Category: Straight down the middle

It’s been a week since I got home from my adventure and I’m still riding the high of finishing it.

Sixteen days, cycling 967 miles with 55,000 ft of ascent. (That includes 23 miles from Thurso railway station to Strathy Point and 16 from St Catherine’s point to the ferry at Yarmouth).

It is an immense privilege to be able to do a trip like this and see our fabulous country at a pace that meant I could take it all in. The hard parts. The easier parts. Every turn of the pedals was worth it. Every slice of cake was definitely worth it.

I saw wonderful places, heard amazing stories, ate delicious food and met exceptional people. What a way to spend a couple of weeks.

Thanks to everyone who sent a message. Your interest, your support and encouragement helped all the way.

Thanks to Inspiral Cycles for making sure the bike was up to the trip, to Mike’s Bikes in Aviemore for ridding me of a rattle on Day 03, and to the Dales Bike Centre for fixing my broken spoke on Day 09.

For those cyclists among you interested in the prep and logistics for the trip, I’ll put together some more practical posts in the coming weeks.

Meanwhile, here are the pick of the pics

                     

 

Add up all the tiredness of the trip so far and mutiply it by a factor of your choosing. It’s nothing compared to how I felt climbing on the bike in Stockbridge at the beginning of the day.

I followed the back lanes down the west side of the Test Valley, crossing the river at Mottisfont and following it on down Romsey.

I was looking forward to the finish, but these were long miles and I wondered if I’d ever reach Southampton. At Chilworth, that changed with a gentle descent all the way down into the city centre, where I found the Bargate proudly flying the rainbow flag for Southampton Pride.

Buying my ticket for the crossing to East Cowes, I met a woman who’d looked out her window that morning and decided it looked like a good day to cycle round the Isle of Wight.

Ruth was great company and the hour or so it took to board and cross the Solent passed quickly. She cycled off on her trip round the island’s 64-miles of coast roads leaving me with cheery goodbye and some welcome professional advice about strengthening the muscles around my knee.

The Medina is the tidal river that runs from Cowes to Newport. I was on the east bank and Route 23, which runs down the middle of the Island, is on its western bank. Minutes after my first ferry journey of the trip, I took my second, on the Cowes floating bridge. Route 23 is largely on dedicated, traffic-free cycleways that were fabulously busy with cyclists of all ages on a glorious afternoon.

Five easy miles later I was in Newport with only ten miles of my challenge left. The hills in the final six miles sapped every last remaining drop of energy I had. Then, framed by trees, I saw St Catherine’s Lighthouse. My target. My destination. I was picked up by a wave of relief, achievement, and happiness. 926 miles, 55,000ft of hills and 15 days’ pedalling after leaving Strathy Point, I floated down the steep hill as fast as the tears flowed down my face, elated to have reached my goal.

38 miles; 1,613ft of hills
(And 16 miles over to Yarmouth for the ferry back!)

More photos, keep scrolling…

 

 

The White Horse at Duns Tew does an excellent dinner and a cooked breakfast to match. Still full of grilled shrimps, chicken and chips, and exquisite chocolate and salted caramel dessert, I migh have had to force down my breakfast, if they hadn’t put in front of me easily the best plate of scrambled eggs on toast I’ve had all trip.

I’d planned a route down to Oxford, then following the Thames to Reading with the aim of getting past Basingstoke towards Winchester by the end of the day. It was the sensible choice, but hardly inspiring. Executive decision to head to Woodstock and across the North Wessex Downs.

In Woodstock I caught a glimpse of Blenheim Palace through the gate, but the gate staff were having none of me cycling through the park, so to comiserate, I went to the natural bread shop for coffee and flapjack.

Rolling roads in the bright sunshine. I don’t mind telling you, I was enjoying it. Past Eyesham, through Cumnor, Eaton, and Apleton, I was making good progress, the villages kept coming. At Childrey, there was a change of direction: up. If there was a down side to choosing this more direct route, it was that the Downs go up.

 

The route profile showed three climbs, with the Ridgeway at the top of the first and Lambourne beyond. The climb was tough in the heat, but it was steady and I kept the pedals spinning until the wonderfully breezey descent took me to lunch in Lambourne. The second and smallest of the three climbs took me over to Hungerford and out onto the common.

The third climb out from Inkpen over to Faccombe gave me many miles of view north over Berkshire and south over Hampshire. They were worth every turn of the pedals.

The day went downhill from there. Quickly downhill. Hurstbourne Tarrant, St Mary Bourne, Hurstbourne Priors, Wherewell, Longstock into the heart of the Test Valley at Stockbridge.

It was a beautiful evening and I had a mind to carry on. But there was a room at the White Hart, so I called it a day.

80 miles; 3,338ft of hills

 

 

 

Another lovely morning. Atherstone showed me a prettier side than the Hight Sreet had suggested last night. I left the town via station road, heading south west through winding country lanes. One of the great joys of having a general heading, rather than a specific destination in mind, is the luxury of choosing the roads based on attributes other than their directness. I could indulge myself only so far though, beacuse I was aiming for the green at Meriden and the obelisk erected to mark the town as the centre of England.

Accomepanying the obelisk on the green are two cycling memorials. One to Wayfairer W.M. Robinson, whose “devotion to the passtime of cycling encouraged many to enjoy the countryside and the open road.” And another, dedicated to the cyclists fallen in the world wars and other conflicts. I doffed my helmet.

Right in the heart of the Midlands and Sustrans have been at it again. Five miles down the road from Meriden, there’s an entrance to the Kenilworth Greenway, part of national cycle route 52, which gave me a smooth, level, peaceful and quick three miles into Kenilworth.

Route 52 followed the main roads to the outskirts of Warwick where I dropped onto the canal towpath for a leisurely, waterside bimble.

Royal Leamington Spa is an impressive town. Set out around the river, its parks, wide avenues and grand Georgian, low-rise buildings give it a feeling of space and comfort, like an outsized village communing around its green.

Lunch at the splendid Coffee Bean café, then on through Bishops Itchington, Fenny Compton and other wonderfully-named villages.

Banbury is bigger than I expected. It combines the sandstone prettiness of Oxfordshire with the demands of modern commerce sometimes uncomfortably.

Coffe and the best fruit cake of the trip so far at Cafe Veneto on High Street and with 50 miles done, I booked accommodation another 13 miles away.

If I had been in any doubt that I was in Oxfordshire, that vanished as I passed through the natrow lanes linking its golden villages. A lovely evening for cycling and there were many others out. I reached the White Hart at Duns Tew.

63 miles; 3,159ft of hills

 

 

Thunder. Rain. Heavy rain. Just what you want on a morning. Four miles of gentle climbing to Newhaven. On another day, the view would extend for miles. I saw only the suggestion of landscape silhouetted against the mist and drizzle.

I found national cycle route 68 Just south of Newhaven. This time none of the rough-forest-track nonsense I experienced up near Kielder on Friday, here it’s a smooth-surfaced former railwayline that consistently looses height over its 15-mile run to Ashbourne.

Ashbourne is a pretty and busy Market town that could do with a bypass. I gave myself a tour, including the Ashbourne Treasures exhibition.

The day had brightened and I was treated to mile after mile of sunny, rolling country lanes linking pretty villages on my way down to the Trent Valley.

I turned down several farm shops and country tea rooms on the way to Burton-upon-Trent, thinking I’d have plenty of wonderful options in town, but its rough streets and bedragled precinct were on the verge of disappointing me until I spied a sign for Cafe B advertising its independentness.

After a bowl of pasta, coffee and carrot cake, I saw a different side of the town. Maybe approaching from the north with an empty stomach is’t the best way to experience it.

More beautiful, rolvling countryside took me through Coton in the Elms – no UK village is further from the sea – Clifton Campville and Austrey. I clocked up 750 miles for the trip in Sheepy Magna and took a break at Market Bosworth, where Richard III’s remains started their journey to Leicester Cathedral, after he’d been fiund buried under that car park.

Then on to Atherstone via the place the Ordnance Survey has named the centre of England at Lindley Hall Farm. A great day’s riding.

72 miles; 3,106 ft of hills.

My bed at The Woodman Inn had the most comfortable matress of the trip so far. It was only the thought of breakfast that gave me the strength to prise myself from its magnetic hold.

It had been raining before I set off and it was muggy. A steep climb up from Thunder Bridge and the arm warmers came off. A mile on, I packed the leg warmers away. And by three miles my base layer was off as well.

My straight-down-the-middle guideline skirts the eastern border of the Peak District. I had two choices for the day: Head for Sheffield, down through Chesterfield and on towards Derby, or head up into the hills of the national park. I went for the hills.

10 miles in, I found myself on the A616. It’s a busy road and the HGVs had little intention of slowing for the 40 limit, they had no intention of slowing for a cyclist. I bailed into a layby, into a gateway, and into a car park… of the Bank View Café.

I recognised Bank View from a list of top cycling Cafés I’d seen in a newspaper. It stands out. It’s difficult to forget.

Then off into the hills. More Tour de France and Tour de Yorkshire roads. Beautiful. Brutal. I saw more 20% signs in succession than I ever want to again with one 25% thrown in for good measure.

The famous Strines Inn provided a handsome lunch and an excuse to catch my breath. Over my sandwich I chatted to Chris and Huw, two cyclists out for a day’s hard hill riding. We shared cycling stories and tips, before heading down (yes, down!) to Ladybower Reservoir and Heathersage.

Ten miles to Bakewell on still hilly, but less brutal roads and the cake taste test of the trip: tart vs pudding. Pudding won, hands down.

I was done for the day, found some acommodation in Youlgreave just four miles from Bakewell and finished the shortest day so far at The Farmyard Inn.

41 miles; 3,647 ft of hills.

8.30am. Most of Masham was still sleeping. Only the local doctor’s surgery was doing a brisk trade with a queue of a dozen or more patients trailing into the street.

The wide expanse of the town’s square is impressive and I gave myself  a guided tour, finding in the top corner a cairn that commemorates the arrival of the Tour de France in 2014.

I set off for Lofthouse ten miles away, thinking I’d be there for coffee in an hour. But these are Tour de France roads and organisers don’t set the professional peleton off on nice, easy jaunts. The hills were hard. Then harder. Then even harder. On the last, I walked the steepest bit. It was like climbing a wall.

The desent to Lofthouse was equally dramatic. At the bottom my hands ached from pulling the brake levers for so long. A roll down to Pateley Bridge for coffee and cake at Rachels’s tea room. 17 miles done.

Rolling hills and more steep climbs over to Otley with a glorious descent into the town. Back into full-on urban cycling for the first time since Lanark on Day 6, which is amazing, and a quick stop in Titas Salt’s peaceful Saltaire.

What a surprise Bradford was. Grand buildings, wide avenues, open parks, and the splendour of a city centre that uses modern architectural tricks to accentuate its heritage. It was wonderful, even on a cloudy afternoon.

I found accomodation near Penistone and plotted a route. I’d been dreading the early evening traffic between Bradford, Huddersfield and Dewsbury, but I needn’t have worried: the ever-brilliant Sustrans had already thought of and solved the problem with the Calder Valley Greenway: part of National Cycle Route 66.

The Greenway took me on a smooth, tarmac path to four miles from the hotel and a short while later I arrived at The Woodman Inn in Thunder Bridge.

71 miles; 5,250ft of hills

Alston again. Rested after taking my day off yesterday. Alston was full of C2C and Pennine Cycleway cyclists.

My friend John Lenton was riding with me for the morning. I rode the C2C with John in 2013. He was on a knobbly-tyred, Cube hybrid and worried he’d slow me down. I looked at his bike in all its luggage-free, low-geared glory and the hills ahead and wondered how on earth I was going to keep up.

We set off at ten to ten, climbing out of Alston. Three miles out the metalic twang of a spoke breaking in my rear wheel caused my heart to sink. I strapped the broken spoke to another, trued the wheel well enough to stop it rubbing against the frame and we were on our way again. I’d need to find a bike shop and get it fixed.

Chatting with John made the climb easier and in an hour we were at the top dodging the motorbikes who were out enjoying the roads to their fullest extent. The road is the third highest in England. The second ten miles, down into Teesdale, were quicker than the first.

We stopped at Bowlees visitor centre for coffee and cake. At Eggleston, shortly after Middleton-in-Teesdale, we thanked each other for the ride and John headed home.

Through Romaldkirk to Cotherstone and over the moors to Bowes for a stop at the Ancient Unicorn Hotel. The Dales Bike Centre near Reeth in the next Dale would be open ’til five, so I had just under three hours to cover 15 miles and 1,300ft of climbing. Lemon squeezy!

The climb towards Tan Hill was a tester. Two and a half of the six miles up were on a rough track over Sleightholme Moor. I was conscious that another mishap with the wheel would leave me walking to Reeth.

From the top of the climb, it wasn’t all downhill to Reeth, but I made i9t with an hour to spare. Ian at the Dales Bike Centre fixed the spoke while I had a sandwich in the wonderful on-site cafe.

Then over Whipperdale Bank to Leyburn and a gloriously flat final ten miles to Masham

68 miles; 3,888 ft of climbing

Dry and overcast through the station’s waiting room window. The promise of showers on my phone. I left Saughtree after accepting my hosts’ generous invitation to have a good look round the place and clamber on the engine and rolling stock.

A mile downhill is a good start for any day and the road stayed pretty much level for 10 miles. I crossed the border and found myself drinking an early coffee and watching osprey nests on cctv in the Forestry Commission’s centre at Kielder Castle.

I was finding it hard. The showers predicted were intermittent downpours. The spells between included bright warm sunshine. So I had to keep stopping to adjust my clothing to the conditions. The hills around Kielder were proving more challenging than my mind told me they should have been. I couldn’t find a rhythm and I was finding the whole thing a chore.

When pushing on doesn’t cure that, cake can, so I stopped in the Tower Knowe visitor centre to learn something about the reservoir and have an early lunch. My sandwich was great, but it took more nearly 40 minutes to arrive and was less enjoyable for that. My early lunch had turned into a standard lunch and with a look around the visotor centre it was gone 2pm and I’d done only a third of the day’s riding.

Quicker riding down the road to Bellingham, and my mojo made an aplearance for the first time in the day. I spied the signs for national cycle route 68 and started to follow them. I had to for a while and following the pointy, blue markers was easy thinking for a tired bloke.

Route 68 goes to Haltwhistle and Alston. I was headed to Haltwhistle, then Alston. I followed the signs, wondering why my planned route took me what seemed miles out of the way. An hour later, trudging up a pot-holed forest track, pushing the bike through puddles, I knew my planned route had, sensibly included roads.

Finally back on tarmac winding own through glorious countryside, I climbed asharp rise to coss Hadrian’s Wall. That was a welcome milestone.

There are better times to find your brakes aren’t working than when you’re tired and not reacting as quickly as you might. There are better places to find your brakes aren’t working than on the steep descent into Haltwhistle. I made it to the claimed Centre of Britain much faster and less elegantly than I’d have liked. But I was there!

So just the last leg of my long day’s cycling to go. 15 miles to Alston, whose claim to fame is… oh… it’s the highest market town in England. More hills, including the impresive Bellister Bank right out of Haltwhistle. National cycle route 68 goes all the way to Alston, but I didn’t fall for that again. Roads all the way for me.

I finished the day at the Alston station of the South Tynedale Heritage Railway, just a short hop from my hotel.

 

Peebles in the sunshine.  Wow! What a welcome to day seven. A thriving Borders town with so much history, they leave it lying about the place. The town’s war memorial is unlike any other I’ve seen.

I followed the signposted cycle route on back lanes tracking the Tweed downriver to Innerleithen and on to the confluence with Eltrick Water, then up river to Selkirk for lunch and a tour of Sir Walter Scott’s courthouse. I diligently locked my bike to a railing outside the Courthouse and recklessly lost the key. Lynnette from the courthouse came to my rescue, finding the key where I’d stopped to take a photo of Sir Walter’s statue in the town square.

Steep climb out of Selkirk to Midlem. Sunshine and clear skies making it thirsty work. My bottle was empty by the time I reached Hawick (That’s Haw-ick, or Hoik to the locals) another bustling mill town.

The last leg of the day was the hardest. 17 miles to Bonchester Bridge then up, up, up through the hills towards the border. At a little row of cottages in the middle of nowhere, a kind resident agreed to fill my empty bottle and wished me luck for the climb.

The road went up again. I passed an alpine centre! The views were glorious and the rain started as I began to drop to Saughtree. And what a gem Saughtree Station is. What a find. A restored former borders station where the owners run a B&B and their own train!

Warm and dry, knowing I was a spit from the border I settled in for my last night in Scotland.

55 miles; 3,813ft of hills