18th July 2011
My LEJOG stuff won't load and I'm getting stuck...
Day 1. A better thing that I do now…
It was a fine February Sunday morning, my wife had had her tea in bed, the dog was in the garden, the cat had been fed and the birds were singing.
My next door neighbour Peter was at the front of the house, tidying his driveway as I put out the rubbish from the previous night’s dinner and drinks. I enquired after his health and his families’, to which he replied, ‘Fancy a bike ride’? I said, sure, as long as I have a bike. That was the end of my lazy, sit at home, decorate when told to, sedentary lifestyle that I had looked forward to since I was made redundant in 2007.
He explained that he, his wife Caroline and his two daughters Anna (Downhill racer) and Holly (Masterchef) had an idea that they could cycle from Lands’ End to John O’Groats, hence the title, ‘LEJOG’ and would I like to come along as driver for the trip in the support vehicle. ‘Support vehicle’? I thought, ‘I’m not having that’.
Hence my purchase of an eBay cycle, a Trek 7500 for a modest price and my ‘training regime’ over the past 5 months, when I attempted to cycle up to 50 miles a day whenever I could. Of course, I never got near 50 miles a day, not even every day, usually about once a week if I could manage it.
Now, suddenly, here we are. In Land’s End, standing by the sign post having our photographs taken by complete strangers who rush up, snatch the camera away from you and try to behave like wedding photographers, bullying you into standing next to Auntie Mavis or smelly Uncle Brian. We wrestled the cameras off them and handed them back to our ‘Official’ Photographer Virginia, daughter of Chris, one of ours. A regular lad -a builder by trade who joined us just for the heck of it- He wanted to come along and make sure we weren’t cheating, I reckon. Also we had Peters’ Uncle Barry, his son Tim, an old skiing buddy Graham and me. Cycling from Land’s End. Two of us would be 65 on the trip, I would be the same age shortly afterwards, on August 19th in case you didn’t know. I expect cards from the whole of Barnet Homes and some of NLBP.
This is the first day. My Blog. My LEJOGBLOG as it were.
We left Land’s End at around 0930, cycled toward Penzance then inched around, up the A30 in the direction of St Austell – the locals call it St Awful for some reason, can’t figure out why- I took the first stint as Support vehicle driver, someone had to do it, so it may as well be me, I had 30 miles to cover to the meeting point and made my rendezvous at a place called Godolphin Cross, a quiet little place off the A394 to Helston. The rest of the crowd trickled in at about 1230. A face peered down from the only pub in the village, no, not a village, a Hamlet really, The Godolphin Arms. Seconds later, a face appeared at the door, enquiring as to whether or not we were lost? We said no thanks, just looking for refreshments or a cup of tea. She replied, ‘well if you can stand looking at me like this, I’ll make you some tea or coffee’ The reasons for this were becoming clear.
Her name was Sandra and the pub was hers, her family didn’t want it as they thought it was too much trouble. Now she had contracted cancer. She had no hair, due to bouts of Chemo-Therapy. But she did have a big heart. She made our tea, we chatted and paid for it. She asked if we were going to cycle ‘all the way’ and we replied yes, we were, she asked again if we were doing it for any Charity, to which we said yes, the Cancer Research and North London Hospice.
She returned our money and said ‘Good Luck and thank you, enjoy the trip’ We took our leave and not without a few lumps in our throats.
Then it started to rain. I knew it would do this as I’d just given the keys to our other support driver, Caroline, and changed into my cycle gear. It rained non –stop, a torrential downpour from 2 miles up the road, including attempted stops in pubs or cafes looking for food or something to keep out the cold. It fell out of the sky. I knew it would, I could feel my bones starting to ache and cold seeping in through my shoes and socks, my shirt, shorts, my waterproofs (what an Oxymoron that is) and my gloves. The wind was coming in from the South West with occasional bursts from on the nose. It was cold, I have never experienced such a cold July. I was wet. It continued to rain all through Devoran, places with wonderful names like Come-to-Good and Goonpiper, to Trelissick along the Fal river to King Harry’s Ferry, where we waited in the downpour for about 30 minutes until the ferry returned. We boarded the ferry and the rather large ticket man asked where we were going and what charity if any, we were doing it for. We told him and he said ‘Keep your money, it’s 50p each, just put it into the charity’. Another unexpected donation. Then we got off and met the most horrifying hill I have ever seen. Perpendicular? No. Just straight up. Harry’s Hill I think it was called but I didn’t laugh once. I got about ¾ of the way up and had enough. I was pooped. Funnily enough, during my walk, not many people overtook me. At least you could say that’s another mile out of the way.
We turned left at the top and headed for Tregony, a small village just at the end of the Roseland Peninsula which has even more hills on it. Down the B3287 to Hewas Water then St Austell started to show on the signs. It was still raining.
Suddenly, St Austell was there! We had arrived! Cold, wet, miserable and wanting nothing more than a hot shower or bath.
So we had a beer. Dripping wet clothes all over the place, we didn’t care. Travelodge would have to put up with it.
Tomorrow is another day
The entire Motley Cru at Land's End
Tintern Abbey. Oh yes it is!!
Day 2.
Wet, followed by wetter. With a promise of rain and cloud.
Ice and snow not showing, YET…
A fine morning followed. With the promise of taking the first shift in the support van, I leapt at the chance of being warm and cosy in our Fiat Humungo Campervan, while Caroline took her first shift on the bike. I had arranged to go from St Austell to a funny sounding place called Bray Shop, where I thought I could at least top up the fruit bowl and maybe get a little respite from the wind and rain in a warm cafe selling things like coffee or tea, with the possibility of a cream bun thrown in. After all, I had to get some carbs in me for the 25 mile ride this afternoon, did I not?
I set the Satnav for Bray Shop and off I went, it was at least 25 miles so I settled down on the A391 to Bodmin, then A30 past Cassacawn, Bolventnor turning right onto the B3257 to Congdons Shop, which was kinda small but acceptable I thought, how much smaller can Bray Shop be?
‘In 350 yards’, the Satnav announced ‘you will be at your destination’. Yeah, right. I was driving up a small (and I mean small) country lane, having to stop every 20 yards to push the mirrors back onto their stops as the hedges encroached on me and slammed them into the bodywork.
After 350 yards, I knew I was in trouble, my Tom Tom had got me into this awful place and I had not an iota of an idea on how to get the van turned around or if in fact the lane would suddenly stop.
I managed to wend my way along the lane until it came out on a major-ish B road. I then had a call from Peter who arranged our meeting place. I found them at East Taphouse and we exchanged pleasantries and seats, it was my turn on the bike.
Off we set around South of Liskeard toward Tavistock, skirting just North, going with the moors on our right, past Rilla Mill (Beautiful), Linkinhorne and Horsebridge, where we came across a wonderful sign saying ‘Welcome to Devon’. Hurrah! Here at last, only another 30 miles to Oakhampton…
Sydenham Damerel, Dippertown and other strangely named places seemed to flash by as we approached or destination, Sourton. Not pronounced sour town but sewer ton by the locals as we were frequently told. A night in a Travelodge beckoned. So we stopped for a beer. We went into a pub where we were greeted by the locals and others, some eating late lunches, some just in for a beer. It was around 17.00 and we were thirsty anyway. Holly had a PINT of Coke, Peter and I settled for a pint of Trelawny. Wow! That’s some beer! Excellent taste and a good, clear pint. We chatted to people as we drank and prepared to leave. Someone from the dining area came over and asked where we were headed, we told them and they continued with the usual question of our charity connection.
Now I know most of you are aware that I personally am collecting donations for the North London Hospice, (justgiving.com/terry-verney) a Charity in North Finchley but some of the others are doing the same for Cancer Research. The Gentleman informed us that he had lost his sister to cancer some 2 years previously, so he handed us a £20 note and asked us to put that in too. His name was Brian Pickworth. Judith and Dave from Charlton Culcheth, Warrington, Cheshire also weighed in with a crisp £5.00 and so did Adam Rose with £10, all safely remembered here. Thank you very much.
We departed for the next stop via a cycle path along a disused railway line (Thanks Dr Beeching) until we got to the Travelodge, where we showered and cleaned up after a relatively short-ish trip. Off we went into Oakhampton for an Indian. Fabulous. Just what we needed, the meal was intoxicatingly, handsomely served and reasonably priced. It’s called Rajpoot and is just near the church, down a little alleyway, by the estate agents. Give them a try if you’re in the area.
It had stopped raining at last… Tomorrow, Weston-Super-Mare.
Wet, followed by wetter. With a promise of rain and cloud.
Ice and snow not showing, YET…
A fine morning followed. With the promise of taking the first shift in the support van, I leapt at the chance of being warm and cosy in our Fiat Humungo Campervan, while Caroline took her first shift on the bike. I had arranged to go from St Austell to a funny sounding place called Bray Shop, where I thought I could at least top up the fruit bowl and maybe get a little respite from the wind and rain in a warm cafe selling things like coffee or tea, with the possibility of a cream bun thrown in. After all, I had to get some carbs in me for the 25 mile ride this afternoon, did I not?
I set the Satnav for Bray Shop and off I went, it was at least 25 miles so I settled down on the A391 to Bodmin, then A30 past Cassacawn, Bolventnor turning right onto the B3257 to Congdons Shop, which was kinda small but acceptable I thought, how much smaller can Bray Shop be?
‘In 350 yards’, the Satnav announced ‘you will be at your destination’. Yeah, right. I was driving up a small (and I mean small) country lane, having to stop every 20 yards to push the mirrors back onto their stops as the hedges encroached on me and slammed them into the bodywork.
After 350 yards, I knew I was in trouble, my Tom Tom had got me into this awful place and I had not an iota of an idea on how to get the van turned around or if in fact the lane would suddenly stop.
I managed to wend my way along the lane until it came out on a major-ish B road. I then had a call from Peter who arranged our meeting place. I found them at East Taphouse and we exchanged pleasantries and seats, it was my turn on the bike.
Off we set around South of Liskeard toward Tavistock, skirting just North, going with the moors on our right, past Rilla Mill (Beautiful), Linkinhorne and Horsebridge, where we came across a wonderful sign saying ‘Welcome to Devon’. Hurrah! Here at last, only another 30 miles to Oakhampton…
Sydenham Damerel, Dippertown and other strangely named places seemed to flash by as we approached or destination, Sourton. Not pronounced sour town but sewer ton by the locals as we were frequently told. A night in a Travelodge beckoned. So we stopped for a beer. We went into a pub where we were greeted by the locals and others, some eating late lunches, some just in for a beer. It was around 17.00 and we were thirsty anyway. Holly had a PINT of Coke, Peter and I settled for a pint of Trelawny. Wow! That’s some beer! Excellent taste and a good, clear pint. We chatted to people as we drank and prepared to leave. Someone from the dining area came over and asked where we were headed, we told them and they continued with the usual question of our charity connection.
Now I know most of you are aware that I personally am collecting donations for the North London Hospice, (justgiving.com/terry-verney) a Charity in North Finchley but some of the others are doing the same for Cancer Research. The Gentleman informed us that he had lost his sister to cancer some 2 years previously, so he handed us a £20 note and asked us to put that in too. His name was Brian Pickworth. Judith and Dave from Charlton Culcheth, Warrington, Cheshire also weighed in with a crisp £5.00 and so did Adam Rose with £10, all safely remembered here. Thank you very much.
We departed for the next stop via a cycle path along a disused railway line (Thanks Dr Beeching) until we got to the Travelodge, where we showered and cleaned up after a relatively short-ish trip. Off we went into Oakhampton for an Indian. Fabulous. Just what we needed, the meal was intoxicatingly, handsomely served and reasonably priced. It’s called Rajpoot and is just near the church, down a little alleyway, by the estate agents. Give them a try if you’re in the area.
It had stopped raining at last… Tomorrow, Weston-Super-Mare.
Crossing the Cornwall Somerset Border at Horsebridge
On the site of King Donierts Stone, where he sat on a stone, funnily enough!
I know it’s late but…
There have been lapses in the scrivening, from Weston Super Mare onwards, actually but I’m more settled into this blog stuff now and I don’t sit in the rain inside a tent anymore so it’s more comfortable. We dragged our sad butts up the Wye valley from Weston, into and through the valleys, in and out of Wales. The Wye valley is an instrument of beauty in itself, though I never had the chance to re-visit Symonds’ Yat (I had spent a fortnight there as a 14 year old, canoeing with the school) I saw plenty of signs for it on the way there.
Stopping in Bishop’s Castle on the way. Apparently, a huge campsite on the outskirts. Unfortunately, I had no signal on the iPhone, so couldn’t make the venue and had been separated from the others quite a while back, only Adrian and I were left from the original 6 . I stopped off at a local hostelry with Adrian, a dude who had joined us from London to take the weekend with us. All for a donation, of course. He and I had walked, pushed and sometimes just plain pedalled up the hills that appeared in the Norton and Knighton areas, it was just about the most exhausting part of the whole trip. It seemed as though you had no more assaulted one hill than another appeared, more formidable than the first, you watched a hill disappear under your wheels, you got to the top, only to find it just continued up, up and away into the distance, rising again like Lazarus, or Bazarus if your name was Barry. I had a pint in Bishop’s Castle at the Tree Tuns Brewery, great ale and cool after all that sun. I enquired from one of the staff as to the whereabouts of The Green Park Campsite and she passed me a note saying ‘Turn Left, turn first right, turn left, turn first right and then go straight on for 4 miles, the campsite is on the other side of Wentnor’.
Ye Gods, here I was, exhausted already and with another 5 mile journey ahead of me. I set off after bidding farewell to Adrian and the promise that I would call him when I found the others. I Turned left, turned right, turned left and then right, went on for another 3 miles and stopped to ask someone, as there had been not a soul on route to ask since Bishop’s Castle. Another faux trail laid by me, I was 3 miles or more out of my way, back I had to go to B.C. and turn right where I should have turned left and cycle back the way I had just come.
About 8 miles further by my reckoning. I should have listened with more intent. I finally made it there and was greeted with a smile and a pint. Back in Camperland again. I ate late meal, slept in a wet tent (It had been drizzling and now had heavy dew all around). I awoke on Monday morning with anticipation in the air and an itch to get back in the saddle.
Shrewsbury and beyond. Travelodge beckoned us once more.
Day 5, 25 th July
Arriving in Wigan was fun, we had expected a pier and funfair but nothing was as it seems, there is no pier or funfair but what a beautiful City. The Land of Rugby League. St Helens canal was followed originally, up the cycle paths from Warrington, through woodlands and historic monuments to the olden glories of canal barges, shire towing horses and dry docks, now dried up, rotting wood and rusty railings, years of history hidden by hedgerows and forgotten blackberry bushes. You can dig around and find interesting plots of land, looked after by local authorities and councils, showing old photographs of the way it was and leaving you and your imagination to fill in the gaps, for there are a few old buildings left that you can look at, through smokey glass windows to marvel at the wonders of engineering that used to be. England and the North West was a great place to be at the start of the industrial revolution.
We stopped in Chorley after a long slog that was neither up nor down. The views were fabulous and the weather was fair. Graham and I decided earlier to book into a Premier Inn just for the luxury of getting out of the bloody tents and into a warm room to dry out our clothes and do a bit of washing.
Earlier in the day, just after leaving Chester – now there’s a City, more later – my gear change mechanism fell off and I was left with just 3 gears. I had no choice of changes except the 3 main front crank gears and luckily a middle section of the rears. I made I into Chorley tired but with a smile, knowing I had overcome diversity. Well just a bit anyway…
Chester is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen, its centre street with its 16th century shops and mezzanine style stores are to be seen to be believed. We wandered around, taking in the wonders of this old place. We checked out the river Dee and the oldest race course in England. Dinner consisted of Wetherspoons best steaks and good beer again, with a wander around at about 9.30 and then off to bed for an early start.
Tomorrow we head for Kendal, mint cake, tea and scones.
There have been lapses in the scrivening, from Weston Super Mare onwards, actually but I’m more settled into this blog stuff now and I don’t sit in the rain inside a tent anymore so it’s more comfortable. We dragged our sad butts up the Wye valley from Weston, into and through the valleys, in and out of Wales. The Wye valley is an instrument of beauty in itself, though I never had the chance to re-visit Symonds’ Yat (I had spent a fortnight there as a 14 year old, canoeing with the school) I saw plenty of signs for it on the way there.
Stopping in Bishop’s Castle on the way. Apparently, a huge campsite on the outskirts. Unfortunately, I had no signal on the iPhone, so couldn’t make the venue and had been separated from the others quite a while back, only Adrian and I were left from the original 6 . I stopped off at a local hostelry with Adrian, a dude who had joined us from London to take the weekend with us. All for a donation, of course. He and I had walked, pushed and sometimes just plain pedalled up the hills that appeared in the Norton and Knighton areas, it was just about the most exhausting part of the whole trip. It seemed as though you had no more assaulted one hill than another appeared, more formidable than the first, you watched a hill disappear under your wheels, you got to the top, only to find it just continued up, up and away into the distance, rising again like Lazarus, or Bazarus if your name was Barry. I had a pint in Bishop’s Castle at the Tree Tuns Brewery, great ale and cool after all that sun. I enquired from one of the staff as to the whereabouts of The Green Park Campsite and she passed me a note saying ‘Turn Left, turn first right, turn left, turn first right and then go straight on for 4 miles, the campsite is on the other side of Wentnor’.
Ye Gods, here I was, exhausted already and with another 5 mile journey ahead of me. I set off after bidding farewell to Adrian and the promise that I would call him when I found the others. I Turned left, turned right, turned left and then right, went on for another 3 miles and stopped to ask someone, as there had been not a soul on route to ask since Bishop’s Castle. Another faux trail laid by me, I was 3 miles or more out of my way, back I had to go to B.C. and turn right where I should have turned left and cycle back the way I had just come.
About 8 miles further by my reckoning. I should have listened with more intent. I finally made it there and was greeted with a smile and a pint. Back in Camperland again. I ate late meal, slept in a wet tent (It had been drizzling and now had heavy dew all around). I awoke on Monday morning with anticipation in the air and an itch to get back in the saddle.
Shrewsbury and beyond. Travelodge beckoned us once more.
Day 5, 25 th July
Arriving in Wigan was fun, we had expected a pier and funfair but nothing was as it seems, there is no pier or funfair but what a beautiful City. The Land of Rugby League. St Helens canal was followed originally, up the cycle paths from Warrington, through woodlands and historic monuments to the olden glories of canal barges, shire towing horses and dry docks, now dried up, rotting wood and rusty railings, years of history hidden by hedgerows and forgotten blackberry bushes. You can dig around and find interesting plots of land, looked after by local authorities and councils, showing old photographs of the way it was and leaving you and your imagination to fill in the gaps, for there are a few old buildings left that you can look at, through smokey glass windows to marvel at the wonders of engineering that used to be. England and the North West was a great place to be at the start of the industrial revolution.
We stopped in Chorley after a long slog that was neither up nor down. The views were fabulous and the weather was fair. Graham and I decided earlier to book into a Premier Inn just for the luxury of getting out of the bloody tents and into a warm room to dry out our clothes and do a bit of washing.
Earlier in the day, just after leaving Chester – now there’s a City, more later – my gear change mechanism fell off and I was left with just 3 gears. I had no choice of changes except the 3 main front crank gears and luckily a middle section of the rears. I made I into Chorley tired but with a smile, knowing I had overcome diversity. Well just a bit anyway…
Chester is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen, its centre street with its 16th century shops and mezzanine style stores are to be seen to be believed. We wandered around, taking in the wonders of this old place. We checked out the river Dee and the oldest race course in England. Dinner consisted of Wetherspoons best steaks and good beer again, with a wander around at about 9.30 and then off to bed for an early start.
Tomorrow we head for Kendal, mint cake, tea and scones.
Barry, doing what comes naturally...
Bridge over the Dee by Chester racecourse
I enquired as to the whereabouts of a cycle shop to attempt the repair on my gear change system, set off for Chorley town and walked into the shop. Greeted by a smiling, cycle clad chap who had, apparently had an award presented to him for ‘Grass Verge Trimming’ in a race some years back. Rivington Bikes, a great place to be when you need a repair. 85-87 Market Street, Chorley. After 15 minutes, the repair was made and off I set, winding my way up towards Preston and Lancaster.
An amazing trip up through Preston and a funny little place called Bolton le Sands. We stopped there for a spot of lunch in a place called The Canal Turn, where they had an amazing selection of foods, for vegetarians and carnivores plus some really good beers, they’re on the A6 in Bolton le Sands, just by the canal.
On we went toward Kendal, about 7 miles out, I had a flat, so we fixed that by the side of the road, no repair kit needed just a new inner tube and off we went after receiving some excellent help from a business man from the industrial estate who said that he cycled too and often came to work on his bike when the weather was fine. Offering help of use of his sink to find the leak, mark it and generally being a nice chap. Sorry I didn’t get your name or the company but I was kind of busy, but thanks anyway.
The run into Kendal was uneventful, with loads of flat, winding road with the occasional juggernought, leaving us plenty of room, as Lancastrians generally do. Our Barry smiled from ear to ear when he heard that the YHA where we were booked in was part of the Brewery Arts Centre. It was as expected, a bar with a restaurant and café plus 2 – yes two – cinemas and a massive garden with a car park for 70 odd cars. The 18th Century Youth Hostel was like a rabbit warren with doors and doors, toilet doors, room doors, drying room doors, communal kitchens, dining rooms and lounges. Not a straight floor or wall in the whole place.
Later today would be The Lake District and a strange sounding place called Scotland. Gretna Green to be exact, anyone want to get married while we’re here?
An amazing trip up through Preston and a funny little place called Bolton le Sands. We stopped there for a spot of lunch in a place called The Canal Turn, where they had an amazing selection of foods, for vegetarians and carnivores plus some really good beers, they’re on the A6 in Bolton le Sands, just by the canal.
On we went toward Kendal, about 7 miles out, I had a flat, so we fixed that by the side of the road, no repair kit needed just a new inner tube and off we went after receiving some excellent help from a business man from the industrial estate who said that he cycled too and often came to work on his bike when the weather was fine. Offering help of use of his sink to find the leak, mark it and generally being a nice chap. Sorry I didn’t get your name or the company but I was kind of busy, but thanks anyway.
The run into Kendal was uneventful, with loads of flat, winding road with the occasional juggernought, leaving us plenty of room, as Lancastrians generally do. Our Barry smiled from ear to ear when he heard that the YHA where we were booked in was part of the Brewery Arts Centre. It was as expected, a bar with a restaurant and café plus 2 – yes two – cinemas and a massive garden with a car park for 70 odd cars. The 18th Century Youth Hostel was like a rabbit warren with doors and doors, toilet doors, room doors, drying room doors, communal kitchens, dining rooms and lounges. Not a straight floor or wall in the whole place.
Later today would be The Lake District and a strange sounding place called Scotland. Gretna Green to be exact, anyone want to get married while we’re here?
Entry to Kendal on the A6
That funny looking old man again, sweaty too... On the outskirts of Kendal
Leaving Kendal after a hearty breakfast and a visit to the local cycle shop for a new inner tube, we set off for The Lake District. Kendal has to be THE most expensive place on Earth, not only did the YHA charge us £25 each for a grubby little room to share between 4 of us but the cycle shop charged me £5 for an inner tube which would have cost £1.50 in London or anywhere else.
We got into Windermere outskirts before long and headed out to Ullswater. In this short 45 mile cycle trip, I have never, I don’t think, ever seen such natural beauty of hills, dales and lakes. The Lake District is right, the undulations and the views, not to mention the many stops for photographs and postcards, was like nothing I had ever seen.
I lost contact with the main group after staying behind to do some looking around and then found that they had made a diversion to a little village called Hesket Newmarket, 20 miles or so south of Carlisle, where they pulled in for a picnic lunch on the green. Another reason they had stopped was the fact that Chris Bonnington, the mountaineer had a brewery there and tasting was the norm. By the time I got there, some 2 hours later, they were ready for the off, I just had time for a quick look round the brewery then off we went. The day was sunny and dry, it seemed to be mostly downhill into the city from here, I was with Peter and Holly and we met a fellow cyclist who put us on the right road that kept us away from the main roads and took us mainly alongside canals. Children and dogs were in abundance and the birds were singing, all was well in the City of Carlisle. We skirted round the canal and ran alongside the river for a while, where children were swimming in the waterfalls and weirs, without a care in the world. Health and Safety? I didn’t think there was any in evidence here. Just like things were when I was 10…
We arrived at Gretna, just about 7.30 and it was exactly as I had imagined it. Full of flowers and green as green. Wedding houses everywhere, the first House in Scotland, twinned with the Last House in Scotland, where you could get hitched as quick as a wink and run back to yer Mam, without her knowing where you’d been, quicker than a butchers knife…
The next day however, was to be totally different…
We got into Windermere outskirts before long and headed out to Ullswater. In this short 45 mile cycle trip, I have never, I don’t think, ever seen such natural beauty of hills, dales and lakes. The Lake District is right, the undulations and the views, not to mention the many stops for photographs and postcards, was like nothing I had ever seen.
I lost contact with the main group after staying behind to do some looking around and then found that they had made a diversion to a little village called Hesket Newmarket, 20 miles or so south of Carlisle, where they pulled in for a picnic lunch on the green. Another reason they had stopped was the fact that Chris Bonnington, the mountaineer had a brewery there and tasting was the norm. By the time I got there, some 2 hours later, they were ready for the off, I just had time for a quick look round the brewery then off we went. The day was sunny and dry, it seemed to be mostly downhill into the city from here, I was with Peter and Holly and we met a fellow cyclist who put us on the right road that kept us away from the main roads and took us mainly alongside canals. Children and dogs were in abundance and the birds were singing, all was well in the City of Carlisle. We skirted round the canal and ran alongside the river for a while, where children were swimming in the waterfalls and weirs, without a care in the world. Health and Safety? I didn’t think there was any in evidence here. Just like things were when I was 10…
We arrived at Gretna, just about 7.30 and it was exactly as I had imagined it. Full of flowers and green as green. Wedding houses everywhere, the first House in Scotland, twinned with the Last House in Scotland, where you could get hitched as quick as a wink and run back to yer Mam, without her knowing where you’d been, quicker than a butchers knife…
The next day however, was to be totally different…
An Highgate Tavern. In Kendal. Thought you might like that.
There's that man again, standing by a pub in Pattendale, near Ullswater
It is with great sadness that I have to report on my lack of LeJogblog over the last week. I am now sitting in the recovery vehicle, writing this, nearly a week late (mind you, I have the slimmest of excuses of not having access to ANY Wi-Fi at all) after having spent the last 6 days cycling through some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen, all the while being bitten through thick clothing by miniscule little flies called Midges. We had them in Florida, where I once lived; they were smaller but had a more venomous bite and were called No-See-Ums. True.
Having departed from Gretna Green, we engaged another phenomenon called Scottish Rain. It was similar to Cornish and Devonshire Rain, inasmuch as the rain not only came at you horizontally but also was finer, similar to the mist they were also famous for up here, therefore it penetrated and entered your very soul. It was also blowing a hooligan from all which ways but mainly on the nose. Down inside your ‘waterproof’, trickling inside your shirt, down your back but disappearing before it got to your nether regions, due to the heat from your pounding heart and lungs as we punched uphill and swooped down dale to get out of the area as soon as we could. Warm baths and showers as hot as the sun were flashing before our eyes as we went on blindly into the hills…
Up the B7076 past Lockerbie where, to my everlasting shame, I didn’t stop and take a look at the devastation that used to be there but I did pause and make silent reflection upon what could have been. Up past Beattock and Moffat, old Scots names that conjure magical ideas and stories from my past and books I have enjoyed.
From Moffat there is a climb that defies gravity, it starts around there and goes on and on, up through the Southern Hills and into Abington, where it levelled off, sort of and then descended into the vales of Lanarkshire. All, nay every second of every minute of every hour, un-impeding Scottish Rain. After a Spa Hotel, oddly named ’The Popinjay’, in Rosebank on the outskirts of Lanark itself, we headed for the north, past Glasgow – skirting to the East almost into Falkirk shying East of Cumbernauld and on into the hills again. It had stopped raining by this time and the sun was threatening to appear. We met in the little Hamlet of Carron Bridge and had a light lunch in the pub. Very Friendly locals. HI Jim and Rab, I didn’t forget, see?
Up past Stirling, and into Callander, where the Highland games were being held on the Saturday and Sunday, so we’d miss them completely, sad to say.
We stayed in one of the nicest Hostels I have ever stayed in, it left Kendal YHA in the shade completely. Mark and Janet, who ran the Trossachs Tryst with enthusiasm and fortitude often experienced in Scotland but rarely in England, had over 250 cycles for hire, from road & race through to mountain and beyond, including electric ones that gave the elderly a bit of a chance to keep up. They had supported their local charity for over 14 years and had raised in the region of £4 million for them in setting up cycle days and weekends along with tours and treasure hunts that kept everyone happy. Long may they prosper! Four of us hunkered down in a cabin to ourselves, a 6 bunk bedded affair so that the injured (which I note that I was no longer one of) and older brethren could have the lower whilst I took a top one. Mark had offered to take a look at my gears, which weren’t changing as well as I’d hoped. He announced that the wire had stretched somewhat and would repair it after his tea. He took about 5 minutes. I was told to donate his fee of a crisp £5 to the cause and so I shall. Thanks Mark, the gears behaved themselves extremely well all the way up. He has to be one of the most confident cycle engineers I have ever come across. The Chalets were as clean as a whistle and their TV lounge is something to admire, even though it does look somewhat like an old peoples home. Sorry Janet.
We left next morning with the sun coming up over the hills and a nice, flat run ahead of us, past Queen Elizabeth Forest Park into Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park, just gorgeous.
Sidestepping The Grampian Mountains – stupid, we’re not – we hooked left past Crianlarich and into Tyndrum for lunch. From there on, it was undulations of wonderful hills and views all the way to Glencoe. The final run down was just glorious. Glencoe was pretty; the view over Loch Leven was as serene as a picture postcard, only occasionally interrupted by screams of seagulls vying for bread from tourists. Setting off West for North Ballaculish, then turned north east toward Fort William. A series of lochs opened up before us, leading to Loch Ness, where the Caledonian Canal ended its locked and gated days, entering the North Sea via the Moray Firth. A short stopover in Fort Augustus beckoned before this, then on to Inverness, a beautiful City again, the Cathedral towers overlooking the Beauly and Moray Firths from the canal-side itself.
We had stopped in Dingwall that night, or more precisely, Strathpeffer, a Spa Town that more than resembles an Austrian village, with its Hotels and Inns all the way up the high street. We stayed at MacKay’s Spa Hotel. It was quite strange, the place being full of coaches, unloading 60 or more pensioners at a time, about to take the Spa and waters but having to stop every 15 minutes to stand and roll another ‘ciggie’ ‘afore they went on. The smell of food and beer inside the hotel was often interrupted by smoke wafting in from the crowds standing on the steps, not wanting to get wet while they smoked. Everyone seems to smoke here, everyone. No wonder they could barely walk. Still, it rained.
Onward then, to Lairg. Starting out of Inverness on the A9 we progressed to the B9176 where we trundled quite happily along for hours. Up hill and down dale again. Stopped in a café cum souvenir/hunting & clothing store in Ardgay, where we ate toasties and drank mugs of hot tea, in a pot, naturally. Katie our host, an English teacher who seemed to be about 16 but was a little older, told us much of the local history and regaled us about the battles of Bannockburn and others along with histories of local crofters and how they had had their lands and rights removed by the local Lairds. The Scots have had it pretty rough at times it seems.
We passed through heavy forest areas, where trees were grown and managed, 1000’s of acres, probably millions, where young trees were dropped into the ground shortly after their parent pines had been cut down earlier, using some of the most amazing machinery I ever saw. Large cranes were there with jagged jaws like vices, saws and mandibles to wreak havoc on the pines, they grabbed the base of the tree, stripped the upper leaves and branches then sawed the base off as close to the ground as possible, then moved on to the next. All this took about 10-15 seconds. Devastating areas over time, leaving stumps and wood shavings bleaching in the sun and rain. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of an elephant’s graveyard in the African Veld.
We headed further north, over Bonar Bridge, the name itself bringing gales of laughter from the older members of the team, remembering ‘Beyond Our Ken’ and tales of ‘My name’s Jules and this is my friend Sandy, part of Bona Hairdressing’, or whatever theme they had on at the time. The Late Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick, if I recall.
Along the A836 through Invershin, Achinduich, past Torroble and into Lairg. The boys, having picked up a note from Peter about the wonderful camping (It was still raining) had found the ‘Dunroamin’ site and settled in well. I kid thee not, dear reader. It was called Dunroamin’. Graham and I however, had found probably the best B & B ‘In The World’ and I have the photo of the ‘Full Monty Scottish Heart Stopper’ to prove it. The room was as clean as a whistle, the shower was hot and the beds were deliciously comfortable. 42” colour TV in the lounge and as much tea as you wanted. Heaven found in this part of Scotland. ‘Kincora’, Lochside, Sutherland. Kathleen and David Fraser. Best you can get. 01549 402062. Only 2 rooms I believe, so book early.
Following on the A836, we ran through some of the pretty villages and Hamlets that make this part of the world so extraordinary. Leaving Lairg Lodge on the East side, we ran through Dalchork, Rhian and some really bleak, cold deserted areas. It continued to drizzle but we smiled, got our heads down and pedalled on. An interesting stop here would have been Crask Inn, it seemed to be a town of 3 houses or Crofts with a pub called yes, the Crask Inn. Instead, I found it was my turn again behind the wheel of the bus and so, with sadness in my heart but glee from my buttocks, I sat on a; more comfortable and b; a much softer driving position and continued into The Kyle of Tongue, to find the local YHA. A grand, pinkish house about ¾ of a mile further down the road, we made ourselves comfortable, showered and went out for dinner. Now some of the troupes are, you may know, strict vegetarians, so we left them and wended our way up the road on our bikes, back into Tongue, to search for a restaurant. The cannier of us, Barry, had been and looked at the menu prior to our YHA visit and announced that we should eat in the main Hotel as it had Real Ale and the menu was great. So we did. It started with Orkney Ale called Dark Island and that was as far as we got. 3 pints of that and we were chuckling like schoolboys and ordering food as though we hadn’t eaten for a week. Scallops marinated in Chilli Oil and lightly grilled were some choices, whereas I got the delicious local goats cheese with sliced beetroot, Yum! Local Salmon caught in the Kyle was the order of my day and it was superb, cooked to a ‘T’ and with fresh vegetables and a slight hint of horse-radishy sauce.
The cheese board afterward was my downfall. I had all the local Scottish cheeses and they were sharp, sweet, blue, mild and strong. I saw a roule of ‘butter’ that had been on the plate that I imagined was cheese, it certainly looked like cheese and it was rolled in crumbs and I automatically thought it was cheese. I took a quarter of the roule, popped it on a cracker and bit down on it. It was that heavy, melting, gagging feeling you have when you get a mouthful of something you know shouldn’t be in your mouth and you can do nothing about. I let it melt. It ran down the back of my throat as though I had just cut a slice of rich, farm butter from a dish and slid it off the knife and onto my tongue.
I said to the very pleasant waitress when she returned to clear the plates that it was a shame they didn’t warn you that the butter was in fact butter, instead of making it look like cheese. She replied with a smile that, in fact it was cheese and I should have tried it. Laughs at T. from all at table…
We left at 0800 on Thursday the 4th. It was August. It was raining and hadn’t stopped for more than an hour since Inverness. Only 65 miles to go now.
Onward we rode to Bettyhill, a short busy town with an indeterminate amount of sheep. This was the infamous A836 again and I should have known there were going to be hills. It seemed as though someone had imported these from Devon and Cornwall without us knowing and it was going to be the same again. I wasn’t wrong but then again, it wasn’t quite as bad. Long hard climbs with slow, lazy descents and wonderful views between the clouds (when it wasn’t raining) I stopped occasionally to take more photographs and, of course, got left behind. Again. I finally caught some of them (quite a feat for me) at Reay, some 30 miles from John O’Groats. I had done my lot for the morning; I took the wheel after exchanging my front wheel with Anna’s, as she had another puncture. I headed off for the final destination, John O’Groats.
Now I don’t know if you’re aware of the history of JOG but it seems a King from the 1500’s offered lands and houses to any man who would supply a ferry system from the north of Scotland to the Orkneys. A certain Jan de Groot stepped up and did as he was bid. In no time at all, the ferry was in business and passengers were flocking between the Isles, each was charged a Groat, nominal currency at the time, probably about the price of a pint today.
Jan de Groot had many sons, about 8 it would seem and they all vied for the privilege of being head man after Dad stepped down. They all wanted to be head man, sit at the head of the table and wanted, more than anything, complete control over the ferry that their father had built. Jan was having none of the in-fighting and bickering, so he moved away for a while to decide what to do. He returned with builders, carpenters and roofers to build his answer. It was an 8 sided house, with a table to match, so that none of his sons would feel aggrieved that they were not at the head of the table. Jan died a happy man and the ruins of his 8 sided house can still be seen in the area.
Having departed from Gretna Green, we engaged another phenomenon called Scottish Rain. It was similar to Cornish and Devonshire Rain, inasmuch as the rain not only came at you horizontally but also was finer, similar to the mist they were also famous for up here, therefore it penetrated and entered your very soul. It was also blowing a hooligan from all which ways but mainly on the nose. Down inside your ‘waterproof’, trickling inside your shirt, down your back but disappearing before it got to your nether regions, due to the heat from your pounding heart and lungs as we punched uphill and swooped down dale to get out of the area as soon as we could. Warm baths and showers as hot as the sun were flashing before our eyes as we went on blindly into the hills…
Up the B7076 past Lockerbie where, to my everlasting shame, I didn’t stop and take a look at the devastation that used to be there but I did pause and make silent reflection upon what could have been. Up past Beattock and Moffat, old Scots names that conjure magical ideas and stories from my past and books I have enjoyed.
From Moffat there is a climb that defies gravity, it starts around there and goes on and on, up through the Southern Hills and into Abington, where it levelled off, sort of and then descended into the vales of Lanarkshire. All, nay every second of every minute of every hour, un-impeding Scottish Rain. After a Spa Hotel, oddly named ’The Popinjay’, in Rosebank on the outskirts of Lanark itself, we headed for the north, past Glasgow – skirting to the East almost into Falkirk shying East of Cumbernauld and on into the hills again. It had stopped raining by this time and the sun was threatening to appear. We met in the little Hamlet of Carron Bridge and had a light lunch in the pub. Very Friendly locals. HI Jim and Rab, I didn’t forget, see?
Up past Stirling, and into Callander, where the Highland games were being held on the Saturday and Sunday, so we’d miss them completely, sad to say.
We stayed in one of the nicest Hostels I have ever stayed in, it left Kendal YHA in the shade completely. Mark and Janet, who ran the Trossachs Tryst with enthusiasm and fortitude often experienced in Scotland but rarely in England, had over 250 cycles for hire, from road & race through to mountain and beyond, including electric ones that gave the elderly a bit of a chance to keep up. They had supported their local charity for over 14 years and had raised in the region of £4 million for them in setting up cycle days and weekends along with tours and treasure hunts that kept everyone happy. Long may they prosper! Four of us hunkered down in a cabin to ourselves, a 6 bunk bedded affair so that the injured (which I note that I was no longer one of) and older brethren could have the lower whilst I took a top one. Mark had offered to take a look at my gears, which weren’t changing as well as I’d hoped. He announced that the wire had stretched somewhat and would repair it after his tea. He took about 5 minutes. I was told to donate his fee of a crisp £5 to the cause and so I shall. Thanks Mark, the gears behaved themselves extremely well all the way up. He has to be one of the most confident cycle engineers I have ever come across. The Chalets were as clean as a whistle and their TV lounge is something to admire, even though it does look somewhat like an old peoples home. Sorry Janet.
We left next morning with the sun coming up over the hills and a nice, flat run ahead of us, past Queen Elizabeth Forest Park into Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park, just gorgeous.
Sidestepping The Grampian Mountains – stupid, we’re not – we hooked left past Crianlarich and into Tyndrum for lunch. From there on, it was undulations of wonderful hills and views all the way to Glencoe. The final run down was just glorious. Glencoe was pretty; the view over Loch Leven was as serene as a picture postcard, only occasionally interrupted by screams of seagulls vying for bread from tourists. Setting off West for North Ballaculish, then turned north east toward Fort William. A series of lochs opened up before us, leading to Loch Ness, where the Caledonian Canal ended its locked and gated days, entering the North Sea via the Moray Firth. A short stopover in Fort Augustus beckoned before this, then on to Inverness, a beautiful City again, the Cathedral towers overlooking the Beauly and Moray Firths from the canal-side itself.
We had stopped in Dingwall that night, or more precisely, Strathpeffer, a Spa Town that more than resembles an Austrian village, with its Hotels and Inns all the way up the high street. We stayed at MacKay’s Spa Hotel. It was quite strange, the place being full of coaches, unloading 60 or more pensioners at a time, about to take the Spa and waters but having to stop every 15 minutes to stand and roll another ‘ciggie’ ‘afore they went on. The smell of food and beer inside the hotel was often interrupted by smoke wafting in from the crowds standing on the steps, not wanting to get wet while they smoked. Everyone seems to smoke here, everyone. No wonder they could barely walk. Still, it rained.
Onward then, to Lairg. Starting out of Inverness on the A9 we progressed to the B9176 where we trundled quite happily along for hours. Up hill and down dale again. Stopped in a café cum souvenir/hunting & clothing store in Ardgay, where we ate toasties and drank mugs of hot tea, in a pot, naturally. Katie our host, an English teacher who seemed to be about 16 but was a little older, told us much of the local history and regaled us about the battles of Bannockburn and others along with histories of local crofters and how they had had their lands and rights removed by the local Lairds. The Scots have had it pretty rough at times it seems.
We passed through heavy forest areas, where trees were grown and managed, 1000’s of acres, probably millions, where young trees were dropped into the ground shortly after their parent pines had been cut down earlier, using some of the most amazing machinery I ever saw. Large cranes were there with jagged jaws like vices, saws and mandibles to wreak havoc on the pines, they grabbed the base of the tree, stripped the upper leaves and branches then sawed the base off as close to the ground as possible, then moved on to the next. All this took about 10-15 seconds. Devastating areas over time, leaving stumps and wood shavings bleaching in the sun and rain. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of an elephant’s graveyard in the African Veld.
We headed further north, over Bonar Bridge, the name itself bringing gales of laughter from the older members of the team, remembering ‘Beyond Our Ken’ and tales of ‘My name’s Jules and this is my friend Sandy, part of Bona Hairdressing’, or whatever theme they had on at the time. The Late Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick, if I recall.
Along the A836 through Invershin, Achinduich, past Torroble and into Lairg. The boys, having picked up a note from Peter about the wonderful camping (It was still raining) had found the ‘Dunroamin’ site and settled in well. I kid thee not, dear reader. It was called Dunroamin’. Graham and I however, had found probably the best B & B ‘In The World’ and I have the photo of the ‘Full Monty Scottish Heart Stopper’ to prove it. The room was as clean as a whistle, the shower was hot and the beds were deliciously comfortable. 42” colour TV in the lounge and as much tea as you wanted. Heaven found in this part of Scotland. ‘Kincora’, Lochside, Sutherland. Kathleen and David Fraser. Best you can get. 01549 402062. Only 2 rooms I believe, so book early.
Following on the A836, we ran through some of the pretty villages and Hamlets that make this part of the world so extraordinary. Leaving Lairg Lodge on the East side, we ran through Dalchork, Rhian and some really bleak, cold deserted areas. It continued to drizzle but we smiled, got our heads down and pedalled on. An interesting stop here would have been Crask Inn, it seemed to be a town of 3 houses or Crofts with a pub called yes, the Crask Inn. Instead, I found it was my turn again behind the wheel of the bus and so, with sadness in my heart but glee from my buttocks, I sat on a; more comfortable and b; a much softer driving position and continued into The Kyle of Tongue, to find the local YHA. A grand, pinkish house about ¾ of a mile further down the road, we made ourselves comfortable, showered and went out for dinner. Now some of the troupes are, you may know, strict vegetarians, so we left them and wended our way up the road on our bikes, back into Tongue, to search for a restaurant. The cannier of us, Barry, had been and looked at the menu prior to our YHA visit and announced that we should eat in the main Hotel as it had Real Ale and the menu was great. So we did. It started with Orkney Ale called Dark Island and that was as far as we got. 3 pints of that and we were chuckling like schoolboys and ordering food as though we hadn’t eaten for a week. Scallops marinated in Chilli Oil and lightly grilled were some choices, whereas I got the delicious local goats cheese with sliced beetroot, Yum! Local Salmon caught in the Kyle was the order of my day and it was superb, cooked to a ‘T’ and with fresh vegetables and a slight hint of horse-radishy sauce.
The cheese board afterward was my downfall. I had all the local Scottish cheeses and they were sharp, sweet, blue, mild and strong. I saw a roule of ‘butter’ that had been on the plate that I imagined was cheese, it certainly looked like cheese and it was rolled in crumbs and I automatically thought it was cheese. I took a quarter of the roule, popped it on a cracker and bit down on it. It was that heavy, melting, gagging feeling you have when you get a mouthful of something you know shouldn’t be in your mouth and you can do nothing about. I let it melt. It ran down the back of my throat as though I had just cut a slice of rich, farm butter from a dish and slid it off the knife and onto my tongue.
I said to the very pleasant waitress when she returned to clear the plates that it was a shame they didn’t warn you that the butter was in fact butter, instead of making it look like cheese. She replied with a smile that, in fact it was cheese and I should have tried it. Laughs at T. from all at table…
We left at 0800 on Thursday the 4th. It was August. It was raining and hadn’t stopped for more than an hour since Inverness. Only 65 miles to go now.
Onward we rode to Bettyhill, a short busy town with an indeterminate amount of sheep. This was the infamous A836 again and I should have known there were going to be hills. It seemed as though someone had imported these from Devon and Cornwall without us knowing and it was going to be the same again. I wasn’t wrong but then again, it wasn’t quite as bad. Long hard climbs with slow, lazy descents and wonderful views between the clouds (when it wasn’t raining) I stopped occasionally to take more photographs and, of course, got left behind. Again. I finally caught some of them (quite a feat for me) at Reay, some 30 miles from John O’Groats. I had done my lot for the morning; I took the wheel after exchanging my front wheel with Anna’s, as she had another puncture. I headed off for the final destination, John O’Groats.
Now I don’t know if you’re aware of the history of JOG but it seems a King from the 1500’s offered lands and houses to any man who would supply a ferry system from the north of Scotland to the Orkneys. A certain Jan de Groot stepped up and did as he was bid. In no time at all, the ferry was in business and passengers were flocking between the Isles, each was charged a Groat, nominal currency at the time, probably about the price of a pint today.
Jan de Groot had many sons, about 8 it would seem and they all vied for the privilege of being head man after Dad stepped down. They all wanted to be head man, sit at the head of the table and wanted, more than anything, complete control over the ferry that their father had built. Jan was having none of the in-fighting and bickering, so he moved away for a while to decide what to do. He returned with builders, carpenters and roofers to build his answer. It was an 8 sided house, with a table to match, so that none of his sons would feel aggrieved that they were not at the head of the table. Jan died a happy man and the ruins of his 8 sided house can still be seen in the area.
Why would they close at this time?
Interesting comment.
Another interesting comment. Ah, that new broom...
A grey, damp night in Wick.
Charming weather, leaving John O'Groats, driving south, driving rain...
So there we have it, 1035 miles of rain, Ice, wind more rain, alongside a little fog, natch. We (Peter, Caroline, Anna, Holly, Dom, Barry, Tim, Graham, Chris and I) had actually made the trip. We drove down to Wick, stayed overnight at a comfortable, clean sheeted hotel and flew back the next morning. I still have my bike and, although I don't much feel like doing it, still go out on it now and again. It's now 2014, it's taken this long to transfer all my scribblings from Facebook and I still have a few more photos to get from my hard drive at home. There's always been a nagging thought that I'd like to do this trip, as my Dad was a great touring cyclist but had never done this kind of trip, since I was a young whippersnapper, and now it's come to fruition. I celebrated my 65th birthday a week after the trip but I DON'T REGRET ONE SINGLE SECOND OF IT.
Well done me...!
Well done me...!
