listen to Radio Four. In particular,
I hate to miss The Archers. Some people will understand
this. Others
won't.
It would have been stupid to miss this ride as a fund-raising opportunity. I realised that I would be unlikely to raise as
much money as I spent, but nevertheless some money could be raised for good causes. I decided to choose one local and one
international charity to collect sponsorship for. The local one was
Hayward House Cancer Care . Hayward House is an NHS hospice
attached to Nottingham City Hospital. My mother, Inge Cryer, died there in 1997, and since then I have supported them, partly
in memory of my mother and mainly because the sick and dying need and deserve all the extra help and comforts they can get.
The international one was ActionAid.
I had recently read
about their work with AIDS/HIV sufferers in Africa, and knew I had
to help in some small way. I have seen AIDS kill a friend, and can not bear even to think of it attacking whole communities.
I contacted both charities, and they were supportive of my plans. I printed and distributed sponsorship forms and explanatory
letters. These were distributed to Nottingham libraries staff, to all on my Christmas card list, by Bob at work and by Anna
to her university friends. Roots wholefood shop and Lady in Leisure gym also displayed them on their notice boards, as did
Bromley House Subscription
Library. On
the journey, I sent postcards to most of my main sponsors. I contacted the press
and local radios, but only the Topper was interested beforehand, and they only in how many figs I was going to eat. The Nottingham
Evening Post sent a photographer round on my return, and printed a picture and short article three or four weeks after that.
Preparations took a long time. As well as working on the sponsorship, I had to book time off work (I swapped some shifts
too). I bought a lightweight fluorescent vest, on which I had printed the logos of the two charities and my starting point
and destination. I also bought cycling shorts. (I never had cycling shoes, and found that trainers and stiff-soled sandals
worked fine for me.)
I needed to find the right maps. I chose a road atlas with a mile to two-and-a-half-inches scale, from which I carried only
the relevant pages. I’d also bought maps with contours to help in deciding the route, but they were too bulky to take,
and
the contours made it difficult to see things clearly and easily. I traced the route onto the maps with a coloured felt tip,
and also typed it up with distances and notable features. It took so long tracing and typing out the route, that I thought
I should be sponsored for that! I also spent a very long time on the internet, with guide books and the CTC End-to-End pack,
typing up a list of B&Bs, guest houses and cheap hotels along the route. I also noted tourist offices and bike shops. By
the time I had done all this, it felt as if I had done the trip several times.
The weather on my ride was very good. I was lucky. In the three weeks, I only had about three hours of rain despite hearing
dire warnings most evenings on the weather forecast. Sometimes, particularly in Scotland, it was too hot, and I got burned
despite using factor 45 sunblock repeatedly. I did experience a lot of headwinds, possibly because I was doing the route
backwards. Maybe there were winds behind me too, but these tend to be less noticed and remembered.
I was amazed by the amount of support I received. I was being congratulated even before I had set off! Before, during and
after the trip I received countless good wishes and practical expressions of support and help, and am now left with a lovely
warm afterglow. Maybe people think it was more difficult than it really was . . .
DAY 1
Sunday May 20 2001
Left John O’Groats with 638 miles on clock, 09.45.
Arrived Bettyhill Hotel, Bettyhill, with 690 miles on clock, 17.00.
Distance: 52.04 miles.
Average speed: 9.05 mph.
Time cycling: 5 hrs 45 mins.
Maximum speed: 33.2 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 7.17 mph.
Cumulative distance: 52 miles.
Meal & beer: £ 6.35
Accommodation: £15.00
Drains badly blocked at The Stables – now maybe Alastair won’t want to buy.
After an uninspiring breakfast at the Seaview Hotel, and having my forms stamped “Well Done, You’ve Made It”,
Bob checks out
my bike, pumps tyres and does important fiddly things. I cycle the half mile to the official signpost and set my cycle computer.
There is no official photographer around, but Bob takes lots of photos of me at John O’Groats, including as I emerge
from
(20p!) toilets. There are not many people about, and it is a chilly, breezy day.
I cycle off on the A836 towards Thurso, Caithness. The plan is that Bob will buy souvenir knick-knacks and meet me at Castletown. I
decide not to turn left at Gills, as previously planned, because the A road is practically deserted so there is no need to
avoid traffic. I get beautiful sea views, the offer of chess sets for sale and quite a lot of head wind. Because I am still
on the main road, Bob overtakes me after a while, waving furiously. As I approach Castletown, I spot Bob by the roadside,
pointing his camera at me. I stop in the car park by the sea, and get Bob to lubricate the chain. I also bemoan the lack
of toilets. Bob has bought suitable knick-knacks, including a mug which I am not allowed to see yet. I have to leave him
here, and am very sad to do so. A text message on the mobile from Anna cheers me up, but I will miss Bob dreadfully. Anyway,
on I plod and after a while Bob overtakes me, again waving furiously. I feel very sad to be without him. But hey, there’s
a whole country to explore (even if it is only this one).
On I go, feeling more desperate for a toilet. (Is this how the whole trip is going to be, I wonder?) Then I hit paydirt
at Thurso – a toilet big enough to wheel my bike into! Shortly afterwards I find a cash point too, and get some money.
Then
on – and on – and on. Past Dounreay, where I stop to take a photo and eat a banana. It’s spooky (the nuclear
power station,
not the banana), plonked there in what would be glorious views. (The views are glorious all day, lots of sea and mountains.)
I start talking to the cows and sheep I pass; I also spot several scampering bunny rabbits and all the little chickens round
the garden. At Melvich I meet Ian from Norfolk, who has cycled from Norfolk to Land’s End, then up, aiming for John
O’Groats
tomorrow, then he’ll cycle back to Norfolk. (My Granny warned me about people from Norfolk.) He goes on repeatedly
about
the terrible climbs on the route – he’s doing the same route as me – and that he hasn’t walked up any.
We photograph each
other and go our separate ways. Then I discover that Melvich has roadside toilets, and avail myself.
Soon comes Strathy, then a long deserted stretch with lots of long steepish hills. As the afternoon wears on, I start to
walk up some of these. I’m not from Norfolk. Pausing at the cattle grid just before Bettyhill, I meet a group of six
cyclists
who have come from Land’s End in twelve days (but they are all young men AND are having their luggage carried for them).
They have come via Altnaharra, and tell me that there are unlikely to be any B&Bs between Bettyhill and there.
As Altnaharra is about twenty-seven miles away, I (fairly reluctantly) decide to stop at Bettyhill, and book in at the Bettyhill
Hotel (£15, but en suite not available). My bike is in the beer store, locked to a drainpipe-type thing; I hope it
doesn’t
get stolen or drunk. I make several cups of tea, crack open the figs and explore the ablutions facilities. The room looks
like it costs £15. Now I shall take some photos of the amazing views, which will come nowhere near showing the stunning
beauty
of the place. Then maybe a baked potato and a beer . . . And a phone call later, when Bob should be with Anna.
I eat jacket potato with cheese and salad and a pint in the dining room. The other diners are a couple of elderlyish brothers,
who, in all the correct cycling gear, are touring the north coast and islands. They are on something like their 35th or 40th
annual tour together. Their favourite seems to have been in Spain. They are very enthusiastic about packing scientifically,
and have reduced the weight of their luggage to thirteen kilos – or is it pounds – or ounces? By the time I am
half way through
my pint, they’ve extracted most of my life story from me - and expressed astonished horror at my carrying four pairs
of shoes!
I try to ring Bob and Anna a couple of times, but miss them. It’s very difficult to get a connection from here. I also
have
a green/brownish bath, then go to bed with Radio Four. I try to read my book, but only manage two pages. I am TIRED.
All day I have been alongside the coast. Tomorrow the scenery will change as the trip southwards begins.
DAY 2
Monday May 21 2001
Left Bettyhill with 690 miles on clock, 09.15.
Arrived Cul Mor B&B, Bonar Bridge, with 747 miles on clock, 16.15.
Distance: 56.35 miles.
Average speed: 9.27 mph.
Time cycling: 5 hrs 5 mins.
Maximum speed: 30.1 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 8 mph.
Cumulative distance: 108 miles.
Meal & drinks: £ 4.50
Accommodation: £15.00
Phone call: £ 1.20
Caroline and Oliver in bed together.
On Monday morning I try for a shower but can’t get anything except icy cold water, so opt instead for another strangely-coloured
but warm bath. Then breakfast – similar to the John O’Groats breakfast but with Alpen amongst the cereals –
I've taken two
packets! And there is brown bread available!
I start off with a wonderful downhill whizz, but soon the road flattens out and the headwinds start. There are not many bad
climbs, but the head wind is a real bastard and slows me down a lot. However, the single track road is lovely and there are
spectacular mountains on either side. I see more friendly sheep and cows. The place is stiff with rabbits, and I also see
a deer and what, at first, I thought was a kangaroo, but which turned out to be two people fishing. I am talking to the rabbits
as well now.
I’m glad that I had stopped at Bettyhill, because there is nowhere for miles and miles along this road. Some places
marked
on the map are just churches without settlements; others appear to be just blades of grass. Traffic is very infrequent, which
enables me to take my first alfresco wee of the trip. The breeze is very soothing on my bum.
Eventually I reach Altnaharra, which is followed by a very long steep climb complete with headwind. I chicken out and walk
for a long stretch. Then, just before Crask (which has a place name sign, the Crask Inn and nothing else) the downhill starts
– it is beautiful and goes on and on. I have to clamber past some men mending the road. After more time I reach Lairg,
where
I try to phone ahead for accommodation, but cannot get a signal on the mobile phone. So I decide to continue to Bonar Bridge,
where I know of at least two B&Bs. I stay on the main road, which I had intended to avoid, because there is so little traffic.
Just on entering Bonar Bridge, I spot a “B&B” sign in a front garden. It is not an address I have – Cul-Mor
– but I ring
the bell and ask if they have a vacancy. The man seems surprised to see me and explains that his wife is out, but –
if I’ve
heard this right – says that it’s £15 a night. He shows me the accommodation (we have to go through their
living room to
reach it): sitting room, bedroom, bathroom with shower, two televisions (one in each room), radio, video, hairdryer, Readers
Digests, sewing kit, tea and coffee and fudge and biscuits (no Bob, I’m leaving them behind) and more frills than you
can
shake a stick at. Have I misheard the £15? I don’t know, but it’s COMFORTABLE here.
This time, my bike’s in the garage, so no chance for it to get drunk. I shower and change into my dress, flop down with
several
cups of tea, figs and Readers Digests, then write this. After The Archers I shall go out and look for a phone and the pub,
which I’m told is a few yards down the road, and where I can get a meal. I do hope I manage to phone Bob tonight –
I missed
him twice last night and once this morning, and I miss him. But the mobile can’t get a signal here.
I’ve just returned from phoning Bob and eating (another) jacket potato with cheese and beer (just half a pint today)
in the
pub. When I returned, I decided to take a photo of the view from the front door, and met the lady of the house, who was
very friendly and told me how much she liked living here, and that the house was surrounded by huge trees obscuring the view
when they bought it.
DAY 3
Tuesday May 22 2001
Left Bonar Bridge with 747 miles on clock, 08.45.
Arrived Achavelgin Farm, near Nairn, with 809 miles on clock, 17.45.
Distance: 62 miles.
Average speed: 9.25 mph.
Time cycling: 7 hrs.
Maximum speed: 30.3 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 6.88 mph.
Cumulative distance: 171 miles.
Banana and juice: £ 0.52
Accommodation: £15.00
Phone call: £ 0.50
Joe’s chittlings- yum! Lillian and Scot – ugh!
I had a comfortable night, an amazing breakfast – grapefruit, acceptable cereal, brown bread, two sorts of cheese, banana,
tomato, toast; and there was more stuff I didn’t have room for. “Anything else you want, just ask.” And yes,
the B&B was
£15! Best value I’ve ever had outside the Czech Republic.
I start off across the bridge and downhill for a bit, still feeling cheery at the enormous friendliness of last night’s
hosts.
Then the climb starts. It goes on and on and on, and I’m beginning to think you can kill the spirit. I walk some of
it.
Eventually, I reach the viewpoint, and yes, the view is stunning. As I’m sweating, puffing and admiring it, and changing
the film in my camera, another cyclist appears from the opposite direction. Although he has an English accent, he appears
to live locally as he regularly cycles around this area and seems to have lots of local knowledge. He cheers me up by telling
me that I’ve just done the worst hill before the Cromarty Firth. He also tells me about a friend from Scotland who went
on
holiday cycling in Cornwall. The weather was nice, so he thought he’d go on to Bristol. It was still good, so he thought
he’d go north a bit. Yes, he did the Ends-to-End by accident, rather like I launched my computing career (only hopefully
with less miserable results)!
As I cycle, I have some thoughts on clothes:
1. It’s too hot to wear currently, but my mottled grey cardigan is very good for not showing up flattened flies and midges.
2. My cycling helmet, after being worn all day long, produces the most fascinating and surprising hair styles.
3. Proper cycling shorts are superb. I’ve been wearing them today, and have been in the saddle for longer, but my bum
feels
a lot better. If I only pass on one piece of advice to future generations of cyclists, it’s “wear proper cycling
shorts”.
4. My long skirt can be worn in the evenings and also, pulled up to my armpits, makes a good dressing gown in non-en suite
B&Bs.
5. There appears to be a fraternity of those who wear high-visibility vests. I am greeted warmly by all those wearing them,
be they clipping hedges, mending the road, holding “Stop” signs or just leaning on spades.
Anyway, what with all the kerfaffling at the viewpoint, and showing the other cyclist my map, I manage to reset the trip meter.
I know I’d done 6.5 miles to there, but have lost data on average speed, max speed, hours riding; so will have to do
the best
I can when sorting it out.
The rest of the ride to the Cromarty Firth takes a while, but there are more downs than ups, and I’m not too proud to
walk
up the “very ups”, unlike Ian from Norfolk. The bridge across the Cromarty Firth is a bit trafficky, but all right.
Then
I think I’ll just nip across the
Black Isle). Next time, I’m going the long way round. Nobody told me that the
Black Isle
is two separate steep and horrible mountains. Being that close to the sea, I had wrong-headedly assumed it would be flattish,
and the colourings on the map were there just to make it look pretty. The climb to Culbokie is almost vertical! I get a
little lost around Munlochy – there is a T-junction where the map leads me to expect a crossroads I should go straight
across
– but it is during one of the less steep parts of the Black Isle, and I don’t think I went more than about a mile
out of my
way. This is my first navigational problem.
Then I hit the noisy, fast, busy A9, towards the bridge across the Moray Firth. This is a very high bridge, and it has a
narrow cycle/pedestrians path right on the edge, separated from the main road by a barrier. There is just a little teeny
weeny fencelet to stop you from going over the edge into the water miles below. The bridge is about a mile long. At first,
I try to cycle on the cycle path, but my lurching stomach stops me before I have even reached the beginning of the water.
So I get off to push my bike across. But after a few steps that feels impossible too, and if I continue I am sure I’ll
get
stuck in the middle, unable to make myself go backwards or forwards. The track is too narrow to turn round in, so I reverse-wheel
the bike back the few yards I’ve come, and cycle across illegally but further from the edge with the motor traffic.
That
was all right. What am I going to do at the Forth Road Bridge?
Once over the bridge, there are several busy roundabouts, and it takes a lot of fig-eating and map-studying to make sure I
go the right way, but I do. Figs are so helpful.
At Balloch (near
Culloden) I check with someone that I am going the right way, and he says, “Go up that road a mile –
it’s
a hell of a mile, though.” It is, but I walk a lot of it, fortified by the pineapple juice I’d bought at the local
shop,
where I’d also bought a banana. I get on the right road – the B9006 – and attempt to turn off just before
Croy, to start
going cross-country towards Grantown via Clunas. Once again, the tiny lanes do not correspond with the map, and when another
supposed cross road is only a T-junction, I have to use the compass. Of course no signposts point to anywhere named on the
map! Then a taxi passes me, so I flag it down and ask the way. The driver has a bit of trouble reading my map, as he isn’t
wearing his glasses. Anyway, he gets me out of my fine mess by telling me to carry on up the hill (“up the hill”
is a phrase
used in all directions around here) and then follow the sign to Cawdor. I’d planned to avoid Cawdor, but have second
thoughts.
I am fed up with tiny lanes that don’t exist, and, on studying my map again, I decide that the more main road route,
though
further, is probably a little less hilly, and will have some chance of accommodation, whilst the laney route looks totally
deserted. And soon it will be time to start looking for somewhere to stop for the night.
So on to Cawdor I cycle. At Cawdor there is a sign pointing into the village, with a “B&B” board. I decide that
I’d better
investigate this, although it feels a little too early to stop, because I can’t be sure where the next chance of accommodation
will be. (According to my list, it is at Grantown, but as I am off the planned route I haven’t listed places along here.)
The sign leads me to the village shop and post office, which is plastered with “Walkers Welcome”, “Cyclists
Welcome”, “Tourist
Information”, “Local Information” stickers, but really I think it is just a local shop for local people. I
ask the girl behind
the counter about the B&B. “Yes, it’s here.” “Do you have a room free?” “I don’t know.
When do you want it?” “I need
to know now.” “They’ve gone out, but they’ll be back at half past six.” “Is there anywhere
else in the village?” “There’s
Mrs McWhirlMcTwirl, at the Old School House.” “How will I find her? Does she have a sign up?” “No,
she’s got a white front
door.” I find the white front door in question, but get no reply from hammering on it or from pulling the bell rope.
The
girl at the local shop is still clueless, so I ask her to fill my water bottle and continue on my way.
I plan to continue on the B9101, and turn right onto the A939 at Foynesfield, looking for B&B signs along the way. I keep
seeing signs which look promising from a distance, but as I get closer they turn into signs for “Organic lamb –
freezer-ready”,
“Paintings” and “Rustic Mirrors”. One or two signs are for B&Bs, but they point for miles up (and I mean
up) dusty tracks,
and, mindful of my Cawdor waste-of-time experience, I don’t want to get side tracked.
I work out that there is a
good
chance
I can reach Grantown before everywhere shuts, if the worst comes to the worst. Then – paydirt! A B&B sign that claims
to
point only two hundred metres along the track. I bomb along there, find a man who explains that a stick had hit him on the
head yesterday, and shows me a room I can have for £15. (“It’s usually £18, but you can have it for
£15 because you’re nice.”
When I look in the mirror, I realise that what he really means is “because you look really funny with all those streaks
and
blobs of sunscreen all over your face.”) It’s a basic room, so I shall need my skirt/dressing gown again, but it’s
clean,
and much less tatty than Bettyhill. And it has a bed in it.
The man (Toby Macarthur) tells me to sit in the conservatory room where they do afternoon teas, and he will bring me a cup
of tea. I say I’d prefer a cold drink – it has been very hot today. I start writing this in the tea room, and
soon there
appear some saccharinny orange squash – at least it is wet, a scone, some fairy cakes and scotch pancakes, with butter
and
rhubarb jam! “Eat it all up now.” I do my best, praising the homemade jam and realising that I just don’t
like white floury
products any more. But he is so kind, and there’s nowhere near here to go for a meal (or do anything much else, except
count
chickens). I return to my room, have figs for pudding, and ring Bob. (The mobile still isn’t getting a signal.) At
no point
during my stay at Toby’s do I ever see anyone else, though, when I go to ask about using the phone, he is obviously in
conversation
with someone, and I see more than one pair of legs through the half-open door.
I am scared of the next few days. The hills so far have been hard, but the maps haven’t even been brown. Soon they
will
be dark brown.
I’m about twenty miles north of Grantown on the A939.
DAY 4
Wednesday May 23 2001
Left Achavelgin Farmhouse, Littlemill with 809 miles on clock, 08.40.
Arrived Allargue Arms, Corgarff, with 850 miles on clock, 16.45.
Distance: 41 miles.
Maximum speed: 38.7 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 5.12 mph.
Cumulative distance: 212 miles.
Unfortunately, my counter reset when we were fiddling with my bike after the puncture, so my statistics are incomplete.
Apples and juice: £ 0.98
Accommodation: £20.00
Phone to hotel: £ 0.20
Puncture repair: £ 2.50
Food and drinks: £10.00
Postcards and postage: £ 9.65
Missed The Archers as my meal appeared just then.
What a day this proves to be! Firstly, I try to have a shower, but, although there is a shower head over the bath, I can
find no way to make water flow through it. The only thing I can do with it is to unscrew it completely. I have a bath –
the water, though only appearing in trickles, is hot and transparent. Then breakfast, in the “afternoon teas” room.
I’d
requested no cooked breakfast, so got mixed cornflakes and branflakes, toast (brown bread – hooray!), two tomatoes (hooray!
hooray!) and more of the famous rhubarb jam, which apparently people flock from miles to sample. “It’s homemade,
you know.”
I ask Toby about the organ and accordion in the room, and he proceeds to play for me as I eat. His head is beginning to get
better from where the stick hit it, and if anyone asks him how it happens he explains that he’s met John Prescott.
I sort out my bike and set off, a little apprehensive at the climbs ahead of me, especially as Toby has warned me that it’s
even a climb to Grantown, eighteen miles away. As I leave, he asks what I do when I get a puncture, and I assure him that
my inner tubes are filled with special stuff which makes getting punctures unlikely, and I also have a spare inner tube.
It transpires that the ride to Grantown is lovely, with lots of easy stretches and few climbs. Early on, my cycling shorts,
which I’d washed the previous night and which I was attempting to dry on the back pannier rack as I cycled along, fall
onto
the road. I luckily notice, and secure them better.
I arrive in Grantown pleasantly early, use a cash machine and buy two small cartons of juice and two apples against the expected
tough and bleak climb ahead. The lady in the Tourist Information Centre can’t help me with accommodation beyond Tomintoul
– the UK’s highest village – but suggests I try the Tourist Info there. I can think of no other way to delay
the next stage,
so, with trepidation, I set off for Tomintoul.
Contrary to what I was led to believe, it’s not uphill all the way. There are some very steep climbs (I walk) but also
some
descents, including a spectacular one to Bridge of Brown, which I thoroughly enjoy. This is followed by a 20% climb, but
as it begins to flatten out a bit, I get on my bike. I haven’t cycled far when it happens – phutt – a puncture
in the front
wheel. Blast, drat, damn and blast. I push my bike, knowing I could make Tomintoul before evening. But then a car comes
by (rare in these parts), so, without really thinking about what I am doing, I find myself flagging it down and asking the
occupants whether either of them are any good at changing inner tubes. They kindly get out, and whilst the man – Bert,
a
gamekeeper – works on my bike, the woman fills my water bottle with “pure mountain water”. Bert has the wheel
off easily,
and also the tyre, but he can not put the spare inner tube on because it is too big. THANK YOU BOB. It is about two inches
longer than the rim, and try as he might, he can not bodge it. I take a picture of him as he works by the roadside, and promise
to send him a copy, which his companion wants to publish in the Gamekeepers’ Gazette. (At home, when I get my photos
back,
I see that I have two pictures of the top of Bert’s head. I send these to the address his companion has written down
for
me, realising only after posting that they live in Braemar and not Bvacmav, which the post office must even now be trying
to find.)
Eventually, all parts of my bike, my panniers and me are loaded into the back of the car (they have to put the back seat down
specially) and I am driven the two or three miles to Tomintoul. Is this cheating? I worry about it, but decide it isn’t
because I’ve done at least that distance extra when lost. Apparently Tomintoul is the place where a fake Laird turned
up
one day, announced his position and conned people for quite a long time, enriching himself fraudulently, before being caught
out.
The first garage in Tomintoul looks as if it hasn’t been in use for years, but my hero asks a local and we find a truck-mending
type place. The receptionist says that there is no-one here, but they won’t be long, and will surely help. So I say
farewell
to my rescuers and wait in the office, chatting with the receptionist, who likes to go to Mablethorpe and Ingoldmells for
her holidays. The workmen arrive, and after a while point out that the spare inner tube is not only too big, but also has
a hole in it. THANK YOU AGAIN BOB. They use my puncture repair kit and fix my original tyre, charging me only £2.50.
I am on my way again, after a stressful couple of hours. I ask at the Tourist Information centre about accommodation after
Tomintoul, and the lady suggests the Allargue Arms,
which is already
on my list. She is doubtful as to whether I’d get
further
than there, as a steep climb follows soon afterwards. So I ring the Allargue Arms and book a room, then continue. I am a
bit wary lest my inner tubes let me down again. The ten or eleven miles to the hotel are very much up and down, passing The
Lecht skiing centre. (People for miles had been putting the Fear of The Lecht into me, warning me of its height.) There
is a very long uphill walk to get there. Then – wow – what a downhill! I can’t resist it, and zoom down trying
not to think
of my inner tubes. 38.7 miles per hour maximum speed; a bus has difficulty in overtaking me! Wheeee!
I had checked at The Lecht, and been told that I couldn’t miss the Allargue Arms. When I arrive there I am made very
welcome
by Phil, and then I have a long soak in a big bath. I have an en suite room. I also have a teasmade from which I can’t
open
the kettle lid to put water into it. Now I shall investigate food – and DRINK (didn’t have one last night, at Toby’s
strange
establishment, just scotch pancakes and rhubarb jam). It’s been really really hot today; the receptionist at the garage
said
that this had been the hottest part of the country. I have seen lots of wildlife, unfortunately most of it flat at the roadside,
including a dead deer. The scenery has been spectacular again. This hotel is in a lovely setting and there are lots of birds
outside my window.
I have a wonderful gourmet vegetarian meal in the Allargue Arms, a phone call with Bob (who reads out a figgy letter to me
from Margaret) and two pints. As the second pint is slipping down my throat, I start feeling tearful at peoples’ kindness,
and writing things like “A trip like this makes you feel so much better about people”. The hotel sells postcards,
so I write
quite a lot. I also get help with the Teasmade. A Swiss couple arrives, and we all have interesting conversations with Phil
the landlord. Phil suggests a route to me to avoid the Forth bridge. The Swiss are German-speaking, but I can’t understand
a word they say to each other and would never have guessed that they were speaking German – it sounds like Dutch. They
collect
whiskies. Their six-year-old daughter had won a flight to Scotland for two in a competition, so she is now safely with her
grandparents.
The proprietors are both English, but lived in the area with the hotel as their local for a while before buying it. As the
Allargue Arms is so remote, I ask whether they can have much local trade, and learn that there are only fifty-nine people
on the electoral roll. However, when there are big events on, such as the Highland Games, they will be packed out.
The landlady has taken some of my clothes to wash and dry. How nice of her. I am in bed. The little birds are still outside.
I like this place.
I am now out of the first section of my route – Highlands – and into Grampian (which seems higher!). The route
says 213.5
miles; I did 212; not far off.
DAY 5
Thursday May 24 2001
Left Allargue Arms with 850 miles on clock, 09.35.
Arrived Bridge of Cally Hotel, Bridge of Cally, with 904 miles on clock, 18.45.
Distance: 54.75 miles. (Some non-productive.)
Average speed: 8.56 mph.
Time cycling: 6 hrs 24 mins.
Maximum speed: 32.7 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 5.95 mph.
Cumulative distance: 266 miles.
Inner tubes: £ 9.00
Accommodation, drinks and food: £26.50
Brenda may yet prove a scandal.
I had a nice breakfast, friendly farewells and was given £5 towards my charities. Phil and Carolyn(?) wished me a less
eventful
day than yesterday and urged me to visit the bike shop at Ballater for new inner tubes. I think maybe I can wait until the
bike shop at Blairgowrie, which is on my route. Then I ride for about nine miles, including one long uphill push and two
brilliant downhills.
I brake when going down the 20% hill. Then, just going past
Gairnshiel Lodge , disaster! I notice that
my front tyre is flat again. There is nowhere for miles around. What to do but knock on the door of Gairnshiel Lodge and
beg for help. The people there are really lovely and try really hard to mend it, but can’t find a hole, although the
tyre
keeps deflating after being pumped up. They have delightful little twin boys who were born the day of the eclipse. As the
tyre is checked for bubbles in a bowl of water, the twins splash about and try to empty the bowl over anyone and anything.
I am given an apple juice and a cup of tea, then, when the wife returns with the car the husband gives me a lift to Ballater
bike shop about five miles away. I am extremely lucky that there is a bike shop so near by. It is shut for lunch until 1pm.
So here I wait.
The Gairnshiel Lodge people were so nice. They have only been running the guest house for two months – he used to work
for London Weekend TV. It sounds like their decision to move up here and run a guest house was spontaneous. They had never
been here before until answering an advertisement to consider a timeshare, and had no guest house experience – “But
hey, it
can’t be that difficult”. And they had chickens all over the big garden. (A year later, on a cycling holiday,
Bob and I stay there overnight, and it is totally wonderful.)
I said how I was having difficulty in understanding some of the Scots, including one of the mechanics who’d fixed my
previous
puncture. “Ah!” I was told, “What he was saying was that you had two holes and he’s fixed one of them.”
I am gaining a lot from this bike ride. As well as a fitter body (???) and the chance to see wild and beautiful scenery and
learn about our countries, I am overwhelmed by peoples’ friendliness and kindness. (The cynic in me asks: will this
continue
once I get into England? However, the people at both the Allargue Arms and Gairnshiel Lodge were English exiles.)
The bicycle repairman returns just before 1pm, and says he can help me. I ask if I can use his toilet, but he says it is
“a bit agricultural” and the dogs might not like me. I am persuaded, and get directed to the public toilets nearby.
I nearly
get lost on my return, even though Ballater is only a one-horse and one-bike-shop village. (It does seem to have interesting
bookshops and foodshops too, but there is no point in my looking at these.) Anyway, Bicycle Repairman explains that my inner
tubes have valves which don’t match the rims. Hence it is the valve which is damaged in my front wheel, which is why
we couldn’t
find a puncture although the tube wouldn’t stay hard.
So I receive new inner tubes front and back (apparently the back one is a disaster waiting to happen) and a spare. Bicycle
Repairman has a medal on the wall of his Czech-style bike hire and repair shop – a B.E.M. I ask about it. He’d
received
it for helping people after the Kegworth air disaster when he was in the army – the disaster happened as he was on his
way
back from training squaddies how to cope with a bus disaster! He charges me £3 for each inner tube. When I say, “What
about
your labour?”, he replies, “Ach, I wasna doin’ anythin’ anyway.”
So I am on my way. Bicycle Repairman – another of my heroes – has told me it is downhill all the way to Braemar.
It is,
but he’d failed to tell me it is the Magic Road. Although it goes downhill, the headwind is so strong that I have to
work
hard to achieve six miles per hour. This goes on and on. I take a photo of Braemar Castle, and wonder what the army is doing
in a field with portaloos and picnic chairs. Then the downhill road becomes even more magic; as it snakes alongside the pretty
river, I am working strenuously to get four or five miles per hour. I am even looking forward to the start of the climb up
to Spittal of Glenshee, for then I will have a reason to get off and walk. (I don’t want to push downhill, it would
be ridiculous
– and take forever.)
Eventually the promised climb starts, and I get off and push happily. The Spittal is another very very high skiing resort,
similar to The Lecht. It takes quite some time to walk to the top, but it makes a change from cycling against a headwind,
and I feel it isn’t quite as bad as The Lecht, which I’d done the day before. Then, at the top, the reward I feel
I deserve
– a helmet-lifting two mile long descent at close to the speed of light. Lovely!
When eventually I slow to fifteen miles per hour, it feels like four miles per hour. I decide to continue to Blairgowrie
– by my charts about six miles away – as the downhill run has cheered me up. It is a pleasant up and down ride,
the wind
no longer fighting me. I work out that I should arrive at Blairgowrie in plenty of time for The Archers. So imagine my dismay
when I come across a sign - “Blairgowrie 14 miles” – at the point where I think it should be about four. I
have some figs
and pedal on, thinking maybe I can arrive at Blairgowrie before too late. I haven’t done fifty miles yet, so, wondering
whether
I am being incredibly foolish, I pedal past two or three B&Bs. Time is getting on.
I arrive in Bridge of Cally, about six miles short of Blairgowrie, where there is a hotel. I ask, and they have a room.
So here I am – cheese and onion toasties and a couple of pints later. And I arrived just in time for The Archers too.
I’ve
managed to talk to Bob and Anna by getting them to ring me back, as there is no public phone here. Uh – oh – beer
all over my lap.
Some bloke in the bar says he’ll sponsor me 10p a mile, and is aware that that would be about £100. He writes
down his name
and address on a sponsorship form . . . but . . .we’ll wait and see . . . (About four weeks after returning home I receive
a cheque for £100 and a “well done” card from him! I am astounded and delighted.)
I seem to get en suite rooms on alternate nights. Tonight is not an alternate night, but I have a “private bathroom”
with
my own bathroom key.
I’d have liked a third pint, but some good fairy kicked in and told me there were things I still have to handle. Blast!
Despite gallons of sunscreen, my nose is developing a cold sore.
Every bunch of Scottish signposts has at least one sign pointing to either “Craigie” or “Craithie”.
DAY 6
Friday May 25 2001
Left Bridge of Cally with 904 miles on clock, 08.40.
Arrived Travel Inn, Falkirk (near Kincardine Bridge), with 974 miles on clock, 17.20.
Distance: 69.7 miles.
Average speed: 10.12 mph.
Time cycling: 6 hrs 53 mins.
Maximum speed: 27.1 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 8 mph.
Cumulative distance: 336 miles.
Apples: £ 0.32
Accommodation: £40.95
Drink: £ 0.98
Toilet (with tickets) x 2: £ 0.60
Will everything Brian’s built up go down the pan?
Now it’s morning, I’m just about to go to breakfast. I realised yesterday that I’d sent out loads of postcards
saying I’d
done 112 miles – when I’d really done 212! The Topper (local free paper) needs correcting, by the way: I seem to
be fuelled
by beer even more than figs (still got about half a dozen figs left, but don’t think they’ll last the day . . .)
A very different day from the previous one. Gone are the rugged terrain, bilingual signs, appalling climbs and fantastic
descents. I’m obviously in a different land now, as last night’s hotel was the first to issue me with keys. At
Bonar Bridge,
even the bungalow front door was kept unlocked. I roll easily through green countryside to Blairgowrie after the standard
breakfast, and then take the opportunity to buy myself a ticket to the public toilets.
When I come back to my bike, I realise that my folder of maps and routes isn’t there! Disaster – and this time
my fault,
not Bob’s or Freewheel’s (who had supplied the wrong-sized inner tubes). I remember I had put it down on a washing
machine
when I was loading up my bike – and forgotten to pick it up again. Luckily, I have the hotel’s phone number on
the form that’s
verifying my journey, so I ring them up to ask if they can post it to Anna. I will try to cope without until then; the current
map is in my map case on my handlebars. However, the bloke (barman? landlord? one who does everything) who answers says he’ll
drive it out to me. How kind! I spend fifteen to twenty minutes in Blairgowrie, buying apples and walking around. Then
he turns up with my maps in his Range Rover, I am very grateful and cycle off as he beeps and waves at me. I wave back cheerily.
When I realise that I am on the wrong road, I understand why he’d been beeping and waving. But I am not far off, and
soon
put myself right. It was more difficult to stop calling myself a complete pillock.
The weather is more pleasant for cycling than previously: not so hot, sometimes overcast, sometimes weak sunshine. The roads
are easy and I bowl along effortlessly. It is very enjoyable. Villages and settlements are less widely scattered, and I
see several schools, including one where the children in their blue uniforms are being lined up for their school photograph.
Near Kinkell Bridge I see two deer in the road – they lope into the woods when they see me approaching, but I feel it
was
very special to have seen them so closely. Auchterarder seems to be a mass of golf courses and portaloos, but I go to the
public loo in the town and acquire my second toilet ticket of the day.
Then back to slightly hillier countryside, through Gleneagles. There is some climbing at the beginning of the glen, but nothing
compared to the real Highlands, and soon the easy going is back. A couple of Americans in a hire car cruise alongside me,
wanting to know where the Gleneagles Golf Course is, and I tell them I think they’ve passed it, but that I am a stranger
here too.
I am delighted to find a “Welcome to Yetts O’Muckhart” sign, and squat on the ground next to it to decide what
to do next.
I decide to avoid the Forth Road Bridge, and use the Kincardine Bridge instead. I realise I’ve missed the Library Museum,
which I had been hoping to visit, but decide to return and visit it another day when I am not cycling and have more time.
Kincardine is easy to find and well signposted. I plan to try to find accommodation just before the bridge. As I enter Kincardine,
it starts to rain, and I spot a B&B sign. However, the lady has no vacancies, and neither does her friend, whom she telephones.
I continue, looking out for B&Bs or hotels as I cycle. I find myself at the bridge, so I cross it – not scary –
and see that
I am in the damp and gathering gloom on a fast and busy road. I put on my lights and my waterproof jacket and press on.
There is a sign, “Hotel 200m”, on the left, so I explore . . . and explore . . . Eventually there is another sign,
with
the hotel’s phone number. As I am now in civilisation (?) where I can get a signal on the mobile, I stand surrounded
by cows
mooing loudly on every corner and give the hotel a ring. Yes, they do have a room free, and it costs £58. I turn round,
find my way back to the unpleasant main road, and continue. After a while I see a Travel Inn – “all rooms £40.95”.
Not my
first choice of accommodation, and also too expensive (and that’s the price without breakfast!), but I go for it. I
am getting
worried about my visibility in the rainy gloom on the main road; also I am getting wet. I am close enough to Edinburgh to
be able to reach Anna easily the next day.
My bike is stowed safely in the linen room. My room is full of instructions on how to do things like use the shower mat.
I’ve had a bath, listened to The Archers, spoken with Anna and Bob, and turned the TV on. Oh, and had cups of tea and
written
this. Shall I investigate the bar? Maybe . . .
I’m really looking forward to seeing Anna and Bob tomorrow.
I decide to capitulate and have an overpriced baguette for my tea, but after queueing for some time I am told that I can’t
have one as I don’t have a table number. So I stomp off, have half a pint in rather an unpleasant atmosphere, and go
back
to my room to eat the rest of my nuts, the complimentary digestive biscuits and most of my sesame snaps. I watch “Have
I
Got News For You?” and go to bed. The last sesame snaps will be my breakfast.
DAY 7
Saturday May 26 2001
Left Travel Inn with 974 miles on clock, 09.10.
Arrived Anna’s, East Crosscauseway, Edinburgh, with 1004 miles on clock, 13.00.
Distance: 29.73 miles.
Average speed: 10.07 mph.
Time cycling: 2 hrs 57 mins.
Maximum speed: 25 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 7.76 mph.
Cumulative distance: 366 miles.
Zovirax: £ 5.25
Cob and banana for breakfast £ 1.24
Figs: £ 1.50
Sanitary towels: £ 1.39
Anna’s shopping and fruit for me: £?????
Meal for three: £43.06
I’m not going to pay £4 for their rubbish breakfast, so I make several cups of pretend coffee, eat the last sesame
snaps and
set off. The lady at reception is very impressed with me – what an ego boost – and donates the £1.50 she
has in her purse
to my charities and points me in the right direction. She suggests I head for Linlithgow, which fits in with what I’d
thought
when looking at the map. Navigation could get complicated around here, as there is such a plethora of roads criss-crossing
each other. I am glad to have a larger scale map of approaches to Edinburgh, also cut from a road atlas.
The right direction has a cycle path next to the busy road, so I cheer – until I find that it has been so completely
strewn
with broken glass that I opt for the traffic instead. I find some shops and buy Zovirax for my nose, and an egg and tomato
cob and a banana for my breakfast, which I eat at the side of the road. After some extremely skilful navigating, I arrive
in Linlithgow, which looks like a place worth exploring some time. It also has special orange cycle paths – special,
because
they are made of extra-skiddy loose gravel. Somebody ought to tell the local authorities around here the purpose of cycle
paths. These ones are not suitable for cycles.
On I go, on a fairly easy ride, passing more habitations than I was used to. Lots of cyclists (only out for the day) overtake
me, but I am not going to wear myself out rushing. I can see the Forth Road Bridge on my left, and rejoice that I don’t
have to cycle over it.
When I am near Edinburgh Airport, I eat a banana and realise that I am not that far off from Edinburgh, so I ring Anna to
warn her. She tells me that I could take the bus from there. However, I cycle on, and after Crammond Bridge there is more
and more of an Edinburghy feel to my surroundings. Soon I am on busy house-lined streets following signs to the City Centre.
I catch my first glimpse of the castle. As I approach Princes Street, I decide to become a pedestrian for a few yards to
avoid a detour. Suddenly, I find myself pushing my laden bike, wearing my cycle helmet, fluorescent vest and face-of-many-colours,
in the midst of hordes of slowly strolling well-dressed shoppers. They are so clean! And moving so slowly! I want to tell
them to shift out of my way as I am on an Epic Bike Ride. And no-one says “hello” to me – where I’ve
been, if you meet someone,
you greet them. It is freaky!
On previous visits to Edinburgh, I’d always been struck by its Scottishness, and how different from England it felt.
This
time, however, after my week in the north, it feels very un-Scottish, almost tamely English.
Luckily, via a Holland and Barret fig-fix, I soon arrive at Anna’s, and ring her bell. She presses the buzzer for me
to come
in, so I ring again and request some help! (She lives up 78 spiral stairs.) It is great to see her. She takes a photo of
her mum looking weird and stripy, then helps me to carry things upstairs. I enjoy spending the afternoon quietly with her.
I have a shower, borrow a clean T-shirt, talk, watch Arabella making a candle instead of revising for her exams, and go to
Tesco’s with Anna for supplies for her and fruit for me. I scoff lots of fruit!
Bob arrives at around four o’clock, and I help to carry his/my bags up. This evening, we shall go for a meal, probably
Indian.
It has been a very relaxing afternoon. Hopefully it won’t make it too hard to move again tomorrow.
We sort out luggage (Bob has brought me clean clothes and other fresh supplies, and is taking away dirties and my unnecessary
fourth pair of shoes). Bob has brought the nail varnish as requested, so I happily paint my toe nails. That’s better!
We
enjoy a nice meal at an Indian vegetarian restaurant. I thought I’d ordered too much, but Bob manages to polish it off.
Back to Anna’s for wine and collapsing. Lovely to see Bob and Anna.
DAY 8
Sunday May 27 2001
Left Edinburgh with 1004 miles on clock, 09.30.
Arrived Border House, Langholm, with 1078 miles on clock, 18.30.
Distance: 73.67 miles.
Average speed: 8.99 mph.
Time cycling: 8 hrs 12 mins.
Maximum speed: 34.9 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 8.18 mph.
Cumulative distance: 440 miles.
Food and beer: £ 5.40
Accommodation: £20.00
Phone: £ 3.40
So “Tiger” did only want Lillian for her money, and Jack’s still not too old for hare-brained schemes.
Bob makes me breakfast in bed, we sort stuff out and have more tea. Then it is time to say goodbye to a very sleepy Anna
on the sofa.
I pedal off, trying very hard to get Bob to move his camera and give me a kiss. I cycle down Nicholson Street. I don’t
so
much cycle out of Edinburgh as climb out of it. At one point I check with someone that I am on the right road, and he says
I am, adding, “You’ll have to be fit to get up there”. It isn’t very pleasant cycling – fast traffic,
roundabouts, dual carriageways
etc., as well as being mostly uphill. But at least the sun isn’t beating down on me. It feels better when I leave the
main
road, to approach Auchendinny, where Bob is going to be waiting for me. He’d passed me, beeping happily, on the busy
road
a couple of miles before Auchendinny.
I’ve become mixed up in the Midlothian Triathlon. Loads of beefy blokes in swimming trunks shoot past me on racing bikes.
The advantage of this to me is that all junctions are being supervised by police, who give priority to cyclists – including
me.
I see Bob waiting for me, camera poised. He manages to photograph me competing with the triathletes. He looks after my
bike whilst I nip behind a hedge, then it is farewells. Again, I am choked with sadness, but ride off. Bob drives past,
waving a lot. Then one of the athletes, who must have read about my journey on my vest, says, “Great stuff, keep it
up” as
he zooms past me.
Some athletes just shoot past me like a bolt from the blue; others I can hear grunting loudly as they get nearer to me. Once
the race has turned off onto a different road, I discover that I am now in an Edinburgh Cycle Club run. Several groups of
two or three overtake, some greeting me. So much for solitary cycling!
As I arrive in Peebles at about 12.15, I stop before a mini roundabout to rearrange my maps. Three overweight late-middle-aged
men (Jim Royle types) approach, presumably on their way to or from a pub – or between pubs. They guffaw at the unlikelihood
of a woman understanding maps, so I say that I’ve done all right so far from John O’Groats. I see them taken aback
– they
actually jump back a step. They ask where I am going, and then started insisting I should go a different way from my planned
route – “I should know, I’m from Manchester.” Then one of them asks whether I am doing it for charity,
and I tell them which
ones, and he gives me a £10 note: “This is from the three of us.”
I find my way through Peebles, including a visit to the town’s convenient ride-in conveniences, and then basically spend
several
hours struggling uphill against a headwind. There are some downhills, but even some of these are marred by headwinds. The
scenery is very enjoyable, but I don’t take many photographs as my film runs out early on and I can’t be bothered
to find
a new one and change it until I got indoors.
Traquair House looks interesting, and I wish I had time to visit it. Another
day, perhaps. It is the oldest inhabited house
in Scotland. I struggle on for hours, past Traquair and Ettrich, and feeling as if I am forever climbing against a headwind.
Several times I think it is going to rain, but it always holds off. I decide to aim for Langholm, where I have several accommodation
addresses, but to stop earlier if anywhere presents itself, as Langholm is a long way off. A sign promises “Hotel, One
Mile”
so I look forward to that, but when I reach it I see that it is closed for refurbishment. I am doubtful about reaching Langholm
before 7.02pm, but decide to listen to The Archers en route if necessary. But then there are a few descents, and Langholm
appears. I decide to cycle into the centre of the town and look around for accommodation, rather than using my list systematically
– I could always resort to that if necessary. Then there it is – the CTC-recommended guest house. Mary, the landlady,
is
just saying goodbye to her daughter at her front door, and she shows me round to the garage at the back of the house, where
my bike is to go. Then she shows me to my room – very comfortable, and it’s an en suite night – and explains
that the pubs
stop serving food at 8pm. I find I have time to shower before The Archers, then at 7.15 I go out in search of food. I have
a jacket potato and a pint in a really ghastly loud smoky pub with hardly anywhere to sit, then return to the guest house
and use the payphone to call Bob and Anna. I have found that I can order jacket potato with any filling (cottage cheese,
cheese and onion, coleslaw, what have you) and it always comes back as a potato with grated orange cheese.
Then I sort out my clothes for tomorrow, get ready for bed, turn on the TV, and start writing this.
DAY 9
Monday May 28 2001
Left Langholm with 1078 miles on clock, 09.20.
Arrived George Hotel, Orton, with 1142 miles on clock, 18.40.
Distance: 64.37 miles.
Average speed: 8.18 mph.
Time cycling: 7 hrs 52 mins.
Maximum speed: 33.2 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 6.9 mph.
Cumulative distance: 504 miles.
Accommodation: £20.00
Food (jacket potato) and beer: £ 6.90
The Grundys keep catching Caroline in compromising situations. And what will Ruth & David do about the childrens’ day
out?
Excellent breakfast, including prunes, brown toast and perfect Brie and cherry tomatoes. After that fantastic breakfast and
some good easy runs, I am making great speed and feeling like the day is going to be easy.
Then, a few miles later, I hit England. Almost immediately – literally – the skies darken, the marked-off side
of the road
where I’ve been cycling grows narrower, and the road surface deteriorates. I change my mind about the route. Instead
of
going the main CTC way along lanes, I go via Longtown because, although two miles longer, it promises “fewer hills”,
and that
is an offer I cannot refuse! Although this looks like a busy road on the map, it isn’t too bad, and has the added advantage
of toilets at Longtown. After Longtown I realise that I am truly in England when someone leans out of a white Ford window
and shouts something like “up down up down” at me.
Between Longtown and Brampton the first serious rain of the trip hits me. At first it is just drizzle, but it increases and
I don my waterproof top. I go, with my bike, to the toilets at Brampton (after asking directions to them at the Tourist Information
Centre) and see myself in the mirror. Ye Gods! Then, thanks to appalling signposting (there isn’t one) I have to go
back
to the Tourist Info to ask where is the Castle Carrock road. I don’t take the planned sort-of-short-cut to avoid Crogin
–
because I don’t find it. But it wouldn’t have made much difference.
The roads are very up and down – in particular, up. I am beginning to believe that the country must be tilted, how else
can
there be so many more ups than downs? Also, all those people who travel from Land’s End to John O’Groats because
of the prevailing
winds may have a point. But of course anyone could do it with the wind behind them and without lugging half a ton of figs
– I wanted a challenge!
I think the scenery is impressive, but most of the time it is shrouded in mist, particularly the hilltops. On through Kirkoswald,
Lazonby and Great Salkeld, where I have a good stop for water, figs and map rearrangement. Then Langwathby and a horrid short
stretch of the A66 around Temple Sowerby. The dangerous road is fast, busy and too narrow, so I constantly have huge lorries
thundering past me, invading my personal space. To my relief, it is soon time to turn off to the right – which involves
waiting
for ages for a gap in the traffic, and then leaping.
The lanes I am on now are peaceful, and the weather varies between rain and sun. Because the day is so damp and overcast,
I don’t bother topping up my sun protection after the initial morning application of Factor 45. In the evening, I find
that
my left arm is burned.
The lanes are very up and down and up. A cart with four or five people sitting on it, and a couple of dogs running alongside
it, is pulled by a horse. Going downhill, I zoom past them, saying “hello”. Over the next few miles, we pass each
other
often, they passing me up hills, I passing them down hills.
At King’s Meaburn I start to think about stopping for the night. According to my accommodation lists, there are lots
of places
all along the route, and I expect not to have any problems. However, these places are farms, and therefore strictly out of
bounds because of foot and mouth precautions. I cycle over lots of disinfectant mats placed across roads, and see lots of
“Keep Out” and “Footpath Closed” signs. I see several empty fields, but maybe they would have been empty
anyway. I also
see sheep and cows. But my problem is that the plethora of accommodation is not currently available.
Mauld’s Meaburn looks like a very pretty and interesting village, but I climb out of it as quickly as I can, because
I am
looking for somewhere to stay. I know I am tired when I start to resent people I see for not having guest houses. Really,
you’d think they could offer accommodation to the public in one of their rooms! Bastards! Often, I walk up even shallow
or short hills, just to give my poor sore bottom a rest. Crosby Ravensworth is a bit bigger, but still has nothing. However,
there is a sign saying “Orton, 4 miles”, and I know that Orton has hotels. Only four miles? No problem!
Those are some of the most difficult four miles I have ever cycled – even though I actually walk a lot of them. They
are
nearly all uphill – sometimes steeply – and lead across exposed fells and moorland with a gale howling against me
and sheep
baa-ing at me. Sometimes, the wind forces me to walk even when the road is level.
At last I arrive in Orton, and am relieved when the George Hotel (CTC recommended) has a room for me. (Tonight is not an
en suite night.) They tell me to leave my bike “anywhere in the garage” – the “garage” is an old
barn over the road, whose
several doors do not close properly, and which has nothing secure to which a bike can be locked. I am not happy, and spend
ages manoeuvring my bike into the darkest corner, and locking it to removable objects as there are no fixed ones. Then I
listen to The Archers, and phone Bob and tell him about my misgivings concerning bike security. If someone does take the
bike, the insurance will not cover it as it has not been securely stored. Bob gives me resolve to talk to the man about it
again (previously, I’d said to him, “Will my bike really be all right there?” and he’d replied, “Well,
we haven’t had one
stolen yet”) and I go on about insurance conditions. The upshot is that my bike is now on the landing outside my bedroom
door, and I feel a lot happier about it.
I have a nice bath, a jacket potato, and am working my way through my second pint. I had problems with my bedroom key, which
got stuck in the lock and took me several minutes to extract. Tomorrow I must send some postcards.
An exhausting day!
DAY 10
Tuesday May 29 2001
Left Orton with 1142 miles on clock, 09.25.
Arrived Aspinall Arms, Mitton/Whalley, with 1196 miles on clock, 17.35.
Distance: 53.87 miles.
Average speed: 7.85 mph.
Time cycling: 6 hrs 52 mins.
Maximum speed: 35.7 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 5.88 mph.
Cumulative distance: 558 miles (over half way).
Accommodation: £30.00
Meal and beer: £10.45
Fruit: £ 1.21
David, you should NOT have done that!
I share the breakfast room with two women I’d seen in the bar the night before. They are walking coast to coast, but
are
doing it in one week sections over three years. Because of foot and mouth restrictions, they are having to do it on roads
instead of footpaths this year. To give themselves energy, they carry prunes!
Breakfast is the usual boiled egg, cereal and toast affair. Then I lug my bike down from the landing, attach all the bits
and find the walkers knocking it over whilst I am waiting to pay. But that’s probably my fault for leaving it in a stupid
place. The person taking my payment says that she’s thought about doing the End-to-End – she had cycled coast to
coast in
four days – but doesn’t think she could find the time. She points me in the right direction, something which I
always find helpful!
The day turns out to be good cycling weather, despite predictions of rain, although it is sometimes too windy. It is intermittently
sunny or overcast, but always dry. I cycle to Tebay, then find myself climbing steeply until I am high above the motorway.
Far, far below are the little toy cars. On I go, with more climbs, and I enter the Yorkshire Dales National Park in the late
morning. The uphills still seem more frequent than the downhills, but I console myself with the thought that soon I’ll
be
in Lancashire, which of course will be flatter. I could not have been more wrong!!! Why did no-one warn me of the extreme
hilliness of Lancashire??? Lancashire’s a hilly bastard!!!
The really really really difficult bit is from High Bentham to Slaidburn, through the so-called Forest
of Bowland. The “Forest”
has three or four trees at its beginning, and is thereafter exposed moorland. This part of the ride is ten or twelve miles,
and I prepare beforehand by buying fresh and dried fruit at a good greengrocers’ in High Bentham. The woman serving
me goes
“mmm mmm” when I ask her whether it is uphill all the way to Slaidburn.
Firstly there is an unfenced road amidst miles and miles of upland moorland wilderness, dotted with “Moors closed. Keep
to
the road” signs. This road goes mainly up, but occasionally down, and as the dreaded headwind is not battering me, I
begin
thinking, “Compared to what I was expecting, this is a doddle”. Daft me! The downs become fewer. The ups become
more frequent.
The ups become steeper. The ups become nearly vertical. The scenery changes a bit as I slowly push my bike up endless inclines.
There is a short downhill section, exciting for its steepness. Then more ups. And more ups. Then, amazingly, the road leads
upwards. From time to time there is a level section, or even a downhill, but there is always a price to pay for this.
At last I am at some kind of summit, and suddenly I am descending a narrow cliffside road, with a steep drop on one side and
mountain on the other, at breakneck speed. It goes on and on. I have to use my brakes a lot in order to manoeuvre around
the sharp hairpin bends. But still the speed increases, and I am simultaneously exhilarated and praying to the God of Brakes.
This, I think, had to be the final descent into Slaidburn. Again, how wrong could I be! Up goes the road. Off my bike get
I. There are lots more steep uphill pushes. At one point, the hill is so steep that I need a rest from pushing, so I stand
still and start rearranging my maps. Suddenly, out of nowhere, two lycra-clad gods on racing bikes (fugitives from the Midlothian
Triathlon?) shoot past me. “Are you all right?” asks one. “Yes, thanks.” “Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s just that I’m carrying
a lot of weight.” (Always a good excuse on this trip, even when my panniers are half empty.) “So am I, on my backside.”
With that, they speed past and disappear into the far beyond. I cannot believe they were human!
I do feel part of a fraternity/sorority of cyclists – every day I pass dozens going the other way, and even if the passing
is done at speed, there is always a friendly greeting.
Eventually I arrive, knackered, in Slaidburn, and treat myself to a map-fiddle, snack and detour to the public toilets. As
I am trying to get my bike into the toilets, and failing because the angle is too sharp, a woman offers to look after it while
I go. What a luxury a proper toilet is! My bicycle guardian is very interested in my trip, and also stunned by the amazing
scenery of the route I’ve just done by
bike and she’s just done by car.
But the miles are not being eaten up. Who has tilted the country so that there are more ups than downs? On I plod, with
some more pushing. Only during the last few miles of my day do I feel like I am actually cycling, rather than pushing and
freewheeling.
I end up in either Great Mitton or Whalley – or maybe I am between the two, certainly I am too tired to care – at
a comfortable
if slightly pricey pub/hotel, but much classier than yesterday’s run-down affair, the Aspinall Arms. And tonight is
an en
suite night, hooray! I shower, take some photos, speak to Bob, text-message Anna and have a delicious meal: mixed bean and
roasted vegetable cassoulet with rice and salad. It is a huge helping, but I manage it! Now my second pint (Timothy Taylor)
is going the way of the first (Black Sheep). I’m in the bar, and there is no loud music blaring. In fact, there are
very
few people here. It’s comfortable. When I first saw this place, I wasn’t even sure whether it was still functioning,
with
everything being shut up, but I saw some lights on upstairs, and then the landlady’s son appeared in his car and said
he would
get his mother. Now my bike is safely locked in the stable/garage, and I’m content (if poorer!). The landlady (who stems
from Suffolk) offers to show me some interesting walks I can go on, but I am not interested. I’m glad I have a dress
to change
into in the evenings.
My bum is less sore than it has been. This may be because of the Calendula I am smothering it with, or it may be because
today I did very little real cycling, just walking and freewheeling.
If I can do at least 57 miles a day for the rest of this week, maybe Bob can help me over the Severn Bridge.
I MUST GET SOME POSTCARDS.
DAY 11
Wednesday May 30 2001
Left Mitton or Whalley with 1196 miles on clock, 09.20.
Arrived Malbank Hotel, Nantwich, with 1269 miles on clock, 18.55.
Distance: 72.88 miles.
Average speed: 9.37 mph.
Time cycling: 7 hrs 47 mins.
Maximum speed: 25.9 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 7.63 mph.
Cumulative distance: 631 miles.
Much more cycling today, hence a sore bum again.
Accommodation: £25.00
Drinks and toastie: ~£5.50
Always Ultra: £ 1.77
Postcards & stamps: £ 4.98
Right on, Clarrie! Make Ed pay!
Today will prove to be a very different day from yesterday: far fewer hills, no wilderness, lots of urban cycling.
After the excellent meal last night, breakfast turns out to be the most meagre so far: boiled egg, thimbleful of juice and
a couple of slices of toast, one white. No cereal! Still, I pedal off secure in the knowledge that my figs will see me through
hard times.
At the first opportunity, I go into a post office and buy postcards and stamps. I also go into a chemist’s, and as I
come
out a Scottish woman starts talking to me. She tells me how she’d once tried to walk the Forth Bridge, but had to turn
back
after a few yards. She suggests a “short cut” which would get me away from the traffic on the main road and up
into the moors,
with an exciting sweep down again. I thank her, but, realising the implications of an “exciting sweep down again”,
stay amongst the traffic.
The Beatles were right. Blackburn is full of holes – all of them in the roads I am cycling. It is also in The Land
That
Toilets Forgot. In the end, I spot a bit of a slope behind a rail beside a pavement, leading to the railway track, and take
advantage. Thankfully, but not surprisingly, no trains come. Blackburn is tricky to navigate as I have to go through the
town centre. At one point I am mixed up in an Asian funeral, but manage to extricate myself.
Much relieved, I pedal on in the general direction of Bolton. I miss the tiny lane on the right that would have helped me
to avoid Bolton, and have to cycle round the inner ring road. Luckily it has a cycle lane most of the way, but it is a bit
of a drag. When you’re undertaking an epic adventure, you don’t want to keep on cycling past Blockbuster Videos.
However,
the trip to Bolton only adds about a mile or a little more to my journey, and it does lessen the hills.
I am cycling much more quickly than on the previous day as, apart from the climb to Tockholes, the journey is mostly flat.
However, I am having to spend a lot more time navigating, and stop at most junctions to check that I am going the right way.
The large-scale map of “Approaches to Manchester”, which I’d cut out of a road atlas, is truly invaluable –
without it, I’d
have been as lost as I would have been without figs! At one point in the urban sprawl to the west of Manchester, I have to
ask the way off a policewoman on horseback waiting at traffic lights.
I cycle over a “Toll Bridge”, wondering how much the toll is going to be. The bridge is old and ricketty, and its
approach
is decorated with A4 signs on trees saying “Toll increased to 12p – please have correct change ready”. The
uniformed official
in the wooden toll booth just waves me through, however – obviously they make enough profit from motorists’ 12ps,
without
having to worry about cyclists.
I keep seeing signs to Risley Remand Centre, but don’t fancy a visit. I also cycle under some, and over many, motorways.
The landscapes of Cheshire and southern Lancashire are criss-crossed by them.
The weather forecast had promised rain, but I experience less than half an hour of wet weather, and that isn’t heavy.
There
had been rain earlier in places where I arrive, as I can see by the big dirty puddles in the roads, which lorries drive through,
splashing me. Ugh!
Cheshire becomes more and more upmarket. I seem to cycle through leafy lane after leafy lane of huge houses, all self-consciously
fronted by big walls and ornamental gates. Better not use any of their front lawns as a toilet! I just have to go in hedges
and hope no traffic comes. Today I am lucky.
I also find a plethora of establishments catering for cats and dogs. Most places with accommodation boards outside do indeed
offer accommodation, but on closer inspection it is only for dogs. Kennels, dogs’ boarding houses, pets’ cemeteries,
even
a mobile dog-training service – are there any services around here for people at all?
Knutsford looks interesting but I sail through it, contemplating stopping at Middlewich. However, I hate Middlewich even
on approaching it – miles of traffic jams and roundabouts and car scrap-heaps and wasteland. I choose a hotel in Nantwich
from my list, ring up, and book a room. Then I speed on, pleased that my accommodation for the night is arranged, but sure
that I won’t get there before The Archers. Therefore, when I see a wayside inn offering “Luxury En Suite Accommodation”,
I stop and ask the price. (I could always ring and cancel the Nantwich Hotel.) It is £40 to £45, so I cycle
on, chastened
by my implied treachery to the Malbank Hotel, Nantwich.
When I arrive in Nantwich, I follow signs to the centre, then ask a couple of pedestrians the way to the hotel. They point;
it is a couple of hundred yards along the road. So here I am. I was warmly greeted and my bike carried up to the first floor
landing. My room is on the second floor. And I am amazed by being just in time for The Archers! I do some washing while
I listen, then ring Bob, then have a shower. I’d thought of going out to look for food, but it has started to rain,
so I
persuade chef to open the kitchens again (shut at 7.45 pm!) and cook me a cheese and onion toastie. Yum! How do they get
the consistency and texture to be so exactly like polystyrene? I wash it down with orange juice and a pint.
My room is en suite (that makes two nights running, the pattern has been broken) but seedy. Someone else’s cold tea
is still
in the teapot, the clock/radio/phone doesn’t work at all in any of its functions, and the formica trim is peeling off
the
chipboard furniture. But it is adequate, and I am pleased to have a bed for the night; also a shower which works.
I have a text message: Anna is impressed by my progress! I swell with pride. Now I must write some postcards. I’ll
go upstairs
to do that.
DAY 12
Thursday May 31 2001
Left Nantwich with 1269 miles on clock, 09.15.
Arrived Henwick House, Ludlow, with 1340 miles on clock, 19.00.
Distance: 70.79 miles.
Average speed: 9.55 mph.
Time cycling: 7 hrs 24 mins.
Maximum speed: 30.4 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 6.91 mph.
Cumulative distance: 702 miles.
Accommodation: £30.00
Meal and beer: £ 8.45
Apples and stamps: ~£1.00
Film, stamps, postcards: ~£8.00
Apple, banana, prunes: ~£3.00
More beer: £ 1.00
Oliver, Caroline’s right, you were way out of order.
I leave Nantwich after a splendidly bad breakfast – meagre and unappetising, and I had to send the toast back because
they’d
spread margarine on it! (“You didn’t want marge on your toast? You should have said.” Nowhere else where
I have had breakfast
have I been served with pre-marged toast! Maybe I should have said too that I didn’t want it pre-chewed, or served with
a
horsehair garnish?) In the hotel dining room were displayed unappetising slabs of stale desserts: yesterday’s/last week’s
cakes etc, together with two notices warning staff of the direst consequences if they were caught eating them. Anyone eating
that stuff would probably suffer dire consequences. When I left the hotel, instead of expressing any interest in my journey,
or wishing me well, as all other hosts so far have done, the bloke I paid (not the same one who greeted me on arrival) said
“See ya” and turned away. Are the Scots (and the English in Scotland, particularly Edinburgh, of course) really
more generous
and friendly?
Anyway, I manage to get my bike out of the hotel, but don’t know which way to turn. A passerby points out the right road
and
I am out of Nantwich surprisingly quickly, despite a long delay at a level crossing. Nantwich looks like it might be worth
exploring some day, but maybe from a different hotel.
The morning is a cyclist’s dream – easy, pleasurable cycling, the wind often behind me, my bike gobbling up the
miles. I
decide that an incident during my morning shower has been an omen: I’d dropped my Ladyshave and it had come apart totally
into about six pieces, including the batteries, all lying on the the wet shower floor. I cursed and planned to buy a new
one from the Boots down the road – but decided that there would be no harm in putting the wet one back together and trying
it, just to be sure. Blow me – it still worked! A good omen for the day, only slightly tarnished by the bad omen of
breakfast.
I am making excellent time, and surprise myself with my skill at navigating the outskirts of Market Drayton, via council estates
and Brookside-type developments, where I feel a bit conspicuous using my compass. It is very strange to conduct an Epic Journey
through the middle of a council estate. My cut-up road atlas is very helpful. At one point I look at my map and think, “There
should be a golf course near here.” I look up and there is a sign pointing to Market Drayton Golf Club. Never before
have
I been so delighted to see a golf course!
I have been craving fruit (Fruit, I must have Fruit) and needing stamps for my postcards to Germany. So the post office cum
greengrocers’ I come across is the answer to my dreams! Post offices often combine their businesses with selling stationery
or running a general store, but this one was surreally surrounded by fruit and veg. I buy two apples and two stamps. A lady
enters, reads the back of my high visibility vest, and exclaims with amazement at the length of my journey. She asks about
charities, and gives me £3 for them. Then the postmaster/greengrocer pushes a £5 note at me for the charities
too! I am very pleased and grateful.
I am buoyant with peoples’ generosity and the speed of the cycling, so decide to ring my mates at Basford Library, where
I
would normally have been at the time, for a chat. I have a nice talk with Margaret and Lynda as I stand by the side of the
road and admire the scenery. Then it is time to tackle the first serious uphill of the day – Little Wenlock onto Coalbrookdale,
the gorge, etc. It promises to be interesting but hilly. Firstly I struggle up to Wrockwardine, and potter left and right
up there for ages, completely at a loss as to which way to go. The signposting is on its last legs; there are one or two
signs to places I know I don’t want to go to, but none of the roads appear to go in the direction I do want. I am able
finally
to leave Wrockwardine by a combination of finding an old signpost on the ground in a hedge and flagging down a rare car and
asking the driver. The next few miles continue in a similar manner – very slowly – by trying to work out the CTC
directions
backwards (“turn right at the church” – therefore I should be coming from this direction (I am cycling a CTC
route in the
wrong direction)), using the compass and flagging down drivers. Pedestrians seem as sparse as signposts, and the lanes I
am cycling along don’t always match up with the maps. However, I am delighted that I never actually go the wrong way,
although
my dithering at junctions severely delays me. But I refuse to cycle down a steep hill only to find I have to climb back up
it again!
Yesterday I had cycled past Reaseheath College; today I cycle past Harper Adams. I feel very close to Ambridge and expect
to see a sign pointing there or to Borchester, except for the fact that there are hardly any signs.
I contemplate taking a short cut and missing out the
Ironbridge Gorge, but in the event I cycle on a bridge over the main
road short cut, so cannot join it. Just as well, it would have been silly to miss it, although I don’t have time to
see it
properly. I would like to go back to the Gorge soon and explore it properly and visit the museums – and maybe put up
some
signposts.
There is a long descent on a narrow single-track road (which often consists of potholes held together with puddles and loose
gravel) into Coalbrookdale, then on and suddenly the Iron Bridge is in front of me. I take some photos, persuade a woman
in a shop to let me buy a film and some postcards (she seems greatly to prefer discussing her family with her colleague to
selling things), squeeze the Epic Journey past ice cream queues, and realise that I don’t know which way to go (again).
As I dither at a mini-roundabout, a van driver beckons me across in front of him. I say, “I’m lost”, so he
gives me directions
whilst the traffic behind him beeps and toots more and more loudly. He gives them the finger. Thank you, helpful White Van
Man. His directions send me over the bridge, which is great (cars can’t go on it), and then ever upwards, ever onwards,
but
mainly upwards out of the gorge. The signposting hasn’t improved, so I continue coping as before.
Bob had had a voicemail from John on the mobile, so, as a break from the uphill climb, I ring him at work to tell him that
he has no meeting. He can’t hear me very well.
In view of the difficulty of finding my way on lanes in this part of Shropshire, I decide that from Much Wenlock I will head
towards Ludlow on the straight road. At Much Wenlock I have to ask at the Tourist Information Centre which road that is.
The lady’s Shropshire accent startles me. As there are sometimes several miles between stopping to talk to people, I
find
myself in areas with different accents, which helps me to feel how far I am travelling.
I plan to head towards Ludlow, where I have plenty of accommodation addresses, but to stop at any suitable place I might find
on the way first once I’ve cycled sixty miles. The cycling becomes easy again, and the miles mount up on my clock rapidly,
as they had done in the morning. There are some uphills, but far more fast, easy, maybe even downhill, stretches. However,
I have no luck with accommodation en route, even though I am expecting to have a good chance on a mainish road. The first
place I see – a pub/hotel by the roadside – is shut, and I am unable to rouse anyone. The second – a large
bungalow with
several B&B and “RAC Recommended” signs – is full, and the lady offers to ring the previous place for me, but
I don’t want
to retrace my steps.
Two or three times during the day it had rained briefly, but never for long, and never enough to saturate me. It did give
me an opportunity to frighten the wildlife by donning my yellow waterproof, though.
I arrive at Ludlow. sooner than I expected, and cycle into the town
centre. It looks a very interesting place, lots of Green
Party placards, wholefood shops and more craft shops than you can shake a stick at, as well as historic buildings. I am looking
for signs saying “B&B”, but they all say “Holistic Therapies”. Then I find two hotels opposite each other
and enquire at
the less historic and less important looking one, assuming it will be cheaper. Unfortunately they only have a double room
free, which would cost £45 – too much; and they say that the other hotel is more expensive. So I get out my list
and the
mobile phone, and ring the Henwick Guest House, where they too only have a double room, but will reduce the price for it to
£30. I jump at the chance, follow the directions (including asking a couple of people along the way, as some of the
directions
have of course passed me by) and am soon warmly welcomed by Sarah, the landlady. It is a lovely room, well-appointed, clean
and comfortable. And once again I arrive just in time for The Archers.
I do some chores, ring Bob, shower, find that THE FIGS ARE ALL GONE, and walk for ten minutes to the recommended Unicorn pub
(via a shop which conveniently sells prunes). Here, I have a delicious and, I feel, well-deserved blue cheese, artichoke
and pasta bake with salad and brown roll, and a pint and a half. Now I will have to find my way back up the hill in the gathering
gloom, and hope I can remember where the guest house, my belongings and my bike are.
I do eventually find the guest house again (it is only the last part of the walk that is tricky, when I keep finding a church
where Henwick House should be) and then have a tremendous struggle with my left contact lens. But now I’m happily in
the
comfy bed.
DAY 13
Friday June 1 2001
Left Henwick House with 1340 miles on clock, 09.30.
Then left Ludlow about 10.00 with about 1343 miles on the clock!
Arrived Linden House, Ross-on-Wye, with 1382 miles on clock, 16.15.
Distance: 42.4 miles.
Average speed: 8.54 mph.
Time cycling: 4 hrs 58 mins.
Maximum speed: 30.8 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 6.28 mph.
Cumulative distance: 744 miles.
Accommodation & booking fee: £36.50
Meal (potato) and beer: £ 5.00
Apple and sanitary towels (yum!): ~£2.00
Public phone: £ 1.40
Well done, Brian, integrity at long last. But poor, bewildered Oliver.
I have a very good breakfast - melon, banana, Alpen, beans on brown toast, juice, brown toast. The other guests are a group
of two Californians and one Canadian, who are touring Britain (one of them for the first time) and love it, and a single middle-aged
lady who is there for a music festival she is looking forward to a lot, and who had a tortuous train journey to get to Ludlow.
They all seem very impressed by my antics, and ask questions.
Sarah the landlady gives me directions on how to find the road to Leominster. Unfortunately, when I arrive at the roundabout
she'd directed me to, I find that she hasn't sent me to the Leominster road I’d asked for, but to the main A road, which
looks
ghastly. From this I work out where in Ludlow I am – the wrong end, the north.
So I turn round, cycle back past the guest house and take the opportunity to photograph it, as I’d forgotten to do so
before.
As I am doing this, a passerby asks if I need directions. Of course I do! He sends me down the road I would have gone down,
but my memory can only hold so many (about 0.2) directions at a time, so I soon find myself pedalling hopelessly around the
centre of town. By now I need the toilet again, which necessitates a lot more asking of directions despite there being plenty
of signs which purport to point to them. When I emerge I fall into conversation with a man who's been studying my bike and
wants to know what the cow horns are for. I explain that I have them because I get problems with my hands, and he exclaims
that when he cycles his hands go numb and maybe he should try something similar. Then I ask some more directions, and finally
leave Ludlow about half an hour after I'd set out.
Signposts are still too sparse, and I get lost in the middle of Leominster too, and have to ask directions similarly. Both
towns look worth another visit, possibly armed with direction signs. Both Ludlow and Leominster and their surrounding areas
have a lot of Green Party placards up. They also have a lot of craft shops, alternative therapists and herbalists.
Despite getting several lots of directions in Leominster, I still leave it on the wrong road, but decide I don't care. I
will continue on the more major road for a while and have a rest from navigational hassles. I think this is a good move.
The road I am on has a wide enough lane to the left of the white line, which I cycle along, and the going is quick.
Once I am back on the minor roads I again have to ask the way often. One man walks over to talk to me and his donkey in the
field behind him startles me with its sudden ee-aws. Another man says "You didn't want to come this way, you wanted to come
through Hereford."
I find Mordiford and Fownhope, then it is back onto tiny lanes. Although I am now near my day's planned destination, Ross-on-Wye,
the last few miles seem to take a long time, though to a large extent they are through very pretty tiny lanes. There are
a couple of long steep hills. As soon as I see the "17%" sign, I lose heart and start walking. It is a very long hill, very
tough to push the bike up, and for some of the push my speed registers as 0 mph. When I get to the top, I stop for a while
at the viewpoint, drink some water and eat some figs. My bike takes a photo of me. Just as I am setting off again, a tandem
appears - a man and a woman and some panniers. They've ridden all the way up! I am stunned. I'd hardly been able to walk
up. They claim their panniers have hardly any weight in them, but I am still very impressed.
The little lanes wind on and on, and I am beginning to panic that I've somehow got on the wrong road, but eventually I see
a car and the driver confirms that I am going the right way. I've passed tree nurseries and a vineyard and UK Independence
Party signs. Not all birdsong is sweet. Sometimes it sounds like broken bicycles.
Eventually, there is Ross-on-Wye. I find my way to the Tourist Information Centre, and the very helpful woman books me into
the Linden Guest House. It's more expensive than I would have liked to have paid plus I have to pay a £1.50 booking
fee,
but at least I have no hassle and it's comfortable. But I could probably have done better by myself. The Tourist Info lady
also tells me that the Severn Bridge isn't scary - she'd walked across it as a child, and she doesn't like bridges. We shall
see.
I am welcomed into Linden House. I have my shower and sort out my things and wash my cycling shorts with difficulty because
the basin has no plug. I try to find accommodation in Chepstow for when Bob meets me, but don’t do very well. Whenever
I
open the wardrobe door, I nearly get a vast basketful of dried flowers on my head. I go out to explore Ross, and find the
wholefood café, the health food shop and the cycle shop. Unfortunately they are all closing as I find them. I investigate
several pubs and restaurants, trying to find somewhere to eat later. I must look local or something, because twice people
ask me for directions.
I return to my room, make some more phone calls and book Bob and me into Hardwick House in Chepstow. I try to ring Bob to
tell him, but the phone battery soon runs out. So I listen to The Archers and go out again, looking for a payphone. I just
can not find one! Then I remember that some pubs have payphones, so I go in the King's Head or the King Charles or whatever
its name is, and ring Bob on their payphone. Soon I run out of coins. I have a jacket potato with cheese, coleslaw and salad
(tasty, large portion) and return to my room to watch some television and write this.
I do hope the Chepstow meeting works out . . . I'm looking forward to seeing Bob.
The toilet here makes strange noises from time to time. But then, so do I.
DAY 14
Saturday June 2 2001
Left Ross-on-Wye with 1382 miles on clock, 09.25.
Arrived Hardwick Hill, Chepstow, with 1410 miles on clock, 13.15.
Distance: 27.4 miles.
Average speed: 9.55 mph.
Time cycling: 2 hrs 52 mins.
Maximum speed: 29.9 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 7.15 mph.
Cumulative distance: 772 miles.
Accommodation for both of us: £37.00
New key: £ 3.00
Books: £ 1.00
(Bob bought the meal)
Leaving Ross isn't too difficult, as I make use of the Tourist Office town plan, which I fish back out of the bin and disentangle
from the used tea bags. The cycling shorts I've washed have dried overnight, and breakfast has been good: skimmed milk!!!,
grapefruit, cereal, banana, juice, brown toast . . . All in all, an auspicious start. I had been surprisingly tired whilst
finishing last night's entry in bed, glad that I'd only had one pint, and not too sure that I'd written anything sensible.
I start off following the CTC route, but then decide to abandon it in favour of the ghastly dual carriageway followed by the
A466, which I'd been told followed the Wye in a pretty way. Also, it will have fewer hills and be much easier navigationally
- this last point seems very important to me, I am just not in the mood for endless fiddling about at junctions.
The dual carriageway is ghastly, but I don't seem to be on it for that long (it is fairly fast), and then I turn onto the
A466 near Monmouth. I have been into Wales. It is indeed a pretty road, but probably even prettier for car drivers than
for cyclists, as occasionally it is quite narrow and the traffic is fairly fast.
I've already had one ludicrous toilet incident this morning, when I thought I'd found a nice, wooded, secluded path off a
side road, only to find a jeep halting opposite me when it was too late for me to do anything about it! I just ignored it.
Now I am desperate again, and there are lots of tempting trees on the other side of the road. I cross over, find somewhere
to lean my bike, and discover that the tempting trees slope down very very steeply towards the Wye. The footpath is only
about nine inches wide, the traffic is thundering, there is an embankment three or four feet high before the steep drop, and
I am desperate. And scared of heights; and traffic; and very urgent indeed. I keep scrambling up the embankment at various
points, dodging the traffic and clinging onto trees, looking for somewhere with a bit of a ledge before the steep drop. I
do not want to end up in the Wye a long way below. Eventually I find somewhere adequate - just in time.
I cross a very attractive bridge over the Wye. Most of the ride is fairly easy until Tintern. At Tintern, I get off my bike
and walk for a while because it is so interesting. There are second-hand bookshops, curio shops and other shops selling intriguing
things, which I would not be able to carry. The three weeks are a lesson in anti-consumerism. I could only buy what I could
consume immediately. There was no point in looking in bookshops, clothes shops, or other emporia which would normally have
lured me in. It was an odd feeling. I go into a shop and buy an apple and a postcard. I stand on the pavement, using my
saddle as a desk, and write the card to Anna. I explain to her that this card is to replace the one I’d written earlier
which
she might not receive because I can’t remember what I’ve done with it. That probably makes things a lot clearer.
I post
it, take photos of the abbey, then cycle on my way.
The climb out of Tintern drags on and on, rarely steep enough to justify walking, there seems no end to it. Then on my left
I see I am cycling alongside Chepstow Race Course. The lady from Hardwick Hill B&B had mentioned this in her directions.
Yes, I am nearly there. Her directions are easy to follow, and I find Hardwick Hill.
The landlady is not in when I arrive, but an American gentleman guest – from Dakota – who is in the garden, lets
me put my
bags in the hall and shows me to a toilet. (For some reason he leads me to a toilet right at the top of the house although
I could see one next to the front door, but I don’t want to quibble.) His family originally stemmed from these parts.
Then I sit in the large garden writing this for a while, and the landlady appears and shows me to our room. She looks interesting
and has a rich fruity voice, so I guess that she is involved in amateur dramatics, or something similar. The house is incredible.
It’s Georgian and obviously well loved. It’s big with very large rooms filled with fascinating antique furniture,
lots of
lace, patterned carpets, wallpaper, not been redecorated for a long time and looks right that way. There are books all over
the place, and interesting objects in every corner. It feels a bit like being in a museum, except that all these things are
being used for their intended purposes, they are not just “shelf fillers”.
I have a shower (it works well!), do some chores and now I am waiting for Bob and really really looking forward to seeing
him.
Wondering when to expect Bob, I ring Anna with the last trickle of battery left in the mobile. I think I hear her crackle
that he should be at the B&B by now. Surprised, I go downstairs and there he is, sitting in the car in the car park, having
a picnic and planning to walk into Chepstow! (No, I don’t understand why.) I touch his arm through the open window,
and
he jumps.
We have a lovely afternoon and evening together. We explore a second-hand bookshop (I am able to buy because Bob can carry
my purchases home), have some drinks and eat a meal in a quiet pub. (The pub that looks nice from the outside is like purgatory
once you get through the door.) Bob is intrigued by the U-boat gun prominently displayed in Chepstow. I am more intrigued
by the random scattering of black and brown combs (nothing else) in a shop window – a barber’s attempt at artistry.
I am quite drunk and very tired by the time we get back to Hardwick Hill, but this is where the fun starts. We can’t
find
the room key anywhere. No matter how hard or how many times we look, we can’t find it. We try looking for Eileen, the
landlady,
but she obviously isn’t in. I am feeling desperate. Are we to spend all night on the landing in front of our door?
Then
I have an inspiration, and find the master keys hanging up in the big kitchen. Eureka! And one of them works on our door,
so at last we can get into our room. (I later find out that we were lucky to have found the master keys as Eileen had been
out until very late, listening to a male voice choir.)
DAY 15
Sunday June 3 2001
Left Chepstow and Elberton with 1410 miles on clock, 10.10.
Arrived George Hotel, Wedmore, with 1461 miles on clock, 18.00.
Distance: 50.87 miles.
Average speed: 9.55 mph.
Time cycling: 5 hrs 28 mins.
Maximum speed: 29.7 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 6.5 mph.
Cumulative distance: 823 miles.
Meal & beer: £ 7.95
Film for camera: £ 4.95
Ruth is understandably still cross with David. Jennifer gets more and more irritating.
In the morning I say to Bob that we have to make “key confessions”, but he thinks I’ve said “Keith impressions”.
We have
breakfast while the very interesting landlady, Eileen Grassby, tells us about the beautiful house and its contents. The house
is about two hundred years old, and she’s lived in it since the 1960s. She’s been collecting the lovely contents
at auctions
and in other ways for years (some were inherited and some were gifts). She’d previously lived abroad, including in Singapore
and Malaya, and then she was a professional opera singer (so I wasn’t so far wrong in my guess). The sad part is that
she
can’t afford to live in the house any longer and can’t keep doing the work it needs (she’s nearly seventy)
so she will have
to sell it, and doesn’t know what to do with the lovingly collected contents. Some of the furniture is very big indeed,
and
her children all have their own lives in different places and smaller houses. Maybe she will put some into storage.
After breakfast, Bob and I look round the lovely garden, with trees, statuary, shrubs and more, and particularly at the unusual
handkerchief tree. We take some photos. Then, while Bob is fitting the bike to the car, I pay (including £3 towards
a new
key – “Oh hell,” she’d said, when I confessed) and then Eileen shows me aerial photos of her house taken
in 1929 (one of the
first aerial photos) and in the sixties when she bought it. The garden was not made up at all then. She’s done all
that
herself since. Eileen says, “Come and see my living room”. In it are a grand piano, an enormous carved cabinet,
an antique
mirror inherited from her mother, an Indian hand-stitched silk rug, carvings given to her for singing in Singapore, and other
beautiful objects.
We are off, my bike on the back of the car and me relaxing in the passenger seat. The bridge is as bad as I’d anticipated;
I don’t think I could have handled it. Bob takes me to Elberton, the first place where we can stop safely after the
bridge.
We attach all the gubbins to the bike and, sadly, I am off.
Bob waits, camera poised as always, for me at the next village. Then we kiss each other goodbye and again go our separate
ways. Again it is a huge wrench for me, I’d so enjoyed being with him for those few hours.
In my case, going my separate way means that within the next five or ten minutes I am already lost. I ask my way. Navigation
proves very difficult the whole time I am skirting Bristol, and I am frequently reduced to asking my way. But I do manage
to avoid Bristol. Even better, I take a short cut from the CTC route (but not short enough to compensate for the extra miles
I’d already cycled, particularly when looking for Pucklechurch) through Keynsham. That’s K-E-Y-N-S-H-A-M Keynsham,
home of
Horace Batchelor’s Famous Infra-Draw Method. I like Keynsham also for three other reasons: it has public toilets, a
cashpoint
and – most unusually – a signpost pointing to where I want to go!
I follow this. It is good for a while, but soon I am trapped in another maze of endless unsignposted lanes which do not correspond
with any of my maps.
Around Chew Magna and Chew Stoke I have to turn onto a lane and then turn onto another lane off this one very soon, to start
to take myself towards
Cheddar). I miss the second turning, and think I must have done so, when I spot two cyclists with panniers
and full equipment cycling even more slowly than me! I catch up with them and chat. They are interested in my trip and mileages.
One of them had done the End-to-End on a motorbike (cheating!) and when he was at John O’Groats several people turned
up who’d
just come from Land’s End – some walking, and one guy had pushed a trolley all the way. (Maybe what I’m doing
is pointless,
but surely that is just plain daft!) They tell me where I’d gone wrong (the turning I need does exist, it is just disguised
as a farm entrance) and I turn round.
I have to climb up the Mendips. This involves an extremely long steep push, and takes a long, hot time. (Once again the
weather is dry and mostly hot and sunny.) After a long time I think it might be beginning to flatten out and the tree canopy
thins and the verges widen. A man is mowing his steeply sloping lawn and I ask him whether I am nearly at the top. He says
I am, and asks whether I am all right for drinks. “Yes, “ I thank him. He hasn’t exactly been lying, it gets
easier in about
five minutes, but it isn’t level for a long time after that.
The ride to Cheddar begins properly. After some time I start to go slightly downhill. Then more downhill. Then more and
more downhill. Soon the rocks are looming above me on either side, and I am descending ever more rapidly into Cheddar Gorge.
On and on I cut through the rocks, freewheeling more and more deeply into the gorge, getting more and more exhilarated. The
Gorge is spectacular. I keep thinking that this must be the end, and then there is more around the next bend. When a sign
advises “16% - cyclists advised to dismount”, I think: “Like hell! I’ve had enough walking up hills,
I’ll be blowed if I’m
going to walk down as well.” Keeping my hands firmly on the brakes, I freewheel down slowly.
Then comes Cheddar itself: a long string of tat shops, tea rooms, we-take-your-money establishments. There are also the entrances
to the caves, which I would like to visit some time, and the public toilets, which I do visit this time. As I buy an overpriced
film at one of the souvenir shops (mine has just run out), I hear someone on the pavement talking about someone cycling from
John O’Groats to Land’s End.
I decide that I don’t have time to watch authentic Cheddar Cheese being made, and go on. I had thought that there might
be
a hard climb out of the gorge, but luckily I am wrong. What comes instead is the real town of Cheddar, sitting beside the
tourist trap, and, surprisingly, enough signs for me to be able to navigate my way out easily.
Near Cheddar, three deer scamper across the road in front of me.
In view of my navigational experiences earlier in the day, I decide to keep on B roads to Bridgewater. There has been a mistake
in the distances on my chart, and Bridgewater is still a long way away. It is also the next place for which I have accommodation
listed. So when, at Wedmore, I see a pub/hotel with en suite accommodation offered for £25 for a single, I grab the
chance.
And this is where I am at the moment. I shower, do my chores, phone Bob and have a meal of mushroom tagliatelli and one and
a half pints.
In 878AD King Alfred the Great owned Wedmore. After victory over the Danes at Ethandune (Wiltshire) he brought Guthrun, the
defeated Danish leader, to Wedmore. During twelve days of feasting Guthrun was baptised as a Christian and the treaty “the
Peace of Wedmore ” was agreed between the Saxons and the Danes.
Maybe I’ll change the route tomorrow, to avoid minor roads and Exmoor. I’m not sure what the foot-and-mouth situation
is
currently on Exmoor, but it may pose problems for me. I’m sitting in the bar, but about to go upstairs. My room is
clean,
spacious and pleasant, with colour TV with remote control, but obviously not as exciting as yesterday’s.
DAY 16
Monday June 4 2001
Left Wedmore with 1461 miles on clock, 09.30.
Arrived The Old Coaching Inn, South Molton, with 1525 miles on clock, 17.55.
Distance: 63.91 miles.
Average speed: 9.15 mph.
Time cycling: 6 hrs 59 mins.
Maximum speed: 29.6 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 7.59 mph.
Cumulative distance: 887 miles.
Accommodation: £25.00
Fruit: £ 0.61
Food & beer: £ 5.80
Public phone: £ 3.20
Ahh! Caroline and Oliver are going to make it up. And just WHO buys statues of plaster pigs bonking?
In the morning I am persuaded to have an organic boiled egg with my cereals and toast, and John, the landlord, mutters that
he doesn’t think it is enough to set me up for a full day’s cycling. As I load my bike up, he chats with me. He’s
awaiting
his ninth grandchild (! he looks younger than me) and tells me about Son No. 1, Daughter No. 1, Son No. 2, etc. It seems
that Daughter No. 2 is the interesting one. She’s just qualified to drive a forklift truck, and her new boyfriend is
a white
New Zealander with lots of tattoos and piercings. Of course, John’s wife had to ask if, seeing’s as he has piercings
all
over his face, he has piercings – er – down there too. And he does.
I try to pay for my night’s accommodation, but John won’t take my £25. He says he was inspired by what I
am doing and doesn’t
want paying – “we’re fairly relaxed about things down here”. I am overcome and very grateful. It keeps
me on a high for
most of the day. So here’s a big bouquet for The George Hotel, Wedmore.
I am briefly held up early in the day as a herd of cows walks along a road in front of me and several cars. Then the miles
roll away, as I’d decided I wanted a rest from tricky navigation, so I abandon the planned CTC route in favour of bigger
roads
which avoid Exmoor and other hills and are easy to follow. I am even on the busy A road to Bridgewater for a while. Everyone
is very friendly; several times when I stop to look at my maps they ask if I need help. All around me are friendly people
and a forest of “Vote Conservative” signs.
From Bridgewater I go down almost to Taunton, where I skirt the northern edge of the town, then take the B road, which brings
me all the way to South Molton. There are some ups and downs, but when I get off to walk it is mainly so that I can rest
my bum, not my legs. It is another hot day, and I keep slathering sunscreen over myself, but am still the worse for it.
I go into several wayside newsagents, trying to buy postcards, but fail. I suppose it’s a shame that I missed Exmoor,
but
it would have been a navigational nightmare as well as a hot uphill struggle.
As it is, the bits of me that haven’t suffered from sun exposure are covered in blotchy red rashes – presumably
heat rashes.
I look like I have been very badly painted. I am also scratching myself as I cycle along.
I am desperate for fresh fruit, but can’t seem to find anywhere that sells it. Then I get lucky in Bampton. There is
a Spar
shop selling fruit. This, I decide, must be the shop where all of the West Country does its fruit shopping. Leaving there,
I walk along enthusiastically devouring an apple, when I see a couple of elderly ladies, starched white blouses tucked into
flowered elasticated-waistband skirts. One of them asks me whether I have far to go. “Land’s End,” I say.
“You are a good
girl,” she replies, “We should all love each other more, don’t you think?”
I approach South Molton as the afternoon is closing in, and find that there are several lengthy hills to climb before I arrive.
Never mind, I have a number of accommodation addresses and the time is not late.
Unfortunately, the CTC-recommended address, where I head first, appears to be shut down. Another I had passed a few miles
beforehand out in the country, and others still are farm houses, and therefore of no use to me in the era of foot-and-mouth.
I come to a pub/hotel, but the people inside take one look at me and say they have no rooms – luckily, as I’d taken
one look
at them and not wanted to stay there! A restaurant/hotel is full up; the next pub/hotel has exorbitant charges posted outside,
so I file it mentally as a last resort.
Then, at the far end of the town square is another pub/hotel. It seems to be shut, but I ring the doorbell, and am offered
en suite accommodation, plus a safe locked shed for my bike, for £25. So this is where I’ll sleep tonight. I
do my chores,
realise I’ve left my ladyshave in Wedmore, fiddle with my maps, have a bath, go out to phone Bob and Anna (one-to-one
failure
again), then go to a pleasant pub and have a very nice ploughman’s (half cheddar, half Brie) and a pint and a half of
Dartmoor
bitter. Lots of middle-aged and elderly men congregate in the bar, then go off to some kind of meeting in a back room. Afterwards
they return to the bar to talk to each other in strong West Country voices.
In the morning, Bob is off to Stuttgart until late on Thursday night. Anna tells me that she may not come home before flying
to Spain in the summer, if she does fly to Spain. This makes me a bit sad, but I could go to visit her in Edinburgh –
but
then of course I’d miss Bob again! Good job we have lots of ways of keeping in touch with each other.
The Old Coaching Inn where I am staying is built around a very old nucleus, and successive owners have bought up neighbouring
houses and added to it. It now sprawls across most of the top end of the square, and the current proprietors are in the process
of adding another adjacent property to it.
DAY 17
Tuesday June 5 2001
Left South Molton with 1525 miles on clock, 09.50.
Arrived Globe Hotel, Bude, with 1565 miles on clock, 15.55.
Distance: 40.21 miles.
Average speed: 7.98 mph.
Time cycling: 5 hrs 2 mins.
Maximum speed: 37.1 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 6.61 mph.
Cumulative distance: 927 miles.
Accommodation: £20.00
Sandwich & beer: ~£3.50
Wholefoods: ~£1.89
Cards & stamps: ~£2.74
Phone: £ 0.70
Apples: #£0.69
Who is the bigger slimeball – Scot or Matt?
Breakfast has been ordinary except for the pleasures of real muesli as opposed to Alpen. I used the baked beans method of
avoiding yet another egg. Before leaving South Molton I buy postcards, stamps and apples. South Molton is an attractive
town with a strange, almost neglected 1950s feel to it. I think it is the place where I saw a milk bar and a coffee bar –
original, not ironic retro.
I head towards Torrington via a direct B road, so navigation is simple, but the hills certainly do go up and down. I do an
awful lot of walking and some occasional exuberant zooming. Although I am not planning to go far today, I even begin to worry
that I won’t make it to Bude, the hills slow me down that much.
I contemplate leaving the CTC route after Stibb Cross, but realise that if, instead, I join it slightly later off the main
road, it could be slightly less hilly (this road doesn’t veer between yellow and white on the map as much as the road
via
Holsworthy), slightly more direct and not too difficult to navigate despite being on country lanes. So I head north briefly
after Milton Dameral and join the CTC route. The navigation goes like a dream, and there are indeed reasonable level stretches
of road. The little narrow lanes are very pretty, as they are flanked on both sides by miles and miles of hedgerows, with
an abundance of differently-coloured wild flowers. I don’t know what they are, but they are glorious in their variety
and
colour.
Anyway, there I am musing on the pretty wildflowers, when suddenly there appears a sign I nearly miss due to my reveries –
“Kernow Cornwall”. My last county! I know that it is also a big hilly county with quite a long way left to go,
but it certainly
feels like an achievement to have reached it. It is some kind of reward after the endless hill-climbing of the first part
of the day. I photograph my bike nestling under the sign, then push up the ensuing hill.
I notice that around here almost every house has a stall outside selling something. Eggs, flowers, pottery, cakes, craftwork,
strawberries: the area I am in is like some vast WI Summer Fayre.
Eventually “Bude” appear on the country lane signposts, and, after asking the way in Stratton and a short trip along
the main
A road, there is the turning for Bude. I turn into it just as hordes of teenagers in school uniform teem up the road. So
the afternoon is still young.
My first impression of Bude is the sight of a long traffic queue choking up the roundabout exits and obviously causing frustration
amongst the beeping drivers. I swing onto the pavement and ride past them all. The queue is caused by roadworks, dominated
by temporary traffic lights. The lights operate according to an old Czech system. They are red, so we wait. Nothing comes
from the other side. Then the lights change to green, cars in the queue rev up their engines, and a succession of coaches
and lorries appears from the other side. It’s certainly less complicated to have the lights at both ends showing the
same
colour at the same time . . .
I wheel into Bude, wondering where the nice part would be. I pass a couple of B&Bs on the outskirts because I want to be
central enough to explore the town on foot. But now I am nearly out of Bude again. Then I understand. There is no point
in looking for the “nice part”.
The Globe Hotel promises budget en suite rooms, so I manoeuvre my bike into the entrance lobby to enquire about them. Whenever
I had to go into a shop or bar or hotel, I had tended to park my bike so it was half in / half out when possible, or could
be seen from the door, at least. People seemed to understand. I walk over to the bar to ask about a room for the night,
and the barman/proprietor greets me with the words “You can’t leave that bike there.” As it must be obvious
that I am not
planning to leave it there, I think I’ve misheard, so he has to repeat himself. I reply to his strange Bude greeting
by saying,
"I don't want to leave it there, I just want to ask if you have a room."” As the place looks so seedy, I ask to see the
room
first (I haven’t done this before on this trip); it’s tatty but fairly clean and has some facilities and is probably
worth
£20, so I take it. A bloke sitting at the bar is incredulous then impressed with my journey, presumably because he
himself
never gets very far – four and a half hours later he’s still on the same bar stool.
I do my chores, have a bath (I think the tiles have been grouted with snot) and several cups of lemon and ginger tea, then
go out. I have been told about breakfast three times: the heavily-tattooed man who showed me my room said it was at ten past
nine; the man who told me I couldn’t leave my bike there said it was at half past nine; and the evening barman said it
was
at nine.
I find a wholefood shop seconds before it shuts, and buy some figs (the donated ones have just been finished) and soya dessert.
I buy a few postcards and sit on a bench overlooking the sea, the nursing homes and the job centre, writing them until six
o’clock. Then I phone Anna, who tells me that Bob has arrived safely in Stuttgart and is in the sort of posh place she’ll
be working in in Munich, and that when she starts work there her hours start at 7am! I wander round a bit more, walk into
an ice cream parlour in an attempt to buy an ice cream, but am told it is shut, feel hotter and hotter, post the cards and
returned to my room. There I have more tea and the soya dessert while I listen to The Archers, then I come down to the bar
for a cheese sandwich and a half pint.
After going to the public call box to ring Anna, I’ve found that the mobile does get a signal here, so I leave a stupid
message
in her mailbox.
Once again, rain has been promised today, yet there is in total less than half an hour of light spitting. (And that is probably
just peoples’ reactions to Bude.) I didn’t need to put on waterproofs. Another very hot day, mostly. My heat
rashes itch
maddeningly.
I wake up in the middle of the night and look out of the window. Bude has been enlivened in two ways – by a string of
coloured
light bulbs twinkling forlornly along the pavement, and by rain.
DAY 18
Wednesday June 6 2001
Left Bude with 1565 miles on clock, 10.00.
Arrived Spring Gardens, Wadebridge, with 1596 miles on clock, 15.30.
Distance: 30.4 miles.
Average speed: 6.91 mph.
Time cycling: 4 hrs 24 mins.
Maximum speed: 28.5 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 5.53 mph.
Cumulative distance: 958 miles.
Accommodation: £20.00
Fruit: ~£1.80
Films: ~£3.99
Figs & juice: ~£1.89
Postcards: ~£0.60
Magazine: £ 1.00
Food & beer: ~£5.70
What are Caroline and Oliver going to do? And it’s a good job the new cattle are brilliant.
At least I’d proved myself right. I’d expected the worst breakfast of the trip, and I get it! I appear at about
9am (local
time, not my personal time) to find some places laid and a couple of dog-eared boxes of cereal set on a table with some milk.
I reject the ageing Rice Krispies, and have tatty Weetabix instead. Eventually a woman appears. She asks me and the other
guest (a silent, Daily Express reader) whether we want tea or coffee, so I request hot water, as usual. I think I am waiting
a long time for my hot water when she reappears and dumps a plate of sausage, bacon and eggs in front of me. “No thank
you,”
I yelp, shrinking visibly. I ask if I could have brown bread toast and marmalade instead. “Two slices?” “Three,
please.”
So my breakfast is Weetabix and three slices of toast with mixed fruit jam. Not even any orange squash!
I ask the waitress if she will sign my forms. As I had had to pay the night before, I am not sure that I will see any other
members of staff before I leave. She says, “Oh no, I can’t do that”, and tells me that the barman will be
downstairs soon.
I carry my bags down, mount them on my bike and get myself fully ready to go. No barman. The waitress has by now become
the cleaner and is hoovering in the bar, so I go and ask her when he will appear. She reluctantly fills them in herself.
Then I try to leave this hellhole, but my bike and panniers are too wide for the narrow door and the other doors are locked.
I manage to make my escape eventually. I’d planned to ask for directions towards Upton at breakfast, but as there had
been
nobody to ask I cycle to the nearby Tourist Information centre. It is, of course, still shut, but a woman appears and starts
rattling the door, also trying to get in. She is local, and points out the road to me. “Is that also the one to Widemouth
Bay?” I ask. “Yes, but it’s pronounced Widmuth.” This whole trip has been a journey between places I
can’t pronounce.
I cycle off, glad to get out of the arsehole of Britain. I soon pass Upton. It is good to smell the sea after sleeping in
the cigarette-ash impregnated Globe Hotel all night. The coast road is attractive if all the caravan sites and holiday cottage
complexes can be ignored. It starts going more up and down, and then even more up and down. I am alternately pushing and
freewheeling. “Ah, “ I think, “This is what I was warned about.” WRONG! The road gets narrower. The
hedgerows get higher.
I am in a little tunnel. Then the road starts to go up and down SERIOUSLY. Long ups and downs at 30% gradients. When I
try to get on my bike near one of these, I fail to appreciate how high the back is raised due to the slope, and bang my ankle
painfully hard on the rear light. I even have to walk down hills, as the road is scarily steep, sprinkled with skiddy gravel,
narrow, and winds round sharp bends so I can’t see what’s coming. I cover about four miles in the first hour of
the day,
and am feeling a bit downhearted, despite the magnificent views I have at the tops. Whilst enjoying the views, I spot an
assortment of golf balls, giant dishes and the like on a high cliff somewhere north of Bude. What is that all about?
This morning is really hard work. I am not enjoying it much. Then, just as I come across some chickens pecking around in
a cheerful way, the rain pours down. Hard. I put on my waterproof jacket and struggle on. According to the map, there are
several more really steep gradients ahead of me. I chicken out. When a sign points to Wainhouse Corner, I see that that
is on the A39, and take it. Soon I am on the main road. At least the nature of my problems changes. The gradients are no
longer so steep (although there are still some very long climbs – I am getting onto Bodmin Moor, after all) but the headwind
is vicious. The weather forecast had promised “pleasant south-westerly breezes”, and I’d known I’d be
in for trouble. I
haven’t fought against such a headwind since Cumbria, and it is unremitting all the way to
Camelford.
Camelford, however, is nice. It has a cashpoint and a very good fruit shop where I buy apples, a peach and hazelnuts. The
rain has been blown away some while ago, and I sit on a bench and picnic. I also look at my maps and realise there will be
no point in going further than
Wadebridge today. That will leave Truro for Thursday night and Penzance for Friday night.
I see my first wind farm near Camelford, and try to photograph it for Bob, but don’t think it will show up as it is at
quite
a distance. Cornwall is spattered throughout with wind farms. Having spent most of the day tussling with the wind, I can
understand why.
After Camelford, the cycling is a little easier for a while, as the road becomes narrower and a little more sheltered from
the wind. It also leads downhill, and I enjoy cycling for the first time in the day. Just before Wadebridge it becomes windy
and uphill again, but then it doesn’t matter as it is just before Wadebridge.
Wadebridge is a pleasant surprise. I’ve got a room (en suite again!) in a B&B owned by an architect and recommended
by the
CTC. It’s a pleasant room in a Georgian house (one of the oldest houses in the town, built about 1670) and things in
it actually
appear to work! (I am comparing and contrasting with last night.) There’s also an interesting enormous built-in cupboard
full of the family’s junk! (I don’t investigate further.)
I walk into town across the medieval bridge (not far) and explore. It’s full of bookshops, antique shops, health food
shops,
outdoorsy shops, interiors shops, music shops and even fruit shops! I buy some figs and organic orange juice, a couple of
films for my camera and some postcards (including one of the Norfolk Broads) and a magazine. I ask in the Tourist Office
whether they have any information about the wind farm up the hill, but they don’t. Then I return to my room to listen
to
The Archers and write this, before going out for food and a drink. It starts raining just as I get back. There’s a
nice
looking pub a couple of doors away, I might try that. It’s nice arriving in a place a little earlier in the day, particularly
if that place isn’t Bude!
I have a tasty jacket potato with cheese and coleslaw and a pint of Cornish, and get back to my room just as the rain starts
again.
DAY 19
Thursday June 7 2001
Left Wadebridge with 1596 miles on clock, 10.00.
Arrived The Mowhay, Coosebean, Truro, with 1625 miles on clock, 16.30.
Distance: 29.19 miles.
Average speed: 7 mph.
Time cycling: 4 hrs 10 mins.
Maximum speed: 31.5 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 4.49 mph (Partly due to long time at Tourist Info.)
Cumulative distance: 987 miles.
Accommodation (reduced): £17.50
Food & beer (Sainsburys): £ 8.80
Brenda Tucker - be careful, be very, very careful.
When I wake up I see that it is raining heavily, and the palm tree outside my window is drenched. I eat breakfast alone in
the dining room – apple and orange juice, boiled egg, granola and allbran, brown toast and marmalade. Then I set off.
The
rain has stopped.
There are more wind farms in Cornwall than you can shake a stick at. My initial climb out of Wadebridge takes me past the
first one of the day. The ride is a little more fun than yesterday’s; although there are several uphill climbs, none
are
really hard work to push up, and there are compensatory downhills. Also, I am in tiny sheltered lanes, protected from the
wind.
Apart from one short downpour, which I deflect in my usual way by donning my yellow waterproof, the weather is perfect. It
is sunny but not too hot.
Navigation seems easier too. I am on minor lanes, some so narrow that I can’t avoid being brushed by the huge nettles
in
the hedge, yet I don’t have the problems I’d had in Somerset or Devon. Cornwall seems to be better signposted.
(Hopefully
I won’t change my mind tomorrow.) St Columb looks attractive, but I don’t stop. On leaving there I have my only
navigational
problem of the day, but I don’t go far wrong.
One lane I have to cycle down soon after is labelled “Road Closed”. A couple of locals are standing about near
the sign.
The first tells me that a bridge is being repaired and I will probably be able to get through. The second says that I won’t
be able to get through – a car has recently tried and come back. I decide to give it a go. After about half a mile
I cycle
through a barrier of cones; about another quarter mile later I come across the roadworks. They consist of a man in overalls
relieving himself into a stream, another man scratching his head, and some kind of big machine mostly blocking the little
bridge. “Will you let me through?” I ask. Man Number One jumps round startled, quickly zipping himself, and asks
what it
is worth to them. “A big smile,” I reply, stupidly. “That’s the best offer we’ve had all day.”
I push my bike past the
bridge-mending machine, exchange more witty banter, and am on my way, glad I haven’t made a detour.
Somewhere around Trispen or St Erne, I am happily wheeling my bike up a hilly lane in the sunshine, thinking what a nice time
I am having, when – SPLATT! I feel a thud on my right arm, look, and find it is splattered with horrible brown and white
birdshit! Ugh! And my bike has fallout all over it too! Ugh, ugh, and ugh again! Ugh Ugh Ugh! It is horrible. I thrust
my bike away from myself, into the hedge. I wipe away at my arm with tissues. I pick up my bike to wipe that, and discover
that I’ve thrown it into nettles. Why is there nobody I can shout at? I use my last remaining Refreshing Wipe on my
arm
and then my bike – saddle, handlebars, triangular bag, mudguards, rear pannier, map holder – you name it, it needs
wiping.
It must have been an eagle or an albatross. Then I have inspiration and empty both my water bottles over my arm and bike.
I check my helmet, but my head seems to have escaped – phew! Two people walk past, and I warn them that there are some
nasty
birds about. They look at me strangely and walk on a little more quickly.
Because I feel in urgent need of a good wash, I decide to cycle the last four or five miles into Truro on the A39, which I
otherwise would have crossed. Soon I am in Truro – or rather, soon I feel that Truro ring roads are eating me up. I
can
see the cathedral spire pointing skywards, so eventually manage to fight my way across several lanes of traffic towards it.
I find the Tourist Information Office, go in with my bike (nobody complains) and then realise that I haven’t looked in
a mirror.
So my first tourist enquiry is, “Have I got birdshit on my face?” The lady behind the counter assures me that I
don’t.
The Tourist Office has a new computer system, which the assistants have only been using for a couple of days. It takes some
time, but at last I am booked into the Mowhay Guest House, Coosebean, which I am told is on my route to Penzance and not far
away. I am also issued with a tourist guide to Cornwall to help me find accommodation at Land’s End, and a map of Truro
to
help me find the guest house. As I cycle past bits of Truro which I plan to return to after checking in and showering, I
gradually notice that I am getting further and further from the city. Soon I am in countryside! Soon I am lost! The map
I’d been given at the Tourist Office is as much use to me as a map of Antwerp, as it doesn’t go this far. The ladies
in the
Tourist Office obviously thought that I was Eddy Merckx, having told me it was only five minutes away by bike. Where I had
been told the Mowhay was on the map, was in fact where Truro finished, and I am left to my own devices. (I hope they were
more accurate about the birdshit/face enquiry than they were about the distance of the Mowhay.) Coosebean isn’t a road
on
the outskirts of Truro, it is a hamlet far away from Truro. A kind gentleman points me in the right direction – I should
have turned off into another country lane some time back. He catches up with me again (he is walking) as I am dithering at
another junction, and helps me again.
Well, I think, all the central places with en suite accommodation are very expensive, and I really do want en suite tonight.
When I find the Mowhay, Michele, the proprietor, gives me a damp cloth to wipe my bike. Then I am shown to my very nice room.
I open my bags, wash my water bottles, put the kettle on and undress. I am just about to step into the shower when I see
soapy water all over the bathroom floor. I wrap a towel around myself and call Michele. She runs up, saying she’s noticed
something, so I go to have a bath in the house bathroom instead, leaving her to sort out the mess.
After my bath, Michele tells me that I’ll have to go into a different room, as a pipe has burst. So now I’m in
a non-en suite
room, which I’ve cycled miles to get to! But it isn’t anybody’s fault, and Michele is so apologetic. Otherwise,
the room
is very comfortable.
After The Archers, I decide to go in search of food. The distance of the guest house had ruled out my intended exploration
of Truro. I can’t find Michele to ask her where to go, but a lady in a small cottage on the premises directs me to Dobbs
Lane, where I will find a lovely pub. I walk to the end of the lane, all the way up the hill to the top of Dobbs Lane, find
no pub, but a Sainsburys Superstore, I’ve had enough. I dodge furious traffic and buy myself a picnic tea – apples,
a peach,
salad, pumpernickel, two bottles of Cornish rebellion bitter and a huge box of cherries. I am going to feast!
My waist bag from Telc has become loose where the belt
meets the bag.
I had tried to mend it with Velcro, but neither the
scissors nor the knife nor even the saw on my penknife (a bargain, from the Everything-a-Pound Shop) would cut the Velcro.
I borrow scissors and a needle and thread from Michele to mend it (“You’re asking the wrong person for needle and
thread.
When I was at school I used to glue my needlework.” “You too?!”) and a bottle opener to open my Cornish rebellion
(when
I tried using the one on my penknife, it snapped off). The penknife is now in the Mowhay’s wastepaper basket.
I’m watching the election on TV and enjoying my Cornish Rebellion. I’ve booked Saturday night’s accommodation
at Sennen,
Land’s End.
DAY 20
Friday June 8 2001
Left Truro with 1625 miles on clock, 10.10.
Arrived Hotel Minolta, Penzance, with 1656 miles on clock, 16.15.
Distance: 31.17 miles.
Average speed: 7.67 mph.
Time cycling: 4 hrs 4 mins.
Maximum speed: 31.2 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 5.2 mph.
Cumulative distance: 1018 miles.
Accommodation: £22.50
Ladyshave: £18.50
Figs: £ 1.85
Ice cream: £ 1.10
Postcards: £ 0.36
Beer: £ 1.10
Film: £ 2.99
Meal & wine: £12.00
I bet Eddie makes a fortune selling two pigs bonking.
My last “proper” cycling day, and I really enjoyed it. Will I be able to adjust to a non-nomadic lifestyle again?
The day starts off well with
a) the Tories being trounced, and Hague resigning, and
b) a fantastic breakfast. I precede the four slices of brown toast, Alpen and free range egg with a large dish each of grapefruit
segments, prunes and strawberry, kiwi and melon fresh fruit salad. Perfect, except that I would have had another bowl of
fruit salad if I hadn’t felt such a pig!
The guests all share a table. There are: an elderly couple (she, a retired
teacher
and keen walker; he, a golf fanatic) who are touring Cornwall looking at Heligan and other gardens; and an almost-elderly
man, who has come to Cornwall with his wife for a similar break, only it has been – literally – his wife has broken
her ankle
in one of the gardens, and is in hospital locally.
After breakfast they all want to look at my bike and ask questions about my route and my luggage, so I don’t leave until
a
bit later than planned.
The weather is perfect all day; dry, bright and sunny but not too hot. It is the sort of weather that just makes you smile.
Michele gives me a banana and points my way out to me. It includes a section of easy-to-cycle footpath, which will be a short
cut. Of course, when the footpath meets a lane, I have completely forgotten what to do next. Using my compass, I ride along
the lane in a southerly direction. Soon, I think, there will be a junction with signposts and I can work out where I am.
(Cornish junctions are far better signed than those in Devon or Somerset.) However, no junction appears, and I have been
cycling a long way. My compass still tells me that I am heading south-west, but I want confirmation. Turning a corner in
the narrow leafy lane, I come across a fire engine parked by the roadside in the woods. Is it abandoned? No. There, in
the ditch on the other side of the road, is a clutch of firemen, yellow helmets bobbing about at ground level. “Hallo!”
I
call out, “Am I heading south?” After asking me whether I was a swallow, one of them scrambles out of the ditch,
fetches
his large-scale Ordnance Survey map out of the fire engine and shows me where I am and where to go. I am actually on the
right road, and heading the right way! I say how lucky I have been to find a bunch of hunky firemen in the ditch (they are
all gathered round me by now) and take a photo of the one who’d shown me his map. Apparently they’ve been damming
a stream.
I would happily let them curse a whole river.
Eventually I am on a slightly bigger road – the sort that has separate lanes for each direction of traffic. As I freewheel
around a corner, someone says, “Hallo”. It is Peter. He chats to me for some time as we cycle side by side, then
his wife
Margaret takes his place and talks to me. Six years ago they’d done the End-to-End in a CTC group, but starting in Cornwall,
and with a van carrying their luggage. They’d encountered lots of rain and blizzards in Scotland. Their journey had
taken
sixteen days, but Margaret had spent four middle days in the van, as she’d developed a chest infection. Margaret had
felt
a bit uncomfortable in the group as she was the only woman, and always felt she was struggling to keep up. By the time she
reached the tops of hills, the others had had their rests and were ready to move on.
Peter and Margaret are really friendly, and as we are discussing the benefits of cycling shorts, I realise that I am following
them, even though I don’t know where they are going! I have nearly, but not quite, lost my course. They point out to
me
where I should go next, we exchange addresses (“Call in if you’re ever in Truro again”) and I go. Fellow cyclists
can be
really nice. (Later, when I arrive back home, I receive a “well-done” card from them.)
In one sleepy village, on the day a new government has been elected, I photograph the local newspaper headlines: “Fury
over
car park charges.”
On I cycle, with some ups and some downs and happy, warm sunshine, when I have my next surprise: the Cornish mobile library
parked in the middle of nowhere. I take photos and stop for a chat. The library is staffed by the driver, who’s done
this
job for twenty-six years. He obviously knows a good thing when he sees it. (The van is just small enough that he doesn’t
need an HGV licence. I say that that makes me fancy moving to Cornwall and going after his job.) He is accompanied by his
wife, who comes along for the ride. Also in the van is a borrower, who comes out with an armful of books. She says how important
the mobile library is to the area, which no longer has any public transport. The library calls every two weeks.
After I leave the library (without books!), it overtakes me carefully, as I have instructed, and we wave. I see some tall
chimney-like structures and guess they are the remains of old mines. As I stop to snap some, a farmer gets off his tractor
and starts discussing the weather with me. Earlier in the year, his daughter had gone to Austria to ski, but it was too hot
and there was no snow. When she returned to Cornwall, she couldn’t see out of her car windscreen for blizzards.
The hedgerows are still beautiful and I am enjoying all the wild flowers in them. Apparently some people come down specially
to see the bluebells. They are just finishing. I decide I have time for a proper picnic, and spread out my waterproof jacket
to eat some nuts, sesame crunches, a peach and the bananas Michele had given me. This is so sophisticated, compared to eating
as I walk or standing next to my bike.
Signposts begin showing the approach of Penzance. It always seemed as if places were getting nearer to me, rather than that
I was approaching them. Maybe I had had my time-consuming picnic to make this truly enjoyable ride last a bit longer. However,
soon there is the “Welcome to Marazion” sign, and I freewheel into the village. It is delightful, and I consider
staying
there overnight, but Penzance beckons. I am very taken by St Michael’s Mount, and fancy walking out to it, but don’t
have
enough time or somewhere safe to leave my bike. As I am photographing it, the car park attendant offers to snap me in front
of it, and we have a brief chat. I really have met loads of friendly people today.
I continue towards Penzance, which, curiously, involves a ride through a beach-side industrial estate. In Penzance I soon
find myself outside the Tourist Information Centre, so I use their map of the town, intelligently displayed in the window,
together with the mobile phone and the list of addresses I have (including the pages I’ve torn from “Welcome to
Cornwall”
or whatever it is called) to book myself an en suite room. Hopefully I really will be en suite tonight!
On my way to the hotel, I pass a street nearer to the town centre crammed with guest houses and B&B establishments. I treacherously
enquire at one of these – after the experience at Truro, I certainly want to have easy access to the town – but
they have
no single en suite rooms. The owner’s friend runs an establishment over the road, and asks me to wait two minutes while
she
checks whether she has a vacancy. After waiting for more than five minutes, I decide that this is the price of my treachery,
and push on to the hotel I’d originally booked. It isn’t far. I am warmly welcomed, shown into a tiny but comfortable
room
with all facilities at the top of the house, and my bike is respectfully led to some kind of ultra-secure bike heaven. My
room has three posies of fresh flowers in it.
It turns out that I am not that far from town anyway. I am shown a short cut next to the park, and after cleaning myself
up I walk into town. There I indulge in a new Ladyshave to replace the one left in Wedmore, a packet of figs, a Cornish ice
cream whose remnants are enjoyed by the waiting seagulls (“Please do not feed the seagulls. They are becoming a nuisance.”)
and a half pint of bitter whilst looking at the sea and starting today’s diary entry. There is just time to find a cashpoint
before heading back to the hotel for The Archers.
I nearly miss my fix of Ambridge, despite arriving in plenty of time, because the lady from the hotel is so interested in
my journey, and keeps asking me questions and talking to me. In the end I excuse myself – just in time – with the
need to
phone Bob or he will worry. I do phone him, afterwards. I’m so looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.
After that I walk back into town in search of food. I don’t expect it to be difficult. The pub festooned with “Bar
snacks.
Good Food and Ales” nearby, which I’d earmarked, will start having an excellent menu on Monday, I am told. But
today – nix.
A few other pubs say they don’t do food, another with “Fine Food” painted in two-foot high letters outside,
says “Not at this
time of night”. (It is about 8pm.) I more or less resign myself to paying through the nose for the ghastly vegetarian
option
at the pub/hotel at the seafront where I’d earlier had my beer. I definitely don’t fancy eating at Kubla Khan’s
Amazing Barbecue.
I go up an alley and see an enticing wholefood shop – closed, of course. But outside it is a notice about a cafe/restaurant
upstairs, open lunchtimes and –newly – Friday evenings. Tonight is a Friday! I climb the stairs, and enjoy pesto
pancakes
with Stilton, courgettes and pinenuts, with runner beans, new potatoes and homemade bread – with a lovely glass of organic
red wine. It is expensive, but I do it – because I’m worth it.
Today the low elapsed average speed is mainly due to long stops and talking to people, whilst yesterday’s was mainly
due to
birdshit and a long time in the Tourist Office.
The hotel is very efficiently run and very helpful and friendly. However, I can’t help thinking of Fawlty Towers because
of its size, its strange staircases and the way it is run by husband and wife and younger woman. We are in the right part
of the country. But where is Manuel?
DAY 21
Saturday June 9 2001
Left Penzance with 1656 miles on clock, 10.00.
Arrived Homefields Guest House, Sennen, with 1671 miles on clock, 12.30.
Distance: 14.37 miles.
Average speed: 6.98 mph.
Time cycling: 2 hrs 4 mins.
Maximum speed: 21 mph.
Elapsed average speed: 5.75 mph.
Cumulative distance: 1033 miles.
Arrived Land’s End with 1672 miles on clock.
Total distance: 1034 miles.
Figs, apples, present for library at First and Last Shop: £ 3.36
Present for Bob: £12.00
Accommodation: £38.00
Breakfast is good, with real muesli rather than pre-digested Alpen. During this, I briefly meet an Australian cyclist, who
is just setting off for John O’Groats, accompanied by his wife carrying all the luggage in a car. He tells me he’s
done
it before, years and years ago. He says he isn’t looking forward to it, so I ask him why he’s doing it in that
case. He
looks at a loss. “You have to, don’t you.”
The hotel owner gives me £2.50 donation for the charities, and his wife and daughter(?) appear to watch me load up the
bike
and discuss cycling shorts. (The wife has not come across these before, and had been put off cycling by the common sore-bum
syndrome, which she’d tried to avert by tying two cushions to her saddle.)
I have a nice little ride today. I decide to forego the Pilchard Museum. I want to go into the Newlyn Art Gallery, but it
is closed. A man and a little girl on cycles ride up a short steep hill and then see me dismount and push up. As I get nearer
to them, I hear that he is telling her about all the weight I am carrying in my panniers. Of course by now they are half
empty, but I don’t disillusion them. I cycle the long way round, visiting Mousehole and other coastal villages. They
are
very pretty and interesting, but I am also trying to spin the trip out as I don’t really want it to end. As Land’s
End gets
nearer and nearer, I keep photographing signposts to it. I am sort of wishing it is still a little further away, as well
as celebrating my achievement.
Now I’m at the B&B at Sennen. It is easy to find, and I choose the bigger room with the four-poster bed, by way of celebration.
I haven’t been to Land’s End yet because I want Bob to be there when I arrive. The B&B looks very comfortable and
friendly.
As Bob won’t be here for a while yet, I think I’ll go out and explore Sennen. I can wear a skirt on top of my cycling
shorts,
and turn back into Cycling Woman in one bound when it’s time for the final lap.
I phone Anna to tell her about my arrival. She’s finally been to the dentist, so we have two causes for celebration.
I go for a walk, have half a pint in the First and Last Inn along the road, buy some figs in the First and Last Shop next
door and visit the craft shop (neither first nor last) where I buy a peculiar boat-shaped set of tiny drawers to thank Bob
for all his help. (He probably deserves better.) Now I’m looking forward to Bob’s arrival.
I sit in the conservatory reading about Cornwall and the Cornish language as I wait for Bob. I want to be sure to see him
when he arrives! He finds the place easily, and soon after his arrival my skirt is off (to enable me to cycle!) and I am
back on my bike to Land’s End for the final mile.
He photographs me arriving, and then we wander around looking for somewhere to register my arrival. It is difficult to find
anyone to surrender to, so I have my photo taken at the famous sign post (half price, because I’ve cycled for charity).
Then
we find the hotel entrance, where I can register. I sign the End-to-Enders book, have my forms stamped, and pay over £10
to join the End-to-Enders club. (I’m not sure what for, but it seems the thing to do.) The lady at the hotel reception
isn’t
too sure what to do with the form, and everybody she tries to phone to ask is unavailable. However, it finally gets sorted
and we go back outside to sit on a rock, write postcards and drink champagne. I offer some to my bike.
Bob has brought the champagne all the way from Nottingham in a cool bag, and it is still cold. He can only drink a little,
because he has to drive back to the B&B. But my bike is going onto the back of the car . . .
That evening, we walk to the Whitesands Lodge where we have a nice meal of tomato and pepper soup with delicious bread, followed
by veggie moussaka. Then another half pint at the First and Last Inn, which is now crowded and has a live band performing.
At the bar, I see a notice about a local man who plans to run the entire End-to-End in under ten days, two hours. I cannot
get my head around that.
Epilogue
Being back home again was a bit of a shock! I had slipped so easily into the lifestyle of moving on every day, and never
having to worry about mail, bills, cleaning, shopping, what to wear, make-up, putting the bin out, appointments or work. When
I was cycling, all I had to do was cycle, eat or sleep (and sometimes talk or drink). The first morning I woke up at home,
I just couldn’t remember which B&B I was in, or where the bathroom was. Although Bob had obviously worked his fingers
to the
bone to keep the house clean and welcoming, there was still a lot to do – including fighting my way through three weeks’
worth
of mail. There was the usual back-from-holiday unpacking and laundry; also I had about a dozen films to sort out, this diary
to type up and sponsorship money to collect. Three weeks later I still had souvenirs, sponsorship forms, postcards, maps
and more all over the spare room.
I spent about £780 on food, accommodation and other expenses in the three weeks. This doesn’t include the money
Bob spent
on driving to and fro. It is not excessive for a fabulous three-week holiday. I am hoping to raise around £800 for
ActionAid
and Hayward House. Although I spent a similar amount to the amount I raised, I wanted to do the ride anyway, and the charity
donations are a bonus. I am delighted with how much sponsorship money is coming in; it is more than I expected.
Lessons Learned
How to navigate better.
That Bob isn’t always wrong about the everything-a-pound shop.
That Bob isn’t always right about inner tubes.
That I don’t need mascara when cycling end-to-end.
That some birds are malevolent.
That people can be extremely helpful and friendly to complete strangers.
That people are kinder the less densely populated the area.
That Bude is the arsehole of Britain.
That there are lots of beautiful and fascinating places to explore in Britain.
That you don’t need an HGV licence to drive a Cornish mobile library.
That climbing up to (painfully) and then freewheeling down Cheddar Gorge is one of life’s great experiences.
To avoid the Globe Hotel, Bude.
That just because it’s low, doesn’t mean it can’t go up and down.
Not to assume that distances are correctly measured.
Never to pass a toilet (I knew this already) or a handy gap in the hedge.
Always to have a refreshing wipe handy (I knew this already too).
That to cycle a long way, all you have to do is to go a short way, a lot.
That the best way to ward off rain is to put on a waterproof jacket.
That Bob may be picnicking in the car park.
That it’s lovely when your daughter does laundry for you.
That it’s possible to travel with only three pairs of shoes – and one of them trainers.
Always to check whether you’ve left anything in the shower.
That the Forest of Bowland exists.
That cycle shorts are worth their weight in gold.
That cyclists are some of the best people on the planet.
That it can be very hot in Scotland.
Not to forget to protect ears from the sun.
That Penzance has a shop dedicated to selling different kinds of olives.
That not all lessons are meaningful.
That I can do something if I really want do, particularly if it’s pointless.
I really enjoyed my trip, and can’t wait to go cycle touring again.
Meanwhile, I would like to thank the following people:
Bob, my husband, for his unfailing support, love and help, especially in driving up and down the country for me, and also
for collecting a lot of sponsorship.
Anna, my daughter, for inspiring me with her adventurousness, collecting sponsorship and providing accommodation and love
in Edinburgh.
Sara, who helped Anna by collecting from students.
Ken at Roots wholefood shop, Mansfield Road, Nottingham for encouraging me, displaying a sponsorship form and arranging for
me to be given vast quantities of dried figs.
Bromley House (Nottingham Subscription Library) for displaying a sponsorship form and having generous staff.
Lady in Leisure gym (Nottingham) for displaying a sponsorship form and having generous staff.
All the Nottingham City Libraries staff, for their encouragement and sponsorship – especially Lynda, Rami, Margaret and
Lynne
at Basford Library.
Mr & Mrs Calder of Cul Mor B&B, Bonar Bridge, for treating me better than a long lost daughter.
Bert Burnett of Braemar, for going to a lot of trouble to rescue me when I had a puncture.
Phil & Carolyn of Corgarff, for their fantastic hospitality and donation.
The kind people at Gairnshiel Lodge, also for going to a lot of trouble to rescue me when I had a puncture.
The man whose name I’ve forgotten who sorted out my bike at Ballater bike shop without charging for labour.
Bridge of Cally Hotel for hospitality and driving out six miles to deliver my forgotten maps.
Ian Nimmo of Bridge of Cally for his very generous sponsorship.
The receptionist at Falkirk Travel Inn, for donating all she could.
Mary Cairns of Langholm for her comfortable hospitality.
The sub-postmaster at Market Drayton for his donation.
Eileen Grassby of Chepstow, for the privilege of staying in her wonderful house.
John Hodge of Wedmore for his kindness and very generous free accommodation.
Margaret and Peter of Truro, for their companionship and friendliness.
All the firemen in the ditch near Truro, for being helpful and surreal.
Stephen Thomas of Penzance for his interest and donation.
Freewheel bike shop in Nottingham, for supplying a good bike and providing cheerful and professional after-sales service.
All the countless people who helped out with directions when I flagged them down, without grumbling!
Everyone who encouraged me and showed interest.
Everybody who sponsored me and collected sponsorship for me. Over £1093 has been collected, which is more than double
I expected.
ActionAid and Hayward House will always be glad of any contributions, which may be sent directly.
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Hayward House Cancer Care,
Nottingham City Hospital,
Hucknall Road,
Nottingham,
NG5 1PB
ActionAid (HIV/AIDS project),
Chataway House,
Leach Road,
Chard,
Somerset,
TA20 1FR.
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