Two pints of ale and a third of a JogLe please barman.

[toekneep]

Freckleton Edinburgh Freckleton

Day 1: Edinburgh to Dunbar 38 miles

Four forty five am and I fumbled with the alarm in grumpy confusion. My brain cleared, and I was immediately engulfed by feelings of excited anticipation. It was the first day of our holiday and I stumbled out of bed, impatient to get started on our latest adventure. An hour later and we wheeled the already loaded bikes from the garage and added last minute items to the bags. I took a quick photo in the half light, just for the record, loaded the water bottles and we were on the road.

It isn’t often that you can listen to the dawn chorus as you pedal along the dual carriageway towards Preston, blissfully free of speeding cars. It was a glorious spring day with hardly a breath of wind and a light cool mist hugged the fields. After eight miles the one way system around the station compelled us to walk a short distance before we could remount and glide smugly into the station concourse while most of the city was still snoozing.



Arriving in Preston 6.30am

The plan was to ride back home from Edinburgh over nine days, zig zagging across the country to fill the time rather than taking the most direct route home. Whilst people stared at us in our cycling gear, wondering perhaps if we were really sane, we watched a group of teenagers returning from an all night party. The boys, scruffy and dishevelled, the girls carrying their impossibly high heeled shoes and wobbling barefooted and still tipsy to catch the first train home. An adventure of their own, no doubt.

After loading the bikes on the train we ignored our reserved seats and chose to stay close to our precious steeds and sat there, grinning from ear to ear like a couple of kids let out from school early. We were flying through our regular Lancashire cycling territory, picking out familiar landmarks and seeing our routes from a new perspective. The gloom came down as we passed through The Lake District but as we sped further north the sun reappeared and we were looking forward to a great start to this ride. Our thoughts were rudely interrupted as the train lurched around a right hand bend and the bikes went crashing across the carriage. There was a moment of anxiety as we righted them and checked for damage but all seemed well and we re-secured them and returned to our seats. No harm done.

Nine fifteen and after spending a penny, well thirty pennies actually, we wandered around Edinburgh station trying to find the right way out. We finally spotted a road that I could locate on the street map attached to my bar bag and we wobbled out of the station, unaccustomed to the heavy panniers and camping kit on the bikes. I like cities in the right circumstances but they don’t sit comfortably with cycle touring for me so we had agreed beforehand that we wouldn’t spend time looking around. Thanks to helpful directions from friends we were through Holyrood Park and out of the east side of the city in no time. Catching a first glimpse of the sea as we pulled up at traffic lights suggested that a right turn would take us south east along the coast but only after a runner had kindly stopped to check that we didn’t need assistance. There is nothing like a kindly act to leave you with a positive impression so Edinburgh gets the thumbs up, cobbled streets, 30p toilets and all.

The coast stretched out ahead of us providing tantalising glimpses of what we had to look forward too as the day unfolded but we only had thoughts for one thing, breakfast. The forecast for the day was for heavy rain moving in from the west and looking over our shoulders the sky suggested it was right for once. We stopped in Mussleborough at a scruffy café as the first raindrops fell and we were soon slurping mugs of tea and tucking into the first bacon barm of the trip.



Mussleborough harbour

Back outside we donned our waterproof jackets, hats, gloves and complicated but effective Rainlegs as a table of smokers sitting outside the café tried hard not to stare and we tried to hard to appear normal. As it turned out we were pessimistic and we were soon stopped in a car park reversing the whole procedure. The wind was mostly on our backs and we bowled along enjoying lovely scenery and passing previously glimpsed landmarks that had seemed impossibly far away earlier in the morning. Just as I was thinking how lucky we were with the weather, in the face of the forecast, I glanced over my right shoulder and saw that depressing sight of a wall of rain in the distance, rapidly heading our way. This was no shower from the looks of things so we stopped in the shelter of a hedge and togged up once again. No mistakes this time, we were almost immediately engulfed by the rain and with the wind now on our side the nature of the ride changed totally. Gill was suffering from a bad cold and wasn’t up to par by any means so we set Dunbar as our goal for the day, a little short of my original plan but plans are there for changing. After calling at the TIC and locating a suitable campsite our thoughts turned to sustenance. There were several false starts, “kitchen’s just closed”, “sorry the chef is off”, “no food on Fridays”, etc. but we were finally directed to the “Volly” which turned out to be The Volunteers and jolly nice it was too. A pint of Trio ale and a bowl of Sea Food Chowder restored the spirits even if they did nothing to dry our clothing. Hoping the rain would clear I made the excuse that I really ought to try a half of Lia Fail bitter. It means Stone of Destiny in Gaelic, quite appropriate with our destiny over the next nine days in the lap of Gods. I didn’t like it very much.

The sun was out when we left the pub, don’t you just love it when that happens, and after a quick peek at the harbour we took the coastal road back to the campsite. The views were spectacular with Bass rock sticking out of the sea like a giant Christmas pudding. (don’t eat that white sauce, it’s not what it looks like).





Dunbar harbour and Bass Rock

The campsite was perfect with first rate facilities and a nice quiet spot for tents away from the static vans and house sized motor homes. Pitching the tent on the first night is always a pleasure and we fell effortlessly into the routine. Tent up, unpack Thermarests and sleeping bags, stove out and brew on, finish unpacking, make tea, sit and enjoy. Bliss. As we left the campsite the next morning we chatted to a car camper and he made my day by telling me he had watched us put up the tent and said to his wife, “you can tell they’ve done that a few times”.

As we wandered around Dunbar in the evening I couldn’t quite remember why John Muir was so familiar to me. He was born there apparently, but that didn’t ring any bells and the information on the base of his statue didn’t give much away. It was only after looking him up later that it all came flooding back, The John Muir trail in America and his links with the Sierra Club were topics I was enthralled by as a dreaming youthful backpacker but it seems that age is addling my memory. Or then again, it could be the Lia Fail. We called into The Mason’s Arms by the Bellhaven brewery on the way back to the campsite and discovered Stan the barman. Never was a man more proud of his perfectly kept real ales and my willpower simply evaporated faster than the beer went down. Shame on me.



Gill enjoyed a glass of wine and a comfy chair and waited patiently for me.

[Ariadne]

Great report! Can't wait to read the rest.

I was alarmed to find the route I gave you was blocked, though - the crossing over the main road (I'm hoping you'll know where I mean!) just before Portobello was closed, when I was there at the weekend, and Jason told me it has been for a few weeks. Sorry!

[toekneep]

Day two: Dunbar to Town Yetholm. 59 miles

About a mile south east of Dunbar a small metalled road peels off to the left and takes you around the coast. This was my preferred route but being marked on the OS map as unclassified we had no idea what to expect. What we got, in order of arrival were; stunning views on perfect traffic free tarmacadam, a dirt track that was unridable, helpful local knowledge from a dog walker assuring us that we would only have to walk about half a mile, and a close up view of the biggest cement works and quarry I have ever seen. We were deposited back onto a metalled, but closed road, which was lovely but lulled us into a false sense of security before it joined the A1.



Part of the huge cement works near Dunbar

To be fair, although the traffic on the A1 was very fast we were mostly given plenty of room and after a couple of miles we were able to escape and put the enormous Torness power station behind us and join the much more sedate ‘old’ A1. I could imagine motorists of a bygone era pootling along here on the second day of their journey from London to Edinburgh having enjoyed a very civilized overnight stay in York.

As for us, we might have been travelling slowly but the day was warming up and it was time to expose legs and arms and pretend it was summer. A timely change as it happened. The road dropped suddenly to a ford by a caravan park and then shot back up the cliffs, chevrons and all, to put us to the test for the first time on the trip. Poor Gill was really struggling with her cold and had to stop several time to redress the snot, oxygen imbalance. For all we might grimace at these short but brutal climbs it never fails to thrill me when you look back after only ten minutes effort to see the amazing amount of height you have gained and the views that have opened up. The the ugly cement works and power station we had passed earlier at least served the purpose of distance markers and gave us the feeling that we were making good progress. We took one long lingering look back at the Firth of Forth and then focussed our minds on the road ahead and breakfast.

You win some, you lose some and in Coldingham, after twenty five early morning miles we lost some. The only place serving food was a pub and the best they could offer was chocolate muffins and tea. Not really the breakfast we were looking for but it would suffice. As we contemplated the rest of our day’s riding a group of golfers came in, hell bent on a day’s drinking. They were friendly enough but I was happier to meet them at eleven in the morning rather than eleven at night, goodness knows what state they were going to be in.

The terrain turned hilly as we turned south and Gill was really suffering so we determined to make it a short day and aim for Coldstream about twenty miles further on. There was a campsite marked by the river and the town looked plenty big enough to offer all the facilities we would require. The roller coaster ride was hard, the downs never seeming to give quite enough momentum for the ups and whilst the scenery was pleasant enough that’s all it was, just pleasant.



Pleasant scenery

Each time the route took us south east we got a taste of what was to come as the brisk south westerly winds struck us full in the face. We were looking forward to a drink and a rest at Allanton but the pub was closed with a cryptic message pinned to the door. “April 18th: Would all guests please knock on the door on arrival”. It was May 2nd.

We deviated to Swinton (no not that one) and had a superb lunch in a posh gastro type pub. The balsamic vinegar dressing on the salad was so yummy we actually asked for the recipe. As it turned out it was simply very good quality thyme flavoured balsamic with olive oil and salt but it tasted divine.

And so began one of those days. We arrived in Coldstream to find the campsite had closed two years ago. After a few moments of real disappointment Gill suggested we go on to Kelso, ten miles to the west. It turned out to be a delightful ride in late afternoon sunshine and along the banks of the Tweed, famous for fishing around the world but more of that in a moment. Despite a bit of a headwind it didn’t take long to get there and it looked like an attractive bustling small town with cobbled streets and an imposing town hall complete with TIC.



The rather splendid TIC in Kelso

This would do us fine so I went into the TIC to ask for directions to the campsite. “They don’t take tents I’m afraid,” was the reply. It took us two seconds to decide we would B&B and a further two seconds to be told that due to the ‘fishing festival’, (remember that world famous river Tweed?) there wasn’t a bed to be had anywhere in or near Kelso. Brilliant.

After kidding ourselves that we knew better and fruitlessly traipsing from one B&B to another we gave up and faced the fact that the only option was to cycle another seven miles into the foothills of the Cheviots and Town Yetholm where we had established by phone that the small caravan park would definitely take us with our tent. It was in completely the opposite direction to our route and a short day was rapidly turning into a long one, by our standards, but the only other choice was to camp wild with no facilities and neither of us fancied it. We wanted comfort.

Its funny how things work out isn’t it? An hour later we were sitting outside the tent, sipping tea in the sun, on one of the nicest campsites you could ever wish for. A choice of two pubs for food and good beer and helpful fellow campers who rather than give us a match (lighter had run out of gas), simply gave us their lighter and told us to keep it.

We strolled to the Plough in Town Yetholm and had dinner with Charles, the pub bore. He was an enthusiastic member of the Kelso tennis club. I’m sure they love him there. Dinner was perfectly acceptable pub food but the choice of wine was novel. Red or White. That is what it said on the labels, honestly. Not wanting to impose on Charles any longer than necessary we wandered down to Kirk Yetholm and the Boarder Hotel. I had never been here before but it all felt so familiar to me. It is the pub at the end of the Pennine Way and where Wainwright famously used to pay for a half pint of beer for anybody who had finished the walk. The money came out of his book profits but alas the offer no longer stands. In any case our cycling gear would probably have given us away. We paid for our Cairngorm Nessie ale which was dark and bitter and watched a bunch of other cyclists demolishing food like only cyclists can. We strolled back to the campsite listening to owls and enjoying the lovely feeling of contentment at the end of hard day. The ups and downs of both hills and emotions, soothed by food, beer and a bed for the night. What more do we really need. (The toilets were nice too.)

[Deano]

Nice one Tony and Gill.  Looking forward to the next instalment.

I must type up my trip to Scotland as well...

[toekneep]

Day three: Town Yetholm to Selkirk. 24 miles.

It rained in the night but the sky was bright, if fast moving by 8am and we packed up in a cool brisk wind. The washing we had done was soaking so the panniers became our mobile drier and we left the campsite flying smalls and other such delicacies. I was playing that, “the sun is out so it must be summer” game that we English are so good at and by the time we had dropped back into Kelso my legs were freezing. Sunday morning in Kelso, fishing festival or no fishing festival, proved to be challenging when it came to sustenance. Perseverance paid off and we eventually found a bakery open and enjoyed the strangely pleasant experience of sausage and baked bean filled pasties. A little more exploration revealed the only open tea shop in the town and we whiled away a very pleasant half hour lounging on leather sofas, eating granary toast and drinking tea.



Looking back to the Cheviots and Town Yetholm

Despite the sun it was really cold and I admitted defeat and put on track bottoms and a fleece before setting off again. A quick snap of the rather fine Kelso Abbey and we were bumping over the cobbles once more and out of town heading for Melrose.



Kelso Abbey.

We were determined to make today a half day so that Gill could get some rest and try and shift her cold so I took the trouble of double checking in the TIC in Kelso that the campsite at Melrose took tents. Assured that it did, we had plans for lunch in Melrose and then a lazy afternoon snoozing and maybe looking around the town. We got the lunch.

It was bright enough but each time we turned north west, as the road dictated, we hit a wall of cold wind that prevented us from gathering any real momentum. At least the roads were almost devoid of cars, which was lovely, and after a few miles of undulations we dropped back to the river Tweed and crossed via a footbridge to St. Boswells. I got half way across the footbridge and had the inevitable image of the bridge collapsing and us plummeting into the fast moving water below. For some inexplicable reason I can’t cross a bridge without the possibility of disaster crossing my mind.



Footbridge over the Tweed

As we left Town Yetholm in the morning I had marvelled at three peaks in the far distance that stood proud and high above their undulating surroundings, not realising that Melrose lay in their shadow. The Eildon Hills were like a beckoning beacon that guided and pulled us along until eventually we struggled between their peaks to descend into Melrose. For some unknown reason the road between the hills is closed to motorised traffic for about a mile and we delighted in meandering from side to side like naughty children, much to the alarm of the walkers we met around the corner. Oops.



Road closed except to special people.

We waved to a couple of other cycle tourists resting in the town centre and our spirits were high as we rolled around the one-way system and found the TIC. They gave us directions to the campsite which is conveniently within the town and we climbed off the bikes full of anticipation of our well earned half day break. “Sorry, the camping field is closed until 21st of May by order of the council”. WHAT? YOU MUST BE JOKING, I HAVE JUST CHECKED WITH THE TIC IN KELSO AND THEY SAID……. Etc. etc. etc. She was lovely about it, very apologetic but rules are rules and Melrose Council seemed to have made a pointless anti tourism one that had just ruined our day.

We made for the Youth Hostel (there is always a first time) and although there was nobody about it was open and the key to the bike store was conveniently hanging on a hook by reception. So with the bikes secure things weren’t so bad and we sauntered back to the town and lunch. The grandly named George and Abbotsford Hotel was unassuming but served superb Wylam bitter and wonderful smoked mackerel and potato sandwiches (I kid you not, potatoes on bread). It was so nice we opted for a second drink before a leisurely stroll back to the Hostel. We took a quick look at the  Abbey, like all the other tourists, and it was beginning to look like we might get our relaxing afternoon after all. Maybe it was the food, or maybe it was the drink, I’m not sure but when we got back to the hostel Gill suggested we might as well carry on to Selkirk where there was another campsite. I was a little surprised but since it was only about eight miles it seemed like a good plan. We got the key and reclaimed the bikes from the shed, used the toilet in the hostel and went on our way. If anybody from Melrose Hostel ever reads this I would like you to know that we were very grateful for the facilities you provided and will recommend your fine establishment to others in the future.

It was actually a really nice ride to Selkirk along the B road that runs parallel to the Ettrick river, avoiding the A7 for most of the way. When we did join the main road it was strange to see Carlisle indicated, it seemed like only yesterday that we were passing it on the train. We left the A road following signs for the campsite and after a lovely tour of the industrial side of Selkirk we found ourselves at the leisure centre and what appeared to be the local park. It was all rather strange but the half a dozen or so caravans suggested we had found the right place.


A strange situation but a very welcome one.

Note: The battery low warning light was flashing as I took this photo so the remaining two shots were all we could take I’m afraid. Sorry about that.

We soon had the secret code for the toilets and showers courtesy of another camper and got the tent pitched. It was around five pm, not quite what we had planned but never mind. While we enjoyed a brew we watched in fascination as new arrivals began to put up what can only be described as a folding caravan. Sadly, it didn’t want to go together and they made several attempts, but even car jacks and heavy hammers wouldn’t persuade the various tab A’s to fit into slot B’s. We had a chat with them and it seemed they had bought it second hand and were trying to assemble it for the first time having driven from Bolton that day. I did feel sorry for them but other than offering to make them a brew I really didn’t see how we could help.

Selkirk is a funny place. It is divided by height into two parts, with the industrial part, leisure centre and park down by the river and the main town with its rather fine square perched several thousand feet above. Well, maybe not several thousand but it felt like quite a lot as we walked up to find somewhere to eat. Once we got used to the altitude we settled into a nice hotel and after considering the option of a speedy bar meal or waiting for an hour for posh nosh in the restaurant we chose the latter. It meant sitting in large soft leather chairs and sipping a rather good merlot but sometimes you just have to go with the flow don’t you? The proprietor cum waiter was like a version of Basil Fawlty. He gave the impression that every task had to be completed against the clock and I half expected him to break into a run once or twice. I was quite breathless from watching him by the time we had finished dinner.

Full of excellent food and wine we sauntered back down to the campsite only to find the folding caravan family had gone. I was gutted. What a sad situation for them. They had a boy of about eight or nine with them and I just felt so sad that they were probably really excited about the whole adventure and now they no doubt faced a long drive home in the dark, and all for nothing. We went to bed acutely aware of how lucky we were.

[toekneep]

Day four: Selkirk to Hawick 18 miles

I like the rituals of touring and camping. The process of moving from sleep to rolling away from the campsite in a smooth organised pattern that rarely changes and requires no organisation or discussion is a great feeling.

Any time between five and seven in the morning we are woken by the birds’ songs. Slowly I emerge from my sleeping bag and convert the Thermarest mattress into a chair using the clever device they make. I put the kettle on and Gill produces two tea bags and her mug without comment. After tea and morning ablutions its time for weetabix and cold milk and then we change into cycling clothes for the day. Panniers get packed next. The same things in the same panniers every time so that I know when we stop which is which. Other bits and pieces, head torch, radio, toilet roll etc. go into pannier pockets and the tent is closed up ready for striking. Having packed her panniers Gill goes off to wash dishes while I wipe excess rain/dew from tent with an old travel towel. We have done it so often now it just kind of happens of its own accord. There is rarely any conversation during the process, other than over tea of course, and about an hour after it starts we are packing the tent and loading the bikes. It just works and I love it.

It was trying to rain as we started the climb to Selkirk but at least the hill ensured we were warm by the time we reached the town square, despite the cold breeze and gloomy skies. It didn’t look like we would see much sunshine today. We turned east for a short while to get back to our originally planned route and both the scenery and the cycling were perfect. Gentle rolling hills and big panoramas made for the best kind of riding and despite the weather we were in heaven. As we headed south toward Hawick (pronounced Hoyk) we gradually climbed but as we went higher the skies grew still darker and eventually everything went downhill. The roads, the weather and our spirits plummeted and we arrived in Hawick cold and wet and on the prowl for shelter and hot food. The local arts centre held a TIC and a good café and it was very warm and comfy. Job done. We settled in for tea and scrambled eggs on toast and pestered the lady in the TIC over matters of weather and camps sites where you could actually pitch a tent. Having established that the caravan park at Newcastleton would not take tents we paid for breakfast and leaving behind a few puddles we took our leave. We mooched somewhat miserably around Hawick, exchanged experiences with another cycle tourer who was en route from N. Ireland to Holland and we all agreed that it felt more like November than May. We were still due our half day despite the short ride yesterday so we settled for buying comfort food from Morrisons supermarket and a two mile ride out of town to The Riverside Caravan and Camping Site and a bit of snoozing.

It was a good decision. We were soon eating our late lunch and listening to the rain hammering on the flysheet, pleased that we hadn’t pushed on with no prospect of a camp site. The owners of the site were really helpful and when I asked if they had any meths they could sell me for the stove, they didn’t, but promptly lent us a gas stove so that we could conserve our fuel. During a brief dry interlude we made a quick dash to the village of Denholm to suss out prospects for an evening meal and things looked promising in the form of The Cross Keys. Back at the tent the rain came down again but after a couple of hours snoozing and reading it cleared again and we departed for dinner.

[alan]

Your belief that Selkirk town is several thousand feet above the campsite is incorrect: it is actually several thousand metres .
Well that's how it felt to me.
BTDTGTTS.
Teriffic journalism Tony.
if I send my JoGLE diary up to you wuold you write it up please

[Eccentrica Gallumbits]

Dunbar harbour and Bass Rock

My mum says her siblings used to push her down that slope (known as The Glebe) in her pram and just let it go. She used to go out with the bloke who runs the boat trips round the Bass Rock.

I have dozens of boring Dunbar stories. 

Fantastic reports so far, keep 'em coming.

[toekneep]

Day five: Hawick to Bellingham 44 miles

After packing our panniers I wandered across the campsite to the river (Teviot) and watched a Dipper and a Grey Wagtail, not the commonest of birds and a sure indication of what a great place this would be to spend a day or two. But after two short days and with Gill on the mend we had places to go and miles to eat. I returned the stove to the site owner and we had one of those “how far are you going today?” conversations. Isn’t it strange how people don’t know how far it is to places quite close to them? Anyway, after he had recovered from the effort of digesting the fact that we thought forty five to fifty miles wasn’t that far we had a nice chat about the site, promised to mention them in despatches and wobbled onto the main road.

The early morning commuters were in a bit of a hurry to get to Hawick and we gladly left the race track and turned south but immediately questioned the benefits as the road rose up to the sky in a ‘ski-slope-in-the-country’ sort of way. Despite the effort it was pretty countryside along twisting roads and we were surrounded by rich deciduous woodland full of birdlife.  Up, up we went and emerged onto empty moorland with big skies. We paused for breath at Bonchester Bridge and shortly after, left the relatively quiet A road to join an almost deserted B route towards Kielder and the English border.

A long steady grind for a couple of miles took us ever higher and into stronger and stronger winds. The skies were growing greyer and as we reached the top the first spots of rain fell. By the time we reached Saughtree we were seriously cold and more than happy to turn north east out of the head wind. We paused at the junction to drink and take stock. Gill attempted to put on her full finger gloves but gave up after trying unsuccessfully to force them onto cold wet hands. A farm dog on the back of a quad bike was just desperate to round us up but I guess he knew where the boundaries were drawn and we remained safe. It was hard to believe we were in the same climate zone as the wind pushed us along lovely flat roads by the delightful Liddel Water. The bridge which used to span the now dismantled railway above us looked surreal, apparently serving no purpose at all but it amused us as we approached a significant point in our journey. We meandered through a short stretch of forest and then there it was. The English Scottish border. There was a great feeling of achievement at this landmark, a distinct marker measuring progress along the journey. After the obligatory photo opportunity we passed through the charmingly named Deadwater village and dropped in gentle rain into Kielder and the Kielder Castle Information Centre and Tea Shop.




We were ravenous as usual and had no hesitation in ordering two full English breakfasts with tea. Well we were in England after all. The café had a bird feeder outside with a cctv camera feeding a screen inside. Within minutes we had fantastically close up shots of Chaffinch, Blue and Great tits, Nuthatch and Greater Spotted Woodpecker. What a great idea. The tea room gradually filled up as the rain got more persistent and walkers and cyclists rubbed shoulders with smartly dressed tourists but all were enthralled by the screen on the wall.

We had a brief look around the information centre, used the loos again but nothing could delay the inevitable forever. We donned our protective gear and wheeled the bikes out into the downpour. We were able to buy meths for the stove in the village shop much to my surprise and we exchanged comments on the weather with everyone we spoke to. “Horrible isn’t it?” “You wouldn’t believe it’s May, more like November.” “It’s that really fine rain, the sort that wets you right through.” You know the kind of thing. I particularly like that last one. I’m looking forward to getting caught in the kind of rain that leaves you bone dry one day.

It was obvious that on a good day Kielder Water must be spectacular, if for nothing but the sheer scale of it. Today, for us, it was just something we were in danger of being blown into. A couple of times I had to unclip and put a foot down to prevent being blown over but at least the rain was easing. All I could think about was that the map showed we would be turning east soon and that should mean a tailwind. At times like this the scenery and wildlife has a tendency to fade to the background, overshadowed by the fight with the elements. I find these battles quite satisfying. Once you get past the miserable, fed up, it’s not fair point, it becomes a contest with the road that you know you will win and experience tells you that there will be huge satisfaction to come later. We finally began the turn to the left and suddenly it was possible to appreciate our situation once more and pay attention to the expansive view of hills with the lake in the foreground. We flew past the dam at Yarrow and raced the North Tyne seaward and on towards Bellingham and our evening destination. As we were blown along we passed a poor soul towing a trailer coming the other way. He was cheery enough but I didn’t envy him a long journey into that headwind.

I’m sure Bellingham (Bellinjam) is lovely on a balmy summers evening so I will withhold any judgement based on our experience. At least it was more or less fine when we found the campsite. Although it is a farm site it is right in the centre of the village so rather than pitch the tent immediately we went for a well earned drink in the Cheviot Hotel. By the time we emerged it was pouring again and we decided to use the bunkhouse barn rather than camp. Or we would have, had a party of French Pennine Way walkers not taken the last bunks ten minutes before we enquired. I thought Gill was going to cry, or murder me, it wasn’t quite clear what her expression meant when I said cheerily, “never mind it will be lovely once we have the tent up”. The driving rain and cold wind suggested otherwise but she bravely capitulated and we wheeled the bikes through the dung strewn farmyard and across the soggy field. The situation was much relieved by a row of dense fir trees along the edge of the field which made a great dry unloading bay and bike store while we pitched. We made a dash for warmth and comfort after tea only to find the whole village was shut and we ended up stood in the phone box freezing cold waiting for the first pub to open. Oh how we laughed.

Back in the tent later on, full of curry and wine we checked the weather forecast and it sounded as if there might be a few hours of fine weather early the next day. We resolved to get an early start and were pedalling out of the village in early morning sunshine before seven a.m. This roller coaster of experience is what it’s all about for me. How can you measure the joy of cycling in the sun on a quiet spring morning without the contrasting pummelling from the elements we had been through the previous day? We climbed high and our spirits rose higher with each contour we crossed.

[toekneep]

Day six. Bellingham to Talkin Tarn 40 miles

I was excited about today, despite having picked up Gill’s cold and being a bit under par. We had actually talked the previous evening of making for the nearest trainline and the possibility of not cycling all the way home. But all such thoughts were banished as we seemed to be stealing the best part of the day and in a few more miles we would be turning west and heading back across the country and over the Pennines. Even the hills were enjoyable this morning, we knocked off two chevroned rises without pause but we weren’t allowed to get above our station. As we laboured up the final hill before changing direction a commuter on a battered old racer passed us. He gave us a cheery ‘good morning’ as he pedalled past us in his slacks and brown brogues. Hmph, I’d like to see him do that with two stone of luggage on his bike.

We joined Hadrian’s Wall just east of Milecastle 30 (site of) and turned smack into the wind and a long steady climb. You have to be impressed by the way the Romans built roads, they obviously didn’t have bicycles. As we ground up the hill I imagined a conversation between some your upstart soldier and an old campaigner of the Roman army. The old campaigner became Captain Mainwaring and the youngster Pike from Dad’s army in my vivid imagination. “Excuse me Captain, but why don’t we build the road around the side of the hill instead of over the top of it?” “What a ridiculous idea you stupid boy, get out of my sight”. It was grand to be cycling right alongside The Wall, and the short intact sections and occasional fortifications took our minds off the elements and the gradients. A kestrel flew ahead of us, alighting on telegraph wires and waiting until we were really close before moving on a couple of hundred yards further. I had developed some sort of problem with my neck and I had to stop frequently to ease the pain which seemed worse whenever we were fighting a headwind but in practice we needed an excuse to rest frequently anyway. Every hill top revealed the same view, more of the same straight road, and yet another hill to climb but for some reason I was really enjoying myself. We were finally beginning to descend the west side of the Pennines when crunch. I foolishly tried to engage the combination of large front chain ring with the largest rear cog and the derailleur just couldn’t handle it. I know this and avoid the combination but a moment’s lack of concentration saw us unloading all the luggage from my bike to try to rectify the problem. Thirty minutes later I was back on the road but at the cost of a heavily soiled jacket and a slightly bent front mech. As I struggled to free the chain I started to panic at the thought that I might not have the tools to solve the problem and I failed to notice that I was smothering my expensive waterproof jacket with thick black oil. I was mad with myself but that was soon forgotten once we dropped into Greenhead only to find the tea shop and pub both closed. Hunger will always take precedence over sartorial elegance. Another mile further on in Gilsland things were looking grim with two more closed pubs and nearly thirty hard miles behind us and then it happened. Just as we were about to leave the village we saw the sign for House of Meg Tea Rooms and not only was it open, but Meg produced one of the best full English breakfasts we have ever had. And we’ve had a few. The promised rain finally came and we dallied over another pot of tea and took the time to read Keat’s poem on the wall, telling the story of Meg Merrilies. “No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon”. Half an hour ago I knew exactly how she felt.

As we prepared to leave, a chap getting into his car made a smart comment about the weather and said he hoped we had somewhere dry to stay tonight. I gave him my best ‘Crocodile Dundee’ smile and replied, “We’ll be alright, we’ve got a tent”. He looked horrified and hurried away in his warm dry metal cocoon.

A few soggy miles later we were in Brampton enquiring about B&Bs in the TIC. Well he’ll never know.

We passed a lovely elderly couple on sit up and beg bikes with full touring gear coming the other way. They were beaming away in the rain and we beamed back. Maybe we are all mad. There were a few more bits of Hadrian’s handiwork to admire before we finally splashed into the Brampton TIC and threw ourselves at the mercy of the nice lady there. “We need a B&B that isn’t too expensive, is near a good pub for dinner, and where we can get our clothes washed and dried by morning.” I announced as an ever growing puddle of water gathered at my feet. She never batted an eyelid, God bless her, and ten minutes later we were heading for Talkin Tarn, three miles up the road from Brampton. I misunderstood her use of the term ‘up’ when she gave us directions.

The Blacksmith’s Arms in the village of Talkin is one of those pubs that you walk into and feel at home immediately. A few locals were chewing the fat at the bar but they welcomed us and were full of interest in where we had come from. I suspect they were slightly disappointed when we answered Bellingham rather than Gargarin IV or Betelgeuse but they were friendly enough never the less. We drank the local beer from the Geltsdale brewery, ate peanuts and grinned a lot. The farmhouse B&B was just half a mile up the road. Well it was if you took the right turning on leaving the pub. We decided to do a bit of impromptu exploring of the area but we got there eventually to be greeted by the jumping dog. As we wheeled our bikes up the drive there was an explosion of barking from a barn and every few moments a disembodied canine head would appear briefly above the door and disappear again. It was like a demented jack-in-the-box that didn’t get many visitors.

The farmer took our bikes and put them under cover alongside the spring mounted sheepdog and we were shown to our room by his wife. They were lovely people and the washing was duly taken off us to be returned pristine the next morning. All thoughts of trains and shortcuts were gone now as we pondered the next days ride over dinner in the pub. It was a fine evening and we strolled back to our digs and enjoyed the novelty of watching telly in bed.

[toekneep]

Day 7. Talkin to Kirby Stephen

Our host had kindly retrieved our bikes from the barn for us after breakfast and we loaded up, said goodbye to him and his wife, not forgetting tigger in the barn and set of into a deceptively bright but breezy morning. Process of elimination rather than recognition suggested that the large fast flying bird that appeared dramatically in front of us and swooped away through the trees may have been a Hen Harrier. It certainly wasn’t the more common Buzzard or Kite that we were used to seeing. The countryside had a freshly washed look about it, the vivid greens of spring fresh and sparkling against a cheery blue and white sky. There was nowhere to get breakfast at Renwick so after  resting on an old bench to drink water and eat a snack bar we carried on. I was looking for a left turn, planning on using one of the quiet recognised cycle routes to take us towards Appleby. Looking back it was an easy mistake to make. Both roads turned sharp left off the one we were on and both dropped to a stream and crossed it after half a mile. It was just that one of them didn’t climb to 1200 feet above sea level before plummeting all the way back down again. We had been climbing steadily for about ten minutes and the horizon was full of very high hills that really shouldn’t have been there. My mind was full of doubt and confusion and then I realised that the wind was on our back and that’s when I knew we were going in the wrong direction. Gill took it very well under the circumstances and elected to carry on up since we had already gained considerable height. It turned out to be one of those wonderful accidents that resulted in a spectacular view back down the Eden Vale and across to the Lake District. The descent down to the valley was against the wind so although it was fairly steep we didn’t need to hang onto the brakes as if our lives depended on it and to cap it all it deposited us at The Village Bakery in Melmerby.



Interesting cycle stands.

After delicious tea and cake we browsed the upstairs gallery and oohed and ahhed at the stunning photographs of Tommy Martin. His ability to capture the mood of the Lake District is remarkable. Check out his work here.



Despite the blustery wind it was great cycling. The skies were still bright with cotton wool clouds and we had the Pennine hills rising to our left with Cross Fell dominating the skyline.



Cross Fell

An escapee lamb provided us with a few minutes entertainment as we tried to pass it without sending it still further down the road. In the end it surprised us by climbing a six foot stone wall and leaping over the barbed wire fence on the top. I suspect it wasn’t the first time it had performed that particular trick. In Appleby in Westmorland we checked at the TIC for campsites further south and then repaired to The Crown and Cushion for a pint of Dizzy Blond and a packet of Mini Cheddars. Fine dining at its best. Outside the pub we chatted with two you lads doing Lands End to John O’ Groats. They had that wonderful optimism of youth coupled with a total lack of organisation or preparedness. They told us that their progress was slow because they had no waterproofs and their solution was to stay in the tent whenever it rained. We wished them luck and smiled at their approach compared to ours. They made me feel old.

We camped at Kirby Stephen, dined well at the pub across the road and took immense satisfaction from the fact that we hadn’t seen a drop of rain all day.

[toekneep]

Day 8. Kirby Stephen to Ingleton

I was woken once or twice in the night by the sound of the wind in the trees around us. They were serious gusts and I was a bit concerned when morning arrived and there was no sign of them weakening.

Our ritual of taking down the tent never changes. Whatever the weather we practice the same procedure; weighing down the flysheet, inner and undermats with panniers to prevent them being whisked away by a sudden gust of wind. This morning all the practice paid off and we managed to strike camp without losing any vital component.

A group of fellow campers and their dog (own Thermarest apparently) were waiting by reception for their transport and we had a nice chat before leaving. They were a bit concerned about us cycling in the wind but we assured them we had been in worse conditions. If only we had known.

We would be following the Settle Carlisle railway for much of today so although we were passing through fairly high ground I hoped that the gradients wouldn’t be too bad. This famous scenic line opened on 1st May 1876 and was the last main line in England to be built entirely by hand. Six thousand men toiled on it for seven years and many died in accidents and from Small Pox. Fortunately, I knew none of this as we began what would turn out to be ‘a most interesting day’. In the event, Small Pox was about the only thing we didn’t get.

The plan was to cycle to Ingleton, about twenty five miles away, have breakfast and then head either south east towards Clitheroe or South West towards Lancaster. Either way would put us about thirty miles from home for a short final day on the Saturday.

We stopped at Nateby to put on wet weather gear. It wasn’t raining yet but the forecast said; showers, occasionally prolonged and the wind was so cold that we needed the extra protection for warmth. It was obvious from the start that this was going to be a hard day. After an hour of pushing against the wind we had covered a measly seven miles. I suggested that we just relax and accept that progress would be very slow but we had all the time in the world to cover fifty miles in the course of the day. We could have been back in Wales as we passed Pendragon Castle  and headed due south but the name of the next hamlet, Outhgill reminded us that this was very much The Yorkshire Dales. As we climbed the scenery grew bleaker, empty farm houses stood testament to the harsh lives people must have lived here in the past and then the rain began. After a couple of hesitant showers the weather Gods got their act together and the practising was over. We came alongside the railway and eventually crossed it at the first high point of the day but there was to be no freewheeling down the gentle gradient. By the time we reached Gardale Head we were soaked and getting colder by the minute. It was much too early to take shelter at the pub so we pressed on directly into the full force of the wind and the driving rain.

We had planned to use route 68 over the tops to Cowgill but there were dire warnings of wintery conditions at any time of year as the road climbed to 1750’ above sea level. We had a really tough decision to make. It was ten miles on the main road down Garsdale to Sedburgh. This would be an easier road but it was directly into the wind and would take us off course from Ingleton but guarantee shelter and warmth in the small market town. The other choice was straight up the minor road and over the top. Only three miles but we had no idea what we might or might not find at Cowgill. We ummed and ahhed but we really needed to get going as we were both beginning to shiver in the biting wind. We opted for the short high route and managed to cycle about fifty yards before being forced to get off and walk up the steep narrow road. Pushing the loaded bikes up that hill against the wind was stupidly hard but at least it warmed us up and it wasn’t long before we could start cycling again. I looked in vain for any sign of a break in the weather as we were buffeted and battered but the sky was a uniform grey and cloud hugged the lower slopes of the hills. It was just a matter of keeping your head down and gritting your teeth in the knowledge that eventually we must reach the high point and drop into calmer conditions. On the tops the rain turned to hail and my face felt as if was constantly being sandblasted. So painful were the impacts that I half expected to find blood on my gloves as I wiped my face. When the descent did eventually begin it was no relief because of the buffeting wind. We daren’t pick up any real speed as the road was winding and steep and with freezing hands it was hard to hold the brake levers tight enough to control the descent. Never have I been so glad to reach the comparable calm of a valley floor as I did on reaching Cowgill.

We chatted with a couple of walkers who assured us that the nearest place to get any food or shelter was Dent, three miles in the opposite direction to the one we wanted to go, but we were past caring. We desperately needed to get out of the wet and restore some feeling to hands and feet. It’s easy to get things out of perspective when you are cold and wet and I dare say we could have turned left and continued on our chosen route to Ingleton but the prospect of warmth, food and any level of dryness other than our current state was simply too much to resist. We turned right and cycled hard for Dent and survival.

The George and Dragon in Dent is the best pub in the world. It won its accolade by dint of being open when we got there and having an open fire roaring in the grate within five minutes of our arrival. The barmaid seemed somewhat bemused by her first customers, focused as they were on getting the fire lit before anything else. We rearranged the furniture and dripped water everywhere as we traipsed from the fire to the toilets to wring out first gloves, then socks as we gradually undressed and turned half the pub into a drying room. We started with tea and followed that with sausage baguettes followed immediately by more tea and scones with jam. Other customers came in and kept a safe distance from us at first but gradually the atmosphere changed and soon it was all camaraderie and tales of weather based bravado flowed freely. A couple of mountain bikers dripped in and we rearranged our various sodden items so that they could share the fire. We talked of backpacking, cycling and climbing and near death experiences in heavy showers. The food and drink came and went and the tales grew taller but nothing got much drier unfortunately. The conditions outside were improving and before long we had to face the fact that we would have to leave eventually so we entertained the crowd as we pulled on wet socks and gloves and demonstrated the spaghetti that is Rainlegs once more. We said our goodbyes to our new found soggy friends and stepped out into a freshly laundered landscape. Seven more cyclists were preparing to take a few more gallons of water into the pub as we set off back the way we had come.

Our route now would take us back up Dentdale to Cowgill, over Gayle Moor and Blea Moor to Ribblehead and the famous twenty four arch viaduct before finally descending gently down the dale to Ingleton. We would be crossing the railway on Wold Fell but first there was the little matter of getting back the 600’ we had descended from it earlier. We wouldn’t be directly into the wind for a while now and with the rain gone and the occasional break in the cloud we were enjoying ourselves. Hands, feet and backsides were the last to dry out but after a few miles the discomfort of the morning was almost forgotten. We grunted and pushed up some steep sections as we climbed back up the valley and under the railway and then for a few blissful minutes we had the gale on our backs and we were gently nudged up the last slopes to join the B6255 for Ribblehead. As we waited at the T junction to turn right I commented to Gill that although we would be turning directly into the wind, which must now have been gusting fifty to sixty miles an hour, we would be generally descending so it should be an easy ten miles to Ingleton.

How wrong could I be. We dropped for about half a mile with the wind not quite in our faces and then as the gradient eased and we veered south west we just ground to a halt. Or we would have done had we not pushed hard in our lowest gears to maintain any forward momentum at all. The valley was acting like a super funnel, squeezing the mass of air into a narrowing space. It seemed as if the elements had decided they didn’t want us in Ingleton and they were mustering all their strength to push us back the way we had come. As we passed through Ribblehead we stopped to admire the viaduct but we saw little of the beauty of the area really. Whilst cycling we had to concentrate so hard on staying upright that there was very little opportunity to admire the views. Surrounded as we were by Ingleborough and Wernside, the situation was spectacular but it will have to wait for a return trip for us to really appreciate it. Nearly two hours later we finally arrived at Ingleton TIC with all our original plans in tatters. Gill was shattered and I was more than happy to capitulate and look for a campsite here. It would mean a longish day to get home tomorrow but the chances of having winds that strong for a second day were remote and we could always opt for another early start.

We had covered a miserly thirty two miles since setting off at 8.15am and it was 5pm when we arrived at the camp site. We do cycle slowly when touring but this had to be some kind of record, even for us. After showers and a quick change we strolled to the pub and sat is a kind of stupor over dinner, contemplating one of the most interesting days on our bikes we had ever experienced and one that wouldn’t be forgotten for a long time. Still, at least we didn’t get Small Pox.

[Wowbagger]

Blimey, that's gripping, edge of the seat stuff. You know that you two are quite heroic, don't you?

The Bryan Chapman is for lightweights

[GillP]

Blimey, that's gripping, edge of the seat stuff. You know that you two are quite heroic, don't you?

The Bryan Chapman is for lightweights

That's very kind of you Wow, but having read about the BC I think they are the heroes! 

And I think you and Mrs Wows LeJog was in the same league and Alan is going for the hero certificate too 

[toekneep]

Day nine. Ingleton to Freckleton 55 miles.

Another early start to beat the weather. We woke before five and were on the road just before seven a.m. and guess what? It was almost dead calm and with blue skies. We couldn’t believe our luck after yesterday’s experience and we fairly zipped along past woodlands densely carpeted by bluebells, the first really spectacular displays we had seen on the trip. We were relying on our own knowledge of the area now as I hadn’t bothered to bring maps for this section and after a few ups and downs we joined the familiar Lancashire Cycle Way as it passes through Wray. Each mile would now take us into increasingly familiar territory and it was with mixed emotions that we measured our progress. The last day of any tour is a strange experience. The elation of achievement is always tinged with the sadness of such good times coming to an end.

We joined the Lune Valley Cycle Way briefly before leaving it at Caton and heading for Quernmore and Galgate. We were in the mood for speed and had the bit between our teeth now so we stuck to the A6 for a while, enjoying the absence of hills for a change. Although the wind was gradually rising the day was still young and the fair weather was holding so we set our sights on Scorton for breakfast. The Priory café there is a favourite amongst local cyclists for mid morning or afternoon tea breaks but to be there in time for breakfast would be a novelty for us. With thirty miles behind us and even less now to home it felt like our job was done when we reached the café. We relaxed and settled down to a final blow out of cooked breakfast tea and toast.

An old boy on the next table engaged us in conversation and once more we were reminded of how blessed we are. A keen cyclist all his life, he had been knocked off his bike and suffered a broken hip not long ago. Unable to cope with his upright bike he had bought himself a recumbent trike but the botched steroid treatment he had undergone had left his muscles wasted and with great reluctance he was offering the trike for sale and hanging up his spd’s once and for all. He was wonderfully cheerful about it, and grateful  for the many happy memories his cycling had left him with. As for his current predicament, struggling to get about using crutches and faced with less and less mobility his attitude was stoic to say the least; “you just get on with it don’t you. That’s what cyclists do.”

So we got on our bikes and just got on with it a bit more until we arrived home. It rained a bit and the winds came back in our face but we just got on with it. That’s what cyclists do.

[onb]

Hello Tony I have enjoyed your ride reports immensley and can only remain in awe at both your dogged determination to see the whole ride through.I rode from Kirby Stephen to home recenlty having got the train there from Ribblehead ,all I can say is I chose not to do the coal road on an unladen bike ,you must be a real explorer(mad) doing it on a fully laden tourer .Anyway doing it via Sedbergh meant extra miles .Also I think if I had ridden into Dent (I know the George and Dragon quite well from my caving days)I might have chosen to ride over Kingsdale into Ingleton.It must be always windy around here as all the times I have ridden in this area its been blowing a gale.
Great effort fom both of you .

[Corvine]

Great report! Not sure I'm as positive as you are when up against it but the hard times are (mostly) pleasurable to look back on later.

Thanks for taking the time to share it with us.