Forging North of the Border

Derbyshire and the Yorkshire Dales were a fair shock to my system. The roads had been a challenge without some delightful British weather to contend with.

The original plan was to head west from Sedburgh and make for the Lake District. however, the weather, in particular the prevailing wind, was such that it would have been a constant slog without even considering the hills I'd have to contend with. I had wanted to hike up a fell or two on route, but again, the forecast did not look promising, and it seemed foolish to cycle miles into a headwind to then not be able to hike the next day.

So I consulted the map, and changed course. The day had dawned bright and dry, so I took a brief walk/run up and over local Winder Fell. It was hard going, but the wind was so strong that after the initial steep section, it surprisingly easy to jog up the hillside!

The views at the top were magnificent, great green rolling hills that almost felt within touching distance, and the town of Sedburgh down in the valley below, wind was blowing with such force I could barely stand upright at the trig point. Not another person in sight, even the sheep had not bothered to climb this high.

I ran back down the fell, slipping and sliding back to town, where I collected my bicycle and began to make my way north. And I have to say it was a brilliant day of cycling. Whether my legs have finally got used to pedalling at last, or that cycling in dry weather is that much simpler, but I relished that day, my legs feeling strong with every turn of the cranks.

My route took me through Orton, prime red squirrel territory, though they proved highly elusive. I then found a quality route through small sleepy villages along quiet back roads, through the likes of Crosby Ravenscroft and Kings Meaburn. It's a route I would thoroughly recommend, with the buildings and walls transitioning from limestone grey to sandstone red as you wend your way north. You also get to pass one of my favourite villages to date - Plumpton. As yet it is unknown whether the village is named for the local plum propensity, or the general merry roundness of its occupants due to a high abundance of cake...I shall have to return to investigate further...

I was in such good cycling mode that I covered the distance to Brampton with relative ease, and bunked down at the wee campsite on the outskirts of town.


The beauty of touring in the rain, is that you have even more cause to take breaks in almost every town you pass through. I had barely pedalled ten gentle miles along the border when the rain 'forced' me to take a tea and cake break in Longtown. Here, the Gretna Bakery and Cafe took me in for a quality hour and a half where I drank many mugs of tea and ate my way through various slices of quiche and millionaires shortbread, all whilst chatting to the locals who popped in for their bread or all day breakfasts.

Taking a detour north, I passed the border for Scotland - a great landmark in my journey! - and continued north through Ecclefechan (another quality town name) to Lockerbie, where I got to meet my dad briefly for lunch. He was on route to Glasgow, and kindly brought me my overshoes, which were fatal to leave behind when cycling in the UK. I donned them immediately, and my feet felt so much warmer, despite already being soaked through.

I finished the day riding through and beyond Dumfries on the back roads to Castle Douglas. following directions obscured by hedges to a local campsite that the majority of locals didn't know existed...it was beautifully secluded and peaceful, with a wee family of geese and goslings in residence on the mill pond.

The following day was fantastic for cycling. I rode through the back roads down to Castle Douglas, then took the road through the Galloway Forest to Newton Stewart. The scenery was spectacular, and the roads quiet all day. The route wound through the forests, passing streams and small waterfalls rushing under the road to reach the loch.

I paused in New Galloway to sample some cake and chat to some fellow tourers, the first I'd seen to chat to since departing from Shropshire: a group of Sheffield blokes enjoying a long weekend of pedalling around Dumfries and Galloway. I passed them again on route to Newton Stewart, and continued on to Glentrool, following the sublime NCN route 7. I normally don't fall in for these routes, as I've often found them to be on roads that are near vertical or in poor condition, or such an indirect route as to drive me mad, but this one was spot on. It cut through the Cree Woods along a gently undulating single track road, passed by noone, and passing nothing but mossy walls, endless trees, and the odd whitewashed house with ponies grazing in adjoining paddocks.

Cycling and camping in Scotland has a catch. You hope for days of endless sunshine and a gentle tailwind to send you merrily on your way and afford you glorious views which you've heard so much about. But there's a catch. On pausing to whip out your camera to snap said glorious views, you hope that a strong breeze whips up to prevent the inevitable onslaught of midges attacking every inch of available skin. I have not had to deal with these little blighters much as yet - the poor weather has its advantages in this sense.

Quality read

Glentrool

However I experienced a very real midge attack at the Glentrool campsite. The evening was balmy, the sun still out, and the breeze minimal. Combined with multiple water features and tree shelter, this was prime midge territory, prompting me to smother myself in Skin So Soft, that well known brand of midge repellent.

My first attack was not too terrible, though I spent several minutes once ensconced in my tent destroying every one of the wee bugs that had dared enter with me. The walls of my tent now resembling something akin to leopard print, I abstained from drinking anymore fluids to try and prevent the need to leave my sanctuary in search of a loo.

I knew I still had a decent ride ahead of me to reach the ferry to Arran, so I set an alarm to get me up and moving earlier than usual - so far I have slipped into a wonderfully lazy rhythm of life, packing up far more slowly than my fellow campers, enjoying the flexibility of these long summer days.

There was no need for the alarm. The howling wind and rain had me awake since 4am, worrying that my fly sheet would rip off and tear away in the gales. It was weather that did not induce me to get out of my sleeping bag and hop on my bicycle, but clamber out I did anyway, convincing myself that it always sounds worse than it is.

It turns out that it was as terrible as it sounded, but with one redeeming factor - there was a strong tailwind. So strong that at some points I had to lean my full weight into it to prevent myself from tumbling into the ditch at the roadside.

Fully togged, this time with overshoes which helped create a full leg seal (a strong look if ever I saw one) I pedalled up and over the hills to Straiton. Alas, I have no photos of this section, the rain was pretty severe and I didn't want to keep my camera out and exposed to the elements. But what I did see was stunning: a wide open valley with a river storming through the middle, further hills smothered in pine tree forests in the distance, my immediate surroundings consisting of rolling moors.

Pausing in Kirkmichael for cake and warmth!

I made great progress, flying through Alloway towards Ayr, glimpsing the famed Robert Burns' birthplace that was already swarming with tourists. The sun had now come out, but I didn't stop to whip off the waterproofs on route to Ardrossan, instead I floored it all the way to the ferry terminal along the number 7 route. In hindsight, there was no need to rush - I reached the earlier ferry with a healthy twenty minutes to spare, but I wasn't entirely sure when the last ferry was sailing so wanted to be safe than sorry. I basked in the now glorious sunshine and enjoyed some quiche and squashed ham roll courtesy of Jocks Cafe back in Kirkmichael.

Following the cycle route 7 to the ferry

Views of the mainland and Horse Isle from the ferry

All that was left was a short crossing to my first island of the trip: Arran. As soon as I was off the boat, I pedalled straight down the main street to the beach, whipped off my shoes and socks, and stood with my feet in the sea, enjoying the cool of the water rushing above my ankles. Perfect timing for a rest day, relax in the lack of phone signal, limited wifi, and plenty of good food to be sought out. Laptop time is getting a little limited now, so apologies in advance if I don't manage to blog as frequently!!

Brodick coast, Arran

Paddling in the sea!

Camping spot 

Corrie and Sannox

The road to Lochranza

Lochranza Castle

Local wildlife spotting

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!!