East to West 2011

[Chris S]

there was a train / person issue somewhere between p'boro and st. ives earlier today, so all the east coast -> london trains will be shite, I'm afraid. 

One-Under at Sandy, Beds. Apparently.

[Wowbagger]

We are on a train but there is currently no crew. I can see this one being cancelled as well.

[Wowbagger]

Just left Durham

[Wowbagger]

Thursday 31st March.

I didn't feel ready for this holiday which is perhaps why I needed it so much. I'd been through the leanest six months since I resumed cycling some 5 years ago, although that adjective was used to describe the number of miles I'd ridden, not my campaign towards personal sylphdom. I'd had more arthritic attacks in the autumn, a confidence-sapping attack from a motorist, the bitter December weather that affected all of us and, just as some good weather was beginning to appear in February and I was beginning to find my pedals again, a spell of minor back ache blossomed into full-blown crippling sciatica. Just when I should be getting the miles in, I was unable to walk more than a few yards, and if a trip to the park with the dog wasn't completely out of the question, it was certainly a major operation which took most of a morning to complete. During the lead-in to this ride, I was just not cycling, and if I was not cycling, then Jan wasn't either. The main reason we ride a tandem is because of her lack of road confidence, so neither of us was in any proper state to be tackling a 600-mile two-week cross-country trek.

For good measure, the x-ray taken on my back had apparently revealed the fact that I was suffering from osteoporosis, doubtless attributable as much to my anorexia as the cessation of my periods, so on the morning of us setting off I got up at 5 a.m. so that I could take my weekly tablet of alendronic acid, after which I had to sit still for 30 minutes before having any other food. We were due to catch the 7.22 train from Shenfield, which for safety's sake required us to be on the 6.28 from Prittlewell. This was due to get us to Lowestoft, via Norwich, around 9.45.

We waited around at Shenfield Station for quite some time but then the monster train arrived, with its tandem-swallowing guard's van. We boarded, found some vacant seats, and waited... and waited... and waited. There was a lot of milling around from platform staff, animated mobile phone conversations, and, after some 20 minutes' inactivity we lurched forward and gradually gathered speed, but it was never going to be enough for us to catch our connection in Norwich. An announcement that the train had "developed a fault" was delivered with the normal corporate non-apology, which is pretty standard practice with these trains, which have been pulling heavy loads since the 1970s.

After consulting the guard, we decided to change at Ipswich as it would get us to Lowestoft a little earlier than if we carried on to Norwich, but still the delay had cost us an hour. We finally pulled into Lowestoft at about 10.45, were met by Annie, Jeff and Mick, who had spent the night at a local B & B, and made straight for Ness Point.



It took us a while to find the concrete compass explaining what Lowestoft's purpose was to the Universe as a whole,



and the ladies looked for sunnier climes



whilst I hunted down our destination.



But Lowestoft was nothing but an exercise in grey.

Soon it was time to cycle, and the task ahead of us was brought into perspective. The day's goal was Chris S's house, as this fine person had agreed to put all five of us up for the night. However, it was going to be a day of toil as we were to ride across Suffolk and Norfolk and there was a very vigorous headwind.

We had been riding only about an hour and a half, and had covered about 12 miles, when Jan and I almost simultaneously had that dreaded Sinking Feeling: we were hungry, as Breakfast had been some 6 hours ago. Shortly after the evocatively named village of Herringfleet a tea room appeared and lunch was necessary, even though our three companions had had a large breakfast not nearly so long ago. There was a ruined priory near the tea room and St. Olave was mentioned, and after tucking in we were on our way again, slogging into the headwind.

We had had a couple of brief spells on some busy A roads, which were quite unpleasant because our speed was necessarily low and the occasional strong gust gave an air of unpredictability to the proceedings, and by the time we reached Loddon we were so far behind schedule that Jeff, Mick and Annie decided to press on. Annie's eyesight is not up to night riding and our delayed start, and the early sunset, meant that Chris's house was unlikely to be reached in daylight. Jan and I kept going at our own inexorably turgid pace and one by one the 18 villages that Jeff had counted on our journey for the day were ticked off.

We recognised Mulbarton as the point at which we crossed last July's WARTY route but this was not the peaceful, warm Saturday morning of our previous encounter, but stark mid-week rush hour where the locals all came home from whatever they did all day in the Fine City only a few miles to the north. We stopped in Wymondham where the Co-op sold calories and once more pressed on into the stiff breeze.

The light began to fade while we were still about 8 miles short of our bed for the night. As we wound through a wood, we had a couple of lucky sightings of a barn owl an a muntjac, the latter frozen in the glare of the solidlights until I pointed it out to Jan, and at the sound of my voice it seemed to melt away into the undergrowth. The roads were mostly of reasonable quality but there was the odd pot hole. Chris had warned us about the uneven nature of the road out of Bradenham and we found that all right, and we still had half a mile to go when I was forced into an emergency stop at a point where the road was covered in damp silt. There sat a large and pompous-looking frog, seemingly unaware of the bright light of the tandem shining on her and then it was that I discovered something about my wife of which I had hitherto been completely unaware: she was frightened of frogs! Perfectly happy to grasp even the 'orriblest 'airiest of spiders should they need to be helped out of the bath, Jan was totally unable to bring herself so much as to touch this robust amphibian. Fortunately Freda Frog decided that she would move of her own volition so we then proceeded towards Chris's house and dinner.

The other three had arrived about half an hour before us so had not had to put up with too much darkness, the beer was flowing and the lasagne was cooking. We showered and changed, were fed and watered, and congratulated one another on the day's efforts, and one by one retired to bed for a well-earned rest.

[Wowbagger]

Friday 1st April

For the first time in about two months, I woke up with no back pain. The feeling of freedom was quite a shock. Chris and Debbie were up and doing, breakfast was on the move, as were our fellow cyclists, and the day looked generally brighter than yesterday. Debbie went to work whilst the rest of us ate heartily, and some time after 10 a.m there were photographs and we set off. We wound our way through Little Dunham and made for Castle Acre, Chris guiding us through the first few miles of the day. There was still a head wind, but not nearly so strong, and we made rather better progress.

The countryside was rolling gently, so for a lot of the time we were still winching ourselves slowly up the long, gradual ascents before picking up speed on the other side. We found a tea room, Chris bade us farewell and returned to his house for work. What a first rate chap!

The next major town on our journey was King's Lynn, where we crossed the Great Ouse, but I wanted to drop in on my aged Aunt Glenys, who has lived in the same house since she was married shortly after the end of the Second World War. Her late husband had been in the air force with my dad, and although before my time, family folklore has it that supplies of nylon stockings were involved in the courtship. Jeff, Mick and Annie found a pub which said it served food (we later found out that it was lying) whilst Jan and I bought a couple of rolls and some ham from Aldi's and dropped on Aunt G.

We had a pleasant natter, she gave us the last pieces of her Christmas Cake (it was always a family joke that Glenys's Christmas cake, with only one dainty cousin to eat it, lasted until Easter whereas in our house, with 6 young Baggers clamouring for calories, our mother's would be gone by New Year) and after an hour or so we bade our farewell, Glenys watched us pedal off and we found the others, who had had to survive on peanuts and beer.

Kings Lynn was not well signposted so we walked through the shopping centre, found the cycle path by the river and the bridge, and then headed off into the fens, which would be our home for the next 40 miles or so. We avoided the A17 as much as we could, keeping to villages to the north of it, until we were about a mile or so from Sutton Bridge. At this point I noticed a small anomaly with the Garmin: there appeared to be a second road, running immediately parallel to the trunk road, and heading in the direction we wanted. Amid scepticism from the others, I had a quick look and we soon found it, but it was gated and locked. However, a convenient hole in a dilapidated fence allowed us to get on it, and we had a lovely traffic-free ride on a good surface right up to the Swing Bridge. Of course, at the other end there was the problem of another locked gate and this time there was no convenient hole in the fence, but a notice telling us to ask the bridge keeper for the key. However, that wasn't necessary as all five of us pooled our resources and simply lifted the gate off its hinges, wheeled the bikes out and then put it back again.

It was at this point that we were in for a bit of a surprise, and missed a golden opportunity. We were about to get onto the foot-and-cycle-path bit of the bridge when suddenly lights began to flash. One or two people who were more aware than we were quickly got onto the bridge and started to cross, realising that when swing bridges open or shipping everything takes a lot longer than it does when a train goes through a level crossing. We could see the boat approaching form the south but it was still at least half a mile away, so we had a bit of a wait on our hands.



Here's a picture of what we were looking at.



That's the A17 with a sheer drop into the River Nene.



That's the boat approaching from the south.



And that's it passing the swing bridge.

Once that was over we were expecting the bridge to close and us get on with our journey, but no: in the distance, to the north, another, much larger, boat hove into view.







After about half an hour's waiting around, the bridge closed and we were on our way. Although it had been well worth the wait, watching transport engineering in action, there was a small pang of regret that we hadn't crossed before the bridge opened as we would have had the rush-hour A17 all to ourselves for most of the way to Holbeach. As it was, the traffic jam stretched all the way to the horizon in both directions.

After that the ride was fairly uneventful all the way to Elloe Lodge, our bed for the night. The rooms were very comfortable but there seemed to have been a dip in the water pressure and our showers wouldn't work. Our landlady opened another room, where the shower was from the hot water tank, and I abluted there. Once fragrant, we all went off to the curry house to make amends.

[Wowbagger]

Saturday 2nd April

We awoke to a beautiful sunny morning, wolfed an ample breakfast and were on the road fairly early. Lincoln was our destination for the day and we wanted to get on with it. However the fens were quite attractive this morning, with fields full of daffodils.



That really isn't a Fenland hill, just a Mrs. Wow's eye view from the back of the tandem.

We had only completed about a mile when I looked up to see a very encouraging sight as the first swallow of the year was arcing around above us. I must have ridden several of these roads before, about 18 months ago when riding form York to Stowmarket, but I didn't have a detailed memory of them. I just know I had to get around the Wash and NCN1 does just that.

We wondered whether a footpath which left the road to our right crossed the Welland or would we have to go via Fosdyke, so we phoned Dez

to find out whether the ordnance maps threw any light onto this. It seemed that it didn't so we took a sharp left bend and headed south-west to be greeted by yet more head wind. Once again we would have to join the A17 to cross the Welland, or so we thought, but a few yards before we got there, a short section of cycle route appeared, crossing a bit of field, leading us right up to the bridge, after which we had the opportunity of a right turn back onto minor roads.

A few times we realised we could actually improve on my planned route and there were more direct ways of going where we wanted to go without having to face too much traffic. Today we probably saved around 3 miles' cycling by doing this, which everyone welcomed. Navigating the Fens can actually be quite tricky: there are lots of long, tempting looking roads which end abruptly at a wide drain where some long-defunct ferry no longer operates and it was important to avoid such pitfalls. The roads and rivers are often dead straight and there's often a lot of zigzagging to be done. Add this to the fact that everywhere looks like everywhere else and you can get the feeling that you are trapped in a painting by M C. Escher for miles on end.

Shortly before we arrived at Kirton a tea room appeared and we were all ready for some. After this we found a road which travelled pretty well directly north-west, through a hamlet named Hedgehog Bridge, and the road ran parallel to the North Forty Foot Drain for many miles.



Eventually we could see a large collection of static caravans in the distance, and we realised that there was also a marina. This, to me, meant that there was also very likely to be a pub and indeed the Crown Lodge appeared.



There was beer and food served by a Man of Essex, originally from Wanstead. We enjoyed a hearty lunch and our host explained a bit about his philosophy of pub keeping. He always liked to have at least one real ale on tap and had a large collection of handpump badges of all the beers he had served. He had never had Crouch Vale Brewer's Gold so I recommended some of that to him.

He and his wife had eventually managed to tease out of the council that they lived at 16 Main Street, Chapel Hill, so the decor inside the bar reflected this.



Behind the door is the landlord's private flat.

We followed the A163 alongside the River Skirth to Billinghay, after which the river ceases to be navigable, and once we had crossed the bridge into the river we had left the fens. Reluctant contours began to appear on the map and the countryside began to acquire features like gentle gradients. We started to look out for Lincoln Cathedral but it was a long time before we saw it. The wind was mostly unhelpful again as we were heading more west than north and we were climbing far more than descending. We stopped in Branston for a much-needed buttock-rest and a bit of respite from the traffic. The B1188 is quite a wide, fast road and many of the cars were giving us far too little room. However, after Canwick the road rapidly descends into Lincoln and we achieved 39.6 mph before having to stop for the lights and the idiot in the Pontiac who had insisted on overtaking us whilst we were already breaking the speed limit. There was a bit of a slog out to the A57 Carholme Road, where the B & B was, and after showers we hired a taxi to the Cathedral where we had arranged to meet our old college pal Enid for a meal.



We went to the Wig and Mitre, which we found to be an excellent hostelry boasting several real ales and a fine food menu.

[Wowbagger]

Sunday 3rd April

On leaving Carholme House, which was a very pleasant B & B, we had a grinding climb out of Lincoln. Again, the weather was fine. The road we were on was to be closed later in the day as there was a 10k run taking place and the traffic was light.



Once we were out of the town we were cycling along a ridge with an excellent westward view



and a suitable hole in the hedge for a comfort break.



A cyclist appeared and stopped for a chat. He had left Callendar and was heading for Norwich. He was covering about 80 miles a day and his wife was taking the bulk of his luggage and the children. He was a bit concerned about the road closure in Lincoln, but we told him that he ought to be able to get through OK.

It being Mothering Sunday, and pub lunches likely to be hard to get without booking, we had decided to buy our lunch in a shop in the village of Sturton-by-Stow. Armed with bread rolls, ham, hot cross buns and a few other delicacies, we felt sure that we wouldn't starve, and just around the corner form the shop we also found a tea room and made absolutely certain with some coffee and a plate of interesting biscuits.

One of the strange facts that had struck me about this ride was that we only cycled in 5 counties before reaching the Scottish border: Suffolk, Norfolk, Lincolnshire, Yorkshire and Cumbria, which seemed to be remarkably few for such a long ride. However, as we picked our way through a rather awkward Gainsborough in order to cross the Trent, this "fact" was sadly upset by a sign welcoming us to Nottinghamshire. We were only there or a few miles, a necessity for crossing the Trent, before venturing into Lincolnshire again. As it happened there was a good cycle way alongside the river which afforded us a reasonable lunch stop, although the buildings on the other side left a certain amount to be desired.



After lunch we cycled past a few nodding donkeys, near the village of Beckenham, and it was only when checking maps whilst writing this that I realised that Nottinghamshire had an oilfield.

Shortly we were back into fenland, with poker-straight roads alongside dykes. In one of them, the North Idle Drain, there was a dead pike, probably about 15lb in weight. When we turned left at Sandtoft, still along dead straight roads, we headed into Yorkshire for the first time. There was a potential road closure problem here, but it turned out that although large holes had been dug, there was no difficulty in getting the bikes through and we had a traffic free ride, albeit disturbed by the road noise from the M180 only a few hundred yards to our right. We emerged by a large and busy pub where we sat for a while but didn't order food or drink, eventually deciding that it was so awful that starvation would have ben a better alternative, and headed into Hatfield and Stainforth.

These were, quite frankly, quite awful places. At one time they had been mining villages, but nothing seemed to have happened to them since other than that they had become scruffier and more of the shops were boarded up. We were grateful to emerge, even though we had to suffer a stinging rain shower. There was quite a labyrinth of waterways and railways, some disused, and the road was never very direct, but we worked our way westwards past a disused power station, only the cooling towers remaining.

The countryside suddenly became very pleasant again and we passed through Thorpe in Balne, a very well-to-do looking village, a complete contrast to the grinding poverty we had seen only two or three miles back, and it crossed my mind that if the welfare system of this country really does collapse the residents of Thorpe in Balne will probably end up as burgers.

Just after leaving Thorpe in Balne, we cycled along Joan Croft Lane. Our way was barred by a level crossing, gates closed. The gentleman in charge of the crossing told us, in broadest Yorkshire, that we might be there for a while as there were a few trains coming through.

"You don't do tea as well do you?" I asked, ever the optimist.

"I'll mek thee a cup o' tea if tha wants,", he replied, and as good as his word he found five cups and made a very welcome cuppa. Jeff produced some oat biscuits that he had bought earlier in the day and we had quite a little party as a number of trains thundered through. This was the main Edinburgh to London route and there had been some trouble with signals.

"Withaht meaning to be p'litically incorrect, it's the Gippos," he explained, who had, it appeared, been helping themselves to copper cables. "We've 'ad no end o' trouble on this line."

He went on to talk about his job.

"Best job in t'world! I get paid for opening and shutting a gate all day long!"



Eventually we finished our tea, waited for a brief lull in the succession of 120mph trains thundering through, bade our farewell to a lovely man and made for Owston Hall, just the wrong side of the A19, where dinner and beds were waiting for us.

[Wowbagger]

Monday 4th April

The working week began in traditional style with the consumption of 17.5mg methotrexate. This was followed by an acceptable breakfast.

Owston Hall was our most expensive B & B and I wouldn't normally have booked anywhere at £95 for a double room other than that I had a strong desire not to ride through Doncaster or find a B & B there. I just felt that both would be bad ideas.

Owston Hall is a large mansion set in golfish parkland. We escaped by a non-standard way when the postman left the gate open and we had a quick look at Owston church and village. Then we just headed northward. The forecast for today was that rain would be with us around lunch time, so I was keen to get as many miles under our belts as possible. The countryside was rolling and villagey and, with a lighter wind which was more of a tailwind than we had hitherto experienced, since our principle direction was now northerly rather than westerly, we made steady progress. We crossed the Went Valley and my thoughts were drawn to my old pal Al Smith, a teaching colleague from the 1970s. He moved away from Southend to live in, firstly, Ackworth Moortop and secondly, Kirk Smeaton, which was pretty close to our route today. When we moved to our current house in 1994, a month or two later I tried to contact him to let him know our new address and he wasn't at his old one. I haven't heard from him since.

We headed through Womersley and the wonderfully-named village of Cridling Stubbs. Shortly after crossing the M62 and the Aire and Calder Navigation Canal, there was no doubt at all that we were now in the Far North. There was a hideous open-cast mine being serviced by a succession of heavy lorries, but once we were north of the entrance the lorries ceased and we had a more peaceful ride. We crossed the Aire at Beal, which was quite a pretty village amidst lots of hideousness, and we continued through Hillam, Monk Fryston, South Milford and Sherbern in Elmet and still it didn't rain, although the sky remained leaden.

After about 27 miles, and some 3 hours' cycling, we arrived at Barwick-in-Elmet and the Black Swan was open and doing pensioners' specials. I had a large plateful of pie and chips and a pint of lemonade with lime, and that was exceptional value. When we emerged an hour or so later, we were considerably slower as a result of lunch, and the wind and stinging rain didn't help.

We headed towards Harewood Hall, admiring a succession of red kites as we did so, and the gates to the grounds looked to be decidedly locked. The A61 was a busy alternative, and as soon as we saw some dog walkers push the gate open, in we went.

This turned out to be a mistake that cost us an hour or more, as the bridleway was of a poor surface. Had we hurtled down the hill towards the river Wharfe we would have done so in excess of 20 mph and saved ourselves a lot of grinding along rough roads. As it was we had to use the A61 for a brief period, turing right towards Kirkby Overblow as soon as we could. We wiggled our way through Pannal and into Harrogate, arriving at our B & B. Our host and hostess recommended an Italian restaurant nearby, we enjoyed yet another good meal and retired to bed.

[Wowbagger]

Tuesday 5th April

Today was Crinkly Lion day. She joined us at our B & B ready for an early start for what we knew was to be the defining day of the entire ride. Today we would be tackling Fleet Moss.

The weather remained grey and the wind remained persistently westerly and nagging. We found our way very quickly and easily towards Penny Pot Lane, but then we began to climb. There was a gruelling sharp slog out of a stream valley and then it was head down, into the wind, up the slope towards the road works that told us that the road was closed. Steve GT had designed this route for us, and the consensus was that it was a considerable improvement over my first effort, which included an avoidable ascent of Greenhow Hill.



We passed Menwith Hill, with its mysterious hardware, and admired a few more wind turbines.



There was a suggestion that we stop for coffee but I preferred pressing on to lunch in Appletreewick, which was only three miles away, mostly downhill. I stopped at the first pub, the New Inn, and we had a pretty good meal, but Jo, a friend of Jeff's, had joined us from Pately Bridge and she opined that the second pub was by far the better. After lunch, Crinkly Lion had to make her departure, as at our pace she certainly would not have been able to get to Garsdale in time for the last train back to York.

Not long after lunch, our planned route took us through a small right turn and the fact that Annie, Jeff and Mick were not there waiting for us gave me some alarms. I didn't have paper maps with me and I was unaware that there was another route on the other side of the Wharfe. However, we had a massive climb ahead of us and I knew that we couldn't hang around. We actually made better progress than I expected and arrived in Grassington in time for a loo stop and a piece of the excellent chocolate and banana cake that CL had left with us. There was a coach parked nearby marked ELY. Most of the former occupants of the coach were milling around and I asked one of them if that was where they were from.

"King's Lynn," came the reply.

"Oh, we were there last week!"

"Did you come up here by train?"

"No, we cycled."

There was a look of incredulity on his face and I felt sure that the conversation was at an end but then "Oh, I suppose you would have had time, wouldn't you."

We pressed on reasonably steadily, but there was still no sign of the others, even though the opportunity to rejoin our route has presented itself. We passed through Conistone and at Kettlewell a tea room presented itself. We were ready for a cup and some carrot cake and enjoyed those, but still the others failed to appear. On we went to Buckden and a motorist stopped, asking if this was the right way to Grassington. I confirmed that it was and asked her if she had come over Fleet Moss.

"Yes," she said.

"What were the conditions like?"

"Absolutely dreadful. Thick fog, howling wind and pouring with rain."

"Have you seen any other cyclists?"

"Yes, a few."

"Did you see three together, a lady and two men, who looked as though they were old enough to know better?"

She smiled at that. "Yes," she said.

"Thanks."

Thus reassured, we continued on our way. It had never been particularly light today, but there was a definite hint that the sun was declining now. It wasn't actually raining, but there was an occasional horizontal fleck in the strenghening wind, and in the pit of my stomach a feeling of mounting excitement was making its presence felt. We were getting to the point that we could no longer ride as the steeper slopes approached and suddenly, through the gloom to my left, I heard a voice.

"Nearly there now!" said a man encouragingly, who had suddenly appeared from behind the 4*4 parked near a farm house.

I smiled in reply. The only thing I could think of saying was "Keep to the road!"

We had to have more and more frequent rests. During one of these, the Garmin's screen changed colour, telling me it was 7.50 and sunset. We still had a good deal of climbing left to do. The mist grew thicker and the wind stronger. Rain began falling more as a fret than in fat drops. The tandem was also heavier and I looked round to see the reason. Jan was having an asthma attack and was a few yards behind, struggling to keep up. I waited as she staggered onwards, appearing through the mist like a zombie in a third rate film, to catch up. We rested until her breathing had settled again. I changed the Garmin to altitude mode to find that we were only about 1700 feet up. I knew Fleet Moss was 1900 or more, so there was still a good deal of work to do. I wanted to use the remaining daylight to get to the top and then, hopefully, we would be able to freewheel down with the solidlights acting as our Phial of Galadriel, cutting its way through the murk. We took the remainder of the ascent gently. We couldn't see more than about 10 yards in front now, and still we climbed. The wind howled, turning the front wheel to the right so that I had to pull it back sharply. 1850 feet ... more climbing. We stopped for a drink and a rest, forward a few more paces, another rest, another push onwards.

At 1925 feet above sea level, the road levelled out and I thought about getting on and riding, but realised that it was impossible. My glasses were covered in mist droplets inside and out, the wind was trying to knock us over and there were warning signs about the steepness of the descent ahead. Even if I could see the road, I had no confidence that rim brakes, even with Swissstop Blue blocks fitted, would have the necessary stopping power in wet conditions like these. This was analogous to a game of chess in which, after the turbulence of the middle game, we had to nurse a tiny endgame advantage and one wrong move could ruin everything. We had to walk down hill.

Slowly the conditions improved. Firstly, the mist thinned a little and the wind dropped. I dried my glasses and found that they didn't instantly mist up again. The hill became less steep and we mounted the bicycle and freewheeled at about 12 mph. The brakes held us at that speed, but when the 20% hill arrived, we were off and walking again. It didn't last long and we soon remounted. After a few minutes of this the lights of a house appeared, then some trees, a street light and a sign saying we were entering Gayle. Now we could see the lights of Hawes below us and I felt more confident about allowing a bit more speed. It wasn't long before we were at the T junction and I could see the Crown Inn to our right. We stacked the tandem against the wall, walked into the bar and a hugely relieved and smiling Jeff leaped out of his seat to shake my hand in welcome

"Well, George," I said, "we knocked the bugger off!"

[Wowbagger]

Wednesday 6th April

The day dawned bright after heavy rain in the night. The bikes, though secure, were exposed to the elements and after breakfast we spend some time drying the saddles. We had decided to give Buttertubs a miss after the excitement of Fleet Moss the previous evening - thanks, Deano! Apparently Annie was getting close to calling the police to report us as missing persons.

We headed west on the A684, just for a change into a fierce headwind. After a short while a Scotsman astride a Sabbath pulled alongside. He asked how we got on with our Rohloff, what was the purpose of our tour, he gave some helpful advice about avoiding the west coast of Mull unless the weather was especially favourable. Eventually he and his wife disappeared into the distance.

The first few miles were very hard work. There were some steep climbs and every time we climbed a summit we were slapped in the face by the gale.



At least it was sunny and not too cold, we consoled ourselves. After a great deal of effort we reached the Moorcock Inn, which was closed. The other three were in the car park waiting for us as this was where we turned off towards Kirkby Stephen. It seemed like a good idea to share out Crinkly's cake form the day before, so we did that and there was a general consensus about its excellent quality. When we set off again the wind was not quite so unhelpful so we made better progress. When we stopped for a breather at the final summit at Ure Head (Wensleydale, apparently, used to be known as Uredale) a most welcome surprise awaited us: we could see the road snaking away downwards for miles ahead.

I think that this ride from Mallerstang towards Kirkby Stephen has to be my favourite of all the descents I've ridden. It's never a steep white-knuckle ride, but a long and gentle gradient enabling us to keep up a constant 20 or so mph for about 5 miles. The scenery is as good as anything you are likely to find and experiencing this on a fine, cool spring morning was a real awe and wonder moment.





Within minutes we were in Kirkby Stephen and ready for coffee. We enjoyed the detail on the sign post but were relieved that we didn't have to climb Nateby bank, as we had done so memorably in October 2008 when it snowed on us.



After leaving Kirkby Stephen we headed for Appleby-in-Westmorland with the River Eden to our right. This was considerably gentler riding than we had experienced for two or three days and the weather had definitely improved. The sun was warm and the wind had dropped.



The Pennines were still not far away and Cross Fell, their highest point, accompanied us for much of the pre-lunch session.







We eventually arrived in Appleby an found a café specialising in local produce. I opted for a sausage baguette with onion rings. Suitably fed, we continued our inexorably northward trajectory but took a short diversion, a mile or two before our B & B, to admire Long Meg

and her Daughters.


We arrived in Kirkoswald with the sun still high in the sky and were immensely surprised by the gradient of the high street and the even steeper gradient up to our B & B. The chap who greeted us was quite brazen: "We never tell prospective guests about how steep the hills are round here!"

We sorted our stuff out and then descended to the pub, the only one of the three in the village which was open. We had a pretty good meal, but it transpired that we were very lucky to have done so: normally Wednesday is a very quiet evening, but there were three parties totalling about 20 people crammed into what was not a very big bar. None of us had desserts because there weren't any.

[CrinklyLion]

Snap!


(from this RR last June!)

[bazzerp]

Thanks WowB - inspirational.

[Wowbagger]

Thursday 7th April

Here starteth the second week of our tour, and at some point today here endeth England!

I had blithely suggested to the others that today would probably be fairly easy - a quick run of 13 miles or so into Carlisle, then 30 or so in which we followed the fairly gentle B road out towards Dumfries, staying just north of the Solway Firth.

It was the first bit that was the mistake. I had no idea that the Eden had cut its way through such a lumpy area.







We had two upward chevrons in the first couple of miles that saw Jan and me walking, a downward chevron into Armathwaite, we chose a route diversion to keep close to the railway because we thought it would be flatter and eventually a bit of downhill into Carlisle itself. At one point around midday my phone rang. It was our B & B asking what time we would arrive.

We worked our way through Carlisle, looking for NCN 7. The last time we were here we had had to follow the A7 to Longtown and then take the B road to Gretna. Now the M6 had been extended and we had a lovely new road to follow, to the west of the M6. Imediately after crossing the Eden for the last time we found our way, above the cricket ground, and headed towards Scotland. After a mile or so we came to an abrupt halt by some major road engineering project. We had a conversation with a chap who happened to be out for a walk who assured us that there was no way through. I was still sceptical when a couple of engineer types appeared and confirmed that the cycle route was closed. There were no warning signs earlier and we mentioned this. "Oh, it's been well publicised in the local press." Great. Two or more miles of unnecessary cycling as we retraced our steps.

We carried along the A7 for a while and then turned off into a nasty industrial estate. Lunch was on our minds and we soon found a rather commercial looking establishment just across the road from the headquarters of Stobart Rail. They did a very good omelette at a reasonable price and we all felt ready to tackle Scotland. The new road followed the M6 pretty closely and eventually we emerged in Gretna and this sign. We'd been here before.



Our speed definitely increased through Eastriggs and Annan and we finally turned northwards, electing to brave the A75 for the last couple of miles into Dumfries rather than the quieter, longer way. The A road wasn't too bad whilst it was dual carriageway but when it became single carriageway, just before the town sign, it became pretty unpleasant, and too narrow for comfort.

We found our B & B quite easily, the Ferintosh, just behind the railway station, and were greeted by our bekilted landlord, one Robertson Wellen, a Canadian who had returned to his roots. We stored the bikes in the large shed at the back, were shown our rooms, and Jeff and I were delighted by the fact that each guest was provided with a complimentary Wee Dram in the room. The other three didn't drink whisky so the Tomintoul single malt had to be shared out between the two of us. We were recommended the Caven Arms as the only place worth eating and drinking in, and the food and ale were indeed first rate. I was engaged in conversation by some chaps who had seen us cycle in and they mentioned the fact that Robertson had some of his paintings displayed on the wall of the pub. We speculated that he might well have a finger in both pies, as it were, but good luck to him if he did. His B & B was first rate, and at £29 per night, with about £5 worth of single malt thrown in, that was exceptional value. The breakfast was also very good, but that, as they say, is for another day.

[Wowbagger]

Friday 8th April

We left the Ferintosh and my first priority was to take a prescription to the chemist's. I would need more methotrexate next week. Once that was sorted out, we crossed the Nith and took the right turn towards Kilmarnock. We weren't on this road very long, which was just as well because it was fairly busy, but the weather was perfect.

Almost immediately we happened upon some more standing stones, the Twelve Apostles.



Now we were off the A road, the traffic, and the dwellings, were very few and far between. Dumfries and Galloway, like Mid-Wales, is a wonderful part of the country that hardly anyone visits. I've forgotten who said this to me but I recall someone saying "I don't know why people go to the Lake District. It's so crowded. Why don't they just nip across the border into D & G and they've got a spare Lake District without any people in it?"

Although we were not in the Dumfries and Galloway Forest Park, to which I think that remark was referring, the countryside was still idyllic on a perfect spring morning.













When we reached Dunscore, there was a Tea Room with jam and scones. Somehow, Jeff managed to walk past a clock at a distance of several feet and it leaped off the wall at him.

We reached the A702, which was little more than a country lane, and in Moniaive we decided that we would buy a picnic lunch.





We ate our lunch on the edge of a pine forest



and Annie lost a fight with a bramble.



Jeff tried his hand at spinning wool.



After lunch we had a fair bit of climbing to do.



but descended towards the Water o' Ken, the river that feeds Loch Ken.



When we reached Carsphairn and the A713 we were again following a road we had used before, on LEJoG. There was a long, grinding climb ahead, but after that we remembered a fair bit of downhill. The problem was that, at Loch Muck, we crossed the border into Ayrshire. We had been warned four years ago, by our landlord at the Porridge House B & B, in St. John's Town o' Dalry, that the Ayrshire roads were very badly maintained and that the A713 was mostly used by "stick lorries", huge juggernauts laden with pine tree trunks from some forest being cleared. He was right. However, the differences were that on this occasion the roads had suffered four more winters' ravages and were absolutely dreadful, but thankfully the stick lorries were gone, presumably because all the trees had been cut down.

Just before Dalmellington we reached the downhill section and had a lovely swooping descent, and in a couple of places the road had been resurfaced. I had left a message on our landlady's answering machine that we wold probably arrive not much earlier than 8 p.m., but at around 6.30, still 8 miles out from Ayr, my phone rang. It was she, wondering where we were because we had originally suggested an arrival time of 6 p.m.

After a bit more climbing, and an increase in the amount of traffic, we descended rapidly into Ayr and, with some difficulty, located the B & B. Although I was using the Garmin, I had foolishly omitted to mark each B & B on it. In this case our bed for the night was mid-way between the race course and the football ground. As luck would have it I didn't try to book accommodation here the following weekend as if I had we would have been competing for space with the Scottish Grand National.

We parked the bikes in a spacious garage and, after a shower, walked into the town for food. We couldn't find anywhere decent to eat, but instead found an eatery (I won't grace it with the term "restaurant") called the Tree House. We mostly opted or fish an chips and the chips arrived in a cup, the fish was in small bits and the loud music blaring forth made conversation impossible. The beer wasn't up to much either. We got a taxi back.

[Wowbagger]

Saturday 9th April

Today, I felt the real purpose of the holiday started: we were going to be doing fewer miles per day in better countryside than hitherto, and we would be able to enjoy doing a few holidayish things, and not slog ourway across 50+ miles of terrain just to get to a B & B, shower, eat, and flop exhausted into bed. However, the first stage of that was getting to Ardossan, 24 miles up the coast, for the 12.30 ferry to Brodick.



We had to cycle reasonably quickly through a fairly circuitous route for this. We were mostly following NCN 7, which wove its way amongst the golf courses, not least of which was Troon.





Sometimes we were on the road, at others on purpose-bult cycle lane. At one stage, our path was blocked by some road works, and, just as near Carlisle a couple of days previously, no account had been taken of any cyclists who might actually be using the route that day and who might benefit from some prior information about diversions. On another occasion we became separated, Jan and I, for a change, being in front. We had a phone call from Annie to try to establish which way they should go, but imagine our surprise when, in a housing estate on the outskirts of Troon Toon, we met them coming the other way.

Shortly after Stevenston, we found that the path had been recently resurfaced as it went through a park, and for half a mile or so we were treated to something which rivalled the greens on the golf courses in terms of its silkiness. Then we were dumped back onto the horrendous, rutted surface for which we have come to remember Ayrshire's roads. We made it to the ferry with time to spare, I bought some "Island Hopper" tickets and on we went to enjoy the almost-an-hour crossing to Brodick. There was cake.



Then we went onto the deck to watch the island getting closer.





On our arrival we decided we'd raid the Co-op for our lunch and then we headed out on the northbound road and at a suitable point stopped for a bite to eat. We found an attractive little jetty with nowhere to stack the bikes, so we made a sculpture.



Annie and I were discussing the possibility of skinny dipping, the weather was so warm, but we tested the water and decided that it was Not Wise.



There were some red-breasted mergansers indulging in a little courtship display.



Eventually we left the coast and began the climb.



We had ridden this road four years ago and had had to walk up a good deal of the longer climb, even though it is not especially steep, boasting no chevrons on the eastern side. It rises to about 600' before plummeting down much more steeply towards Lochranza. This time we reached the summit without dismounting and achieved 41.8 mph on the descent, the fastest of the entire tour.







We found the Lochranza Hotel, had a beer or two at £4.20 per bottle, bathed, dressed, Jan found that there was no hot water left, she waited for the tank to warm again, and then we descended to the bar for a pretty good meal and more beer, although there had been such a run on the venison pie that the chef had run out of pastry and the causes of pastry.

After everyone else had retired I decided I'd go for a stroll. There were no street lights in Lochranza, even though there were quite a few houses. I walked onto the castle peninsula and I suddenly detected that I was being watched. I could also smell those that were watching me: deer! I had the camera and took a few photographs, but even though I could see the deer when the flash went off, all the camera could detect was eyes.







Spooky!

[Wowbagger]

Sunday 10th April

Today was again beset with gorgeous sunshine. We only had a little over 30 miles to cycle today, so we were content to have a lazy morning, which involved a later than usual breakfast and a ride back up the road for a mile or so to the Arran Distillery, during which Jan, Jeff, Annie and I went for a tour. Mick didn't come - he can't stand the smell of the fermentation process, apparently. Arran Whisky - Age Verification refers, but in a nutshell, Arran is the best whisky in Scotland. We were told this on the tour, so it must be true. It's made from the best water in Scotland, and this was verified by some University-based research, and this must be true because we were told this on the tour. Arran is one of the newer distilleries, having been opened in 1997. It's not surprising, then, that the oldest whisky on their books is a 14-year-old. Because it was before 12.30 and a Sunday, it seemed that licensing laws prohibit the sales of whisky. The guide liked my idea of getting round this problem by increasing the entry fee to cover the cost of a free bottle, but offering refunds to people who didn't want one. We did a good bit of sampling afterwards, and this included tasting a dairy-based liqueur named Arran Gold. The consensus was that this was much better than Bailey's. Jeff and I partook of a couple of drams and we both rated Arran whisky very highly.

Before catching the midday ferry, we bought our lunch form the sandwich shop across the road.



Tandem waiting for a ferry.

On reaching Cloanaig, there was no choice but a significant climb unless we wanted to add about 80 miles to our journey by visiting Southend. On this climb four years ago, we stopped for lunch in a gateway and then heard a cuckoo, but that was a week or so later in the year. Today we enjoyed the sunshine, the willow warblers and the chiffchaffs. We had to walk for a brief stretch, but, like the Arran climb of yesterday, it seemed less difficult than we had remembered it. We hurtled down to the A road and then it was mostly fairly easy cycling. The traffic was a lot heavier than we had become accustomed to, but it was still just the occasional car or small convoy, then minutes on end when it was just us.

After a while we reached Tarbert, and it was just as sunny and pleasant as the last time we were here.





There was a tea room so we had tea and cake. After that we climbed the hill out of the village, which again was less irksome than I remembered it, and had a gorgeous ride towards Lochgilphead with the sea on our right, stopping occasionally to admire the view or to have a closer look at some wildlife which had caught our attention.



After Lochgilphead, we left the sea behind but didn't climb much until just before Kilmartin, and the final slog up to the B & B almost defeated us. Jan and I had stayed here 4 years ago, but the landlady could not remember us. Our room was festooned with teddy bears, who seemed to have been breeding rapidly since our last visit. As usual, we retired to the pub for dinner (I had duck) before retiring to bed for the night.

[Wowbagger]

Monday 11th April

Today, the weather changed, as had been forecast and as we had felt last night. The lovely warm weather had been swept southeastwards and a colder, blustery, showery airstream had moved in from the Atlantic. There had been rain in the night, but, charmed as we were, this stopped shortly after 9 a.m. and we set off for Oban and the ferry to Mull. The distance was rather short of 30 miles and we predicted confidently that we would have plenty of time to catch the 2 p.m. ferry.

The first half of the ride involved a great deal of climbing and, again, heavier traffic than we were used to, and a few times we had to walk. It was blustery, we had had to dress more for winter than summer, and we found more and more as the journey went on that we were not at our best straight after breakfast.

Four years ago, we missed out Oban and opted for an even more lunatic climb along a minor road beside the aptly named Loch Awe. On that occasion we saw ospreys and an eagle, as well as the Geordie Chapter of Hells Angels, but today we just wanted to get onto Mull. Even so, after much sloggage and puffing, we'd only covered about 15 miles in the first three hours. Although we hadn't booked a ferry, we didn't want to arrive just after one had gone else we would be stuck for 2 hours waiting for the next one.

A couple of times it rained, and we had to stop to don our waterproofs, but when the sun emerged and we started climbing again, we were too hot. Just after one particularly long and rapid descent, in which we dropped about 600 feet in about a mile and a half, we met a couple of other heavily-laden cyclists coming the other way. We didn't stop to chat because we were doing about 35 mph at the time and they were about to embark on the first real slog of the climb, but we exchanged cheerful, windswept, rainsoaked grins.

After Kilmelford, we had another climb, but nothing like so tough as the first, and then a fairly long loch-side stretch in which we were able to keep up 15 mph. One more climb, up to about 330 feet, then it was the descent into Oban, where Jeff had already bought the ferry tickets, and we arrived a few seconds before cyclists were invited on board. None of us ventured onto the deck this time, preferring to shelter in the warm and eat our lunch.

On arrival at Craignure, there was a small map-reading error: Jeff had looked for the B & B simply by searching for its postcode in streetmap.co.uk so we solemnly set off in the wrong direction and had gone nearly a mile before we found someone to ask and they pointed out that Linnhe View guest house was about 150 yards the other side of the ferry terminal. There was no reply to our insistent knocking, so we went next door but one to the coffee shop, had some coffee and a scone, and a little while later thee B & B's phone was answered. We were admitted, stored the bikes in a shed round the back, and were shown to our rooms by our Zimbabwean landlady. We had a fair bit of time before we felt it appropriate to eat, so we sorted out some stuff and I spent a fair bit if time just looking across the water through my binoculars.



At one point I was joined by a forlorn queen wasp looking for somewhere warm and out of the wind



and when I'd finished I closed the sash windows as gently as possible so that she should have a chance of escape. It was remarkable how quickly she zoomed off from a hitherto seemingly comatose state once the woodwork started to push her out the way.

We had a stroll near the railway station (yes, Mull has a diminutive amount of railway) before settling in the rather compact pub for our dinner. Mostly we seemed to choose burgers today, and since it was Monday, and methotrexate day, I opted for Beck's Blue, and it was quite a relief to realise that there wasn't anything decent to drink in the way of beer anyway. We also took part in the pub quiz, finishing 3rd, I think. I managed to answer correctly a televisually-related question (Who was the first actor to play "Minder"?) which was pretty remarkable because I never ever watched the programme, and ribbed the quiz master when the question "Which premiership side plays at White Hart Lane?" was asked. "All of them, at least once a season!" I heckled, and received a "there's always one, isn't there?" kind of look while he patiently explained that he wanted the name of the team whose home ground it was. I knew that too.

We slept fairly well in a pretty cold bedroom: the landlady had already said she was trying to avoid putting the heading on because of the price of oil. I thought that this showed remarkable fortitude for someone who had spent nearly all her life in Zimbabwe.

[Wowbagger]

Tuesday 12th April

We had hoped for a pleasant spring day today, but it looked as though we weren't going to get one: a stiff westerly with squally showers seemed to be on the cards, improving in the afternoon. We could make today just 21 miles, from Craignure to Tobermory, but this was part of the built-in slack when I first sorted out the route and booked the B & Bs. However, we had hoped to take the longer route, around the west coast of Mull, but shortly after setting off we were beset by wind, rain and hail. My hands, in just my mitts, instantly froze, so we found what shelter we could under some birch trees, I hunted for a pair of Thinsulate gloves form the bottom of my bag, and we decided that the west coast road was not for us.



It has been an ambition of several of us to see a wild otter, and this morning that wish was in part realised, but sadly it was just roadkill. A couple of hundred yards further on was a red deer stag which had met a similar fate. He looked very fresh, not even having been rained on, and I would have expected someone to come and take his carcass away to be turned into venison. Wicked waste if they didn't.

We met some cattle, of varying ages, sizes and conditions of hirsuteness.





This chap tried to bellow at us, but since he was a little hoarse, he lost it on the high notes.



While we were drinking coffee, the heavens opened again and we were pleased we were inside, although the tandem's saddles needed mopping before we continued.

As we cycled, making reasonable progress, a plan started to form in my brain. We should be at Tobermory by 1 p.m. at the latest. Depending on ferry crossings, we could perhaps knock off Ardnamurcan Point this afternoon, and reduce to a mere 20 miles tomorrow's journey, the first of two days' cycling back to Fort William, when the forecast was even worse than for today. When we were in Salen, drinking coffee and eating cake, I discussed this with the others, checked the ferry times, discovered that it would work well, and phoned tonight's landlady in Tobermory to see if it was OK for us to drop the luggage of so that we should have a lighter ride this afternoon. So, at 1 p.m. we dropped the luggage off, bought some sandwiches for lunch, sorted out the tickets, checked the last return ferry time (7.15) and off we went.

The Garmin suggested that the ride out from Kilchoan to Ardnamurchan point was relatively flat. It was lying. The road never got particularly high, but there was an awful lot of up and down, and we had to walk on a few occasions.





The road was single track, the countryside was probably the most remote and wild I had experienced, but there were a few cars around, mostly behaving well. At one point, a black Jaguar stopped in a passing place and the other three got through, but shortly before we arrived the driver decided to pull out and block the road. There wasn't enough room for me to squeeze through, so I told him he would have to go back as I couldn't get through. He just smirked, having blocked our way deliberately, out of sheer pettiness, so I held my ground and after a few seconds his smirk was replaced by a peevish thin-lipped scowl, he rammed his car into reverse gear and sped back into the passing place.

"Thank you!", I said, lacing the words with as much irony as I could muster. I was just past him when I heard his retort, in a whining SE England accent.

"Pay yer tax next time!"

There was a short causeway towards the visitors' centre, controlled by Britain's most westerly set of traffic lights. As a cyclist, and after the encounter with the jag driver, I almost felt obliged to jump them, but decorum prevailed and we waited patiently until green appeared.









Just before we returned to the ferry, we caught up with the others. Annie and Jeff were walking. Annie had had our only puncture of the trip and of course she had left her spares with her luggage at the B & B. Fortunately I had the necessary patches and glue, so we fixed it in plenty of time for the ferry, but even if I hadn't there would only have been a walk from the ferry up the hill to the B & B.



On our return to Tobermory, so the heavens opened once again. The B & B was quite some way up the hill so we found an excellent café, the Cafe Fish, right on the quayside, in the same building from which the ferry operated and a candidate, it seemed, for Egon Ronay Restaurant of the Year 2011. We enjoyed a splendid meal celebrating an achievement which had looked to be very unlikely, for me at least, only a week or two before we set off. The others had never undertaken a trip as ambitious as this, and Annie admitted, now that we had achieved our aim, how in the early days of the ride she thought we'd never get here. The only longer cycle ride Jan and I had done had been LEJoG itself. None of us had had sufficient cycling before we set off, so we were happy to say the least.

When we finished eating, we set off down the stairs behind the restaurant and I missed the bottom step, landing in a heap with my left leg crumpled under me. The pain in my knee was excruciating and I somehow staggered to my feet, but walking unaided was out of the question. We had about half a mile of steep hill to do, but we had had the foresight to bring a tandem with us for me to lean on. We slowly climbed the hill, returned to the B & B and received the sympathy of our landlady. Then we went to bed and I tried to sleep.

[Wowbagger]

Wednesday 13th April - Saturday 16th April - the return journey.

I slept very badly that night, my knee sending shooting pains right up my leg every time I tried to move it. I was aware that pain always seems worse at night, and felt illogically confident that, once on the tandem, a few turns of the pedals and I'd be OK. That thought was dispelled fairly early when I got out of bed and couldn't put any weight on my leg. Leaning on furniture, I struggled to breakfast. The landlady at Castle Croft, Heather, was absolutely fantastic. She couldn't leave the B & B so she gave Jeff the keys to her jeep and told him to take me up to the NHS drop-in centre. I waited for a while and was seen by a doctor who thought that I had damaged ligaments and possibly cartilage as well. She gave me a crutch, an elastic Legg-Bandage and a prescription for strong pain killers. We went back to the B & B, dumped off the jeep and were told to hurry to the chemist's because it shuts at one.

The doctor had put the Castle Croft address on the prescription.

"Ah, you've been staying with Auntie Heather!" remarked the pharmacist as he stuck a label on a box of co-codamol.

I clearly couldn't ride, and for Jan to try to ride the tandem solo, never having done it before, was not a good plan. It is most unwieldy when heavily laden, swaying from side to side, but when a stoker was perched on top that swaying suddenly stopped.

There were several avenues to be explored with regard to getting the tandem home. After a bit of phoning around from the Tourist Info office, who were very helpful, we persuaded the bus driver to take it in the hold back to Craignure, and he was very obliging. We caught the ferry back to Oban and on arrival I found the Western Highland bus office near the harbour and spoke to the lady in there. The next bus to Fort William was more than 2 hours away and she telephoned the driver, explained that I was on crutches, and when the bus arrived the driver himself put the tandem in the hold for us. The B & B we had booked for Thursday night, the Guisachan, arranged an extra night for us and shuffled things so that we had a room on the ground floor. They were most helpful. We arrived in Fort William and sat it out while the other three rode for a couple of days to catch up with us.

On the Thursday night we all went to the Grog and Gruel in Fort Wiliam High Street, which is a marvellous real ale pub with excellent food, and had our final meal of the holiday. I had deliberately not taken any co-codamol so that I could anaesthetise my leg with Suilven bitter and Black Cuillin ale instead.

And if things could get worse, they did. We had a nasty, squalid, crowded train from Fort William to Glasgow making what should have been a fantastic trip on what must be one of the most scenic train rides in the world a totally unpleasant experience, ameliorated by the fact that Jeff had bought a bottle of Arran 10-year-old single malt in Fort William and he handed me a dram. For the last hour of this 3 hour 50 minute train ride, the queue for the bog must have been 10 deep.

We parted company with Jeff and Mick, who were heading for Liverpool, whereas we other three were heading for Southend. Then, trying to juggle my crutch (oo-err missus), a tandem and a pile of luggage to the Edinburgh-bound train (it was much cheaper to get home via Edinburgh and King's Cross than straight from Glasgow via Euston) I lost the tickets. We discovered this on the Edinburgh bound train and the guard on that train was very understanding. I told him we'd lost the London-bound tickets as well and he advised speaking to the East Coast ticket office. "If you bought them on-line they are sure to have a record of them on their system," and he didn't mention charging us extra for his train.

I didn't have the confidence that the people in the ticket office would be as sympathetic as he thought they would. They did indeed have a record of our tickets, who had bought them, where, and they were kind enough to tell us what our reservations were so that we wouldn't have to stand all the way back to London, but they wouldn't let us on the train unless we bought new tickets. "It's agreed ATOC (Association of Train Operating Companies) policy" said an irritatingly smug woman. So with gritted teeth I handed over my credit card and paid £302.20 to replace the lost tickets which cost me £43.90.

Of course, with the tickets went the cycle reservations, so the guard of this new train had the right to refuse us entry because we no longer had cycle reservations. Fortunately he was very reasonable else my crutch could well have been used for a purpose the NHS never intended. We found our seats and I waited for the ticket person to come and inspect our tickets, which were printed with the lie "Supersaver", hoping that they wouldn't so that I could claim them back as unused. Of course, just before Newcastle she appeared.

"Tickets please!"

"Tell me please: what's your company policy where a passenger has lost his ticket?"

"We charge the full single fare."

"Do you have access to the East Coast computer system?"

"No."

I reluctantly showed her our tickets and she covered them in pen markings so that I could not reclaim my £302.20.

"Why do you have such a policy when our tickets were seat and train specific and non-refundable? They could only have been used for this train and there's no-one else here claiming the right to sit in these seats."

"It's to stop ticket fraud and protect the innocent passenger from ticket theft." (she failed to see irony in this when the innocent passenger was paying an extra £302.20 for this valuable protection) "Although they are not refundable, anyone finding those tickets could have exchanged them for a similar future journey on this line right up to 1 minute before this train went."

"Well, they certainly hadn't when I bought these replacements at 12 minutes to 5, and at that point I told your colleague in the ticket office that the originals were lost. That should stop anyone from cashing those ticket in, surely? There's no possibility of fraud, is there?"

"Well, that's company policy."

So there you have it. It's fraud if I get on a train without a ticket, but it's company policy when a train company knowingly sells a seat twice to the same person.

However, our journey was about to get a lot more interesting, for a given value of interesting. We were just approaching Newcastle when there was a muffled announcement which I didn't catch.

"It's something to do with problems near Peterborough, Newark and Retford," Jan told me.

Then "We will shortly be arriving in Newcastle, where this train has been cancelled and will terminate. All change please and cross the platform to the waiting train which is due to leave shortly!"

So we had to make our way from coach F, all the way back to the Guard's Van (Coach P), retrieve the bikes (the tandem was in 2 pieces) and get all this luggage to the front of the other train, some 200 yards away, in the space of a few minutes.

"You might as well not bother," explained a helpful platform manager, "That train's guard's van's faulty and the door won't open. You won't get your bikes in. You'll have to wait for the 2030 train instead."

This gave us a significant problem. The 2030 was not due in London until 5 past midnight and we had to get to Lpoo St to catch a Southend-bound train, and we would miss the last one. On the advice of the helpful platform manager I left the ladies with the luggage and the bikes and made my way over the ramps to sort out this problem. "Do you have through tickets to Southend?" My heart sank. I could, and should, have replaced the tickets straight through but I was not, as they say, thinking straight. I had only booked to King's Cross and as I understood it I was being told that the East Coast's duty of care extended to the point that my ticket ran out and not for our intended journey. "Yes" I lied, "I've got through tickets to Southend."

Arrangements were being made for taxis to meet us at Kings Cross and take us to Southend. We sat in a waiting room to while away some of the two hours or so before our train was due. At around 8.15 we started to arrange the bikes and luggage where we expected the guard's van to be and, wonder of wonders, it turned up in about the right place. We put the tandem on, Annie's bike, and left as much luggage as we could in the guard's van, and made our way to any vacant seat. There were some vague announcements about the crew for this train being delayed so we sat. Eventually a new voice was heard over the PA system, apologising for the delay to the crew, who had been on another train being delayed by whatever was delaying us now. The driver was taking his statutory 15 minute break and we expected to be away by 9 p.m., eta in London 12.30.

As we gradually headed southwards, we waved to the signal box where we had had a cup of tea all those hundreds of miles ago, but we couldn't see our friend, partly because he wasn't on duty anyway, and also because we were travelling at about 100 mph at the time. We stopped at Darlington and York, so the numbers on the train thinned out. We stopped for a period at Doncaster and a catering crew joined the train. Thank the lord! Coffee and cake! Then we approached Retford, one of the places where there were signal failures. In my head I heard a voice: "Withaht meaning to be p'litically incorrect, it's the Gippos nicking the copper again!". The train stopped. Annie found a dilapidated copy of the Sun.

"Shall we do a crossword?"

"OK."

The train hadn't moved.

"What about Sudoko?"

"You do that if you like."

I completed a sudoku puzzle satisfactorily. The catering crew were, by this time, giving out free drinks and cake. Even this train was now about 2 hours late, and apparently this is a condition of travel. I went to the loo. The paper ran out and I had to finish off with paper towels. Thank god it wasn't an electric hand drier. There was still soap and water in the machine.

Every so often the the garmin told us that we were moving at about 1.7 mph. It was so dark outside that we couldn't tell. We were being taken through the signal-less area at "emergency speed". There were trains queuing up in front of us. Occasionally, a train would go the other way. How late into the night do these trains run?

After an aeon, our train lurched into life and we started moving at about 20 mph. Then we stopped, and started again. This went on for a while until eventually our speed increased to about 100 mph.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to apologise for the continued delay to this service and this unscheduled stop at Hitchin. The driver has just encountered an unexpected red signal."

When the announcement came that we were shortly to arrive in King's Cross, we walked through the first class carriages towards the tandem and the luggage. Incredibly, they were empty when previously they had been full of passengers. How had they escaped? I had visions of them doing a back-flip, whistling "The Star-spangled Banner" and shouting "So long, and thanks for all the free coffee and cake!"

It was 3 a.m. and there was a man at King's Cross who had clearly been trained in Jolliness and Managing Passengers Whose Train Was So Late That They Were In Danger Of Passing Out. He herded everyone together and they all marched off, leaving me behind just as the Pied Piper had done with the small crippled boy, only he didn't have the back half of a tandem in his other hand. Lucky bastard. We found a fleet of waiting coaches and taxis. Those who were heading for airports were herded into coaches. A couple of people, one of them a Jewish gentleman to judge by his dress, were heading for West London. "Have you had a good day?" our Specially Trained Kings Cross man asked him. It was a bit like asking Mrs. Lincoln if, apart from that, she had enjoyed the play. His response was amazingly restrained.

Eventually, we found ourselves in one taxi and the bikes in another and we headed off, arriving in Southend at 4.40 a.m., exactly 17 hours after our train had pulled out of Fort William.

[Canardly]

Despite your horrific homeward journey WB makes riveting reading and you seem to have had some really good days and provides the rest of us with loads of tips as to how to do things.

Seems to me despite the rhetoric rails services in the UK are dire and particularly dire for the cyclist.

[Wowbagger]

Despite your horrific homeward journey WB makes riveting reading and you seem to have had some really good days and provides the rest of us with loads of tips as to how to do things.

Seems to me despite the rhetoric rails services in the UK are dire and particularly dire for the cyclist.

Just like everything else, they are good in parts. A pal of mine, as part of his ambition to explore the shipping forecast, visited Cromarty and Stornoway recently. He returned on a day-time train from Edinburgh and the door-to-door time was 6 hours 10 minutes - to Southend.

My future trips form Ft. Bill. will be on the sleeper. I really wanted to see the mountains in daylight. I innocently failed to realise that Scotrail would provide a 2-coach train for 100 people, to the extend that I was crammed in an "airline" seat for 4 hours, apart from two visits to the bog. Everyone had heaps of luggage so all the racks were filled and people were travelling with luggage on their laps.

The sleeper wasn't perfect (we used it last year), but for £49 each we got all the way back to London with plenty of space: our private cabin and a proper lounge with armchairs and a bar. The only drawback was a party of drunken Scotsmen who kept us awake a lot of the night. They were jovial, but noisy.

[teethgrinder]

My future trips form Ft. Bill. will be on the sleeper. I really wanted to see the mountains in daylight.

For viewing the mountains, I'd recommend cycling.

Thanks for the read Wowbagger. You're an inspiration to me. I hope the leg heals fast.

[Wowbagger]

My future trips form Ft. Bill. will be on the sleeper. I really wanted to see the mountains in daylight.

For viewing the mountains, I'd recommend cycling.

Thanks for the read Wowbagger. You're an inspiration to me. I hope the leg heals fast.

Thanks, Steve. Most gratifying for you to say so.

[Auntie Helen]

A good read as always!

[Morrisette]

Well that livened up a boring day in, ahem, the office  A very impressive ride!!

Wow, I think you should be able to get your money back on those train tickets through 'Delay Repay', or at least your money in the form of train vouchers. Obviously, claim on the 300-quid ones rather than the lost cheapie ones. I have a whole collection of vouchers, as those famous 'conditions of carriage' that they are all so fond of quoting when it means you have to spend loads of money, also mean that you should get compensation if the train is delayed. NXEA's policy is supposedly 50% of the ticket for 30 minutes and 100% for over 60 minutes (though in truth they don't give you that much any more).

In the past I have got 120 quid out of them for cancelling the first 20 minute part of a four hour journey to Cardiff. Free travel to a few WARTY rides if you managed that!