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.