Grand Depart: The highs and lows of the Great British Summer

June has come around far more quickly than I could have imagined. I was beginning to plot this trip so many months ago and before I realised, the final week of May had arrived and it was time to be off.

The day of the Grand Depart came, and if I'm totally honest, I didn't have that same rush of excitement that comes on the cusp of a fresh adventure. I've been looking forward to this trip for a long time, but that morning I was a bit grumpy from a poor night's sleep, and I was feeling a little underwhelmed. It didn't feel like I had a tough challenge ahead of me, more just a jolly jaunt north to see some beautiful scenery...oh how wrong I was...

Bella and the Tardis raring to go!

A brew and company for the first thirty miles perked me up. The sun was out in force, and I did the relish the sweet simplicity of departing from my door, no flights, no faff, just loading up Bella and rolling out of the drive to head north.

Just about ready...

Time for the off!

Dad and his cycling chums took me as far as Haslington on the outskirts of Crewe. It was wonderful to be able to relax into the ride, not have to worry about navigating my way out of Shropshire (one of my genuine concerns for this trip was trying to successfully navigate out of my home county - when I normally go cycling locally, it's with a group and I rarely have to navigate. As a consequence, I actually don't know my local roads all that well - they all look the same!!) and enjoy some jolly chat about the road ahead.

Once alone, that thrill of adventure hit me full force and positively tickled my senses, sending my stomach writhing with anticipation. The opportunity to see new places, get lost if I like, and the potential of yet to be sampled baked goods just over the horizon...

I held a gentler pace now, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my limbs. Congleton came and went quickly, I was eager to get cracking and make some more headway. To keep navigation simple on that first day, I went for the A54 towards Buxton, my reasoning was that it was going to be hilly whatever route I chose, so I may as well take thinking out of the equation so I could focus my energy into my legs. This proved to be a wise decision - it wasn't all that busy, but wow those inclines were a shock to the system. Every slow turn of the cranks had me cursing my lack of cycling-specific training. It turns out that commuting a 20 mile round trip on relatively flat roads does not prepare you for trying to haul a fully loaded touring bike up and over multiple 10% hills. Muscle memory clearly doesn't quite reach back to two years ago...

Between Congleton and Buxton

Catching the trail race at Wincle village fete

The climbs continued for most of the day, interspersed with equally steep descents, so it was a relief to finally reach Bradwell, my destination for the first evening.

Buxton

Tideswell

Final stretch to Bradwell

Now most would question my sanity for heading this way for a northbound journey. The hills are brutal and it is clearly not 'on route'. My primary reason for choosing to go through the Peak District is that my mum's family hale from Hope Valley, and I feel that I have not had much of a chance to see it as an adult (sadly my most recent visit was for the funeral of my great uncle) so I wanted to get to know a little of the places that we've heard so much about as children.

So I stopped over in Bradwell with Auntie Josie, and enjoyed a beautiful summer evening wandering around, the sun slowly sinking behind the hills, casting the village into shadow but Bradwell Edge still full of colour.

Bradwell church and the Edge

Back routes through Bradwell

Tent up for the night

I pedalled on through Hathersage to go for a walk along Stannage Edge. The wind was picking up as I half walked, half ran along the great ridge, hopping between boulders, gazing out over towns nestled between hills, hazy mountains just visible in the distance.

Of course, a trip to Hathersage would not be complete without a tour of its various outdoor shops - the bloke at Alpkit brought me a brew and sat with me to chat about my trip, discussing routes for my journey north.


The ride up and over Snake Pass should have been a treat. It was just my sort of climb, nothing too steep, just a long and continuous graft, slight kick at the end but nothing too strenuous. However, just as I passed the sign for the start of the Pass, I felt the first rain drops trickle down my cheek. And at first, the rain was the sort that doesn't warrant stopping to put on a jacket; I was just in a nice rhythm, why ruin that flow? I gave in when the rain became a torrent about halfway up the hill, and reluctantly pulled in at the side of the road to tog up, gulping down mouthfuls of maltloaf.

The bottom of the Pass

So close to the top!

Apparently the views are lovely at the top of the Pass. The clouds parted briefly, giving me small glimpses of rolling moors, but they rapidly disappeared into the mist.

The descent had me clawing at the brake levers, my fingers instantly chilled by the increase in pace, which I tried to keep modest, I didn't fancy adding to the motorbike wreckage I glimpsed on one of the tight corners...



Now, the joys of living and travelling in Britain can be unending, given a nice long spell of glorious weather. I've often heard it said on a warm sunny day, that we'd have no need to go abroad if the weather were like this all summer. Bus alas, we live in a turbulent climate, plenty of variability, and more often than not we simply shrug off the worst of the weather with a quality anorak.

Full waterproofs being put to the test

This was my attitude for tackling this week. Now that British summertime is apparently done with for the year, I tried not to shudder too much at the thought of tackling Monday morning rush hour in Manchester in the pouring rain. On went the full waterproof gear, and I spent a couple of hours negotiating traffic around Oldham, Shaw and Rochdale, before eventually finding a relatively quiet road heading north towards Burnley. I feel privileged to have cycled through what felt like the entire spectrum of rain, right from drizzle to downpour, through showers and torrents, dredging up that geography lesson where we discussed the many and varied terminology for that ever present form of weather.

Checking my route over a final brew

Finally beyond Manchester

This kept me mostly entertained until I hit several downhills and discovered that, my brakes were rapidly disintegrating. No matter how much pressure I applied to the brake levers, my stopping distance was growing with every application, so much so I genuinely began to fear for my life. With the rain now pelting at my face, I pulled into a caravan park between Blacko and Gisburn, thankful for the uphill to reception that slowed me down. The lovely people on reception took me into a large workshop where I could adjust my brakes out of the weather, and they even brought me a brew which helped to thaw my fingers.

Functioning brakes make for much merrier cycling it seems, and I covered the distance to Settle with much more confidence, happy in my ability to stop at junctions. I managed to organise a last minute WarmShowers stop in Settle so I could avoid the worst of the rain, and they shared plenty of stories of their various travels and two wheeled tandem adventures.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of pulling on still soggy socks, gloves and shoes the next morning, yet I was fortunate: the rain held off for a whole eight miles this morning! It had just started to shower as I reached Horton in Ribblesdale, where I passed a group of walkers. Two of them were walking the Pennine Way, and the third was trekking from Lands End to John O Groats, putting the rest of us to shame with our shorter endeavours.

Four miles from the halfway point for the LEJOG walker!

The climb up to the Ribblehead viaduct was quiet, no cars or cyclists were out, just mazes of crumbling dry stone walls, and plenty of sheep to chat to as I crawled past. The route was well worth it though, I came down through Dent Dale, following a narrow country road tunnelled by lush young trees with a raging river to my left to keep me company, passing a few bemused and bedraggled walkers.

Ribblehead Viaduct

Taking shelter in Dent

The joy was shortlived though. I reached Sedbergh and decided that, maybe, today would not be my day. I was soaked through to the skin, my fingers and toes clunky and locked in place like a pack of icecubes. And as much as I wanted to be in the Lake District by the end of today, I reminded myself that, when I planned this trip, I gave myself some time flexibility in case of bad weather. Of course, it would be nice to have that time in hand further down the line, but 40mph winds and rain are not all that agreeable on a bicycle. I can handle one without the other, but a double whammy is pretty unpleasant.

So I've accepted that it's been a mixed bag of a start, but this afternoon has allowed me a) tell you all about it and b) prepare for the next few days ahead...a.k.a eaten my bodyweight in Indian food for the evening...carb loading is just as important as route planning of course!

Bring back the sun please!!