Lands End to John o' Groats
‘Just remember’ said Bob, as we struggled across Dartmoor, ‘every mile we cycle as we grind up these hills is worth £20 to The Who Cares? Trust’. And to add to the sense of satisfaction we had just climbed from sea level crossing the Tamar in Plymouth up to 460 metres in three long difficult hours and the view over Leedon Tor was breathtaking.
This was the afternoon of our second day – a day which had begun 50 miles earlier in Golant in Cornwall and which had witnessed an epic climb out of Polruan on the other side the Fowey river and a long slog up out of Looe a little later. The cycling group at that stage consisted of Bob (the navigator), Bob (round the corner), Nicki, Gill (the organiser), big Peter, David (co-navigator) , Maria (accommodation organiser) and young Pete supported by Geoff , Jane and Henry in the orange truck – all but the last four cycling all the way from Land’s End to John O’ Groats to raise money for and awareness of the Who Cares? Trust and its work with children in care.
Our first day though on Sunday 23rd June had been even more difficult. Young (well Stephen H’s), tender, inexperienced bottoms had been glued to the saddle from 7.30 am when we left the youth hostel in St Just 5 miles to the north of Land’s End until we reached the hostel in Golant over 80 miles and 12 hours later. Our route had taken us to St Michael’s Mount, Godolphin Cross, Porkellis and across the King Harry Ferry to the challenging terrain of the Roseland Peninsular. It was a spectacular but tiring ride and most of us could do little more that evening than shovel in a few mouthfuls of youth hostel supper before collapsing gratefully into our bunk beds by 9pm.
At the end of our second day we ended up at the youth hostel in Steps Bridge about 10 miles west of Exeter with another 70 miles or so under our belts and a little more energy to enjoy the après- cycle and a slap up meal of sausages, mash and onion gravy (culinary standards couldn’t slip just because we werecycling all day and besides Bob the nav was a chef after all).
We awoke on the third day to aching bones, drizzle outside and the prospect of another long day cycling across the south west peninsular from Exeter to Burnham on Sea on the north Somerset coast. Exeter in the rain and the rush hour was deeply unpleasant but fuelled by the promise of Kay and Tom’s bacon sandwiches at the wonderful Pony and Trap pub in Cullompton we powered on and reached Taunton by 2pm with a total of 185 miles on the clock. We then picked up the tow path alongside the Taunton Bridgewater canal and despite the unforgivingly bumpy surface enjoyed the next 15 miles planet spotting in the afternoon sunshine. We eventually reached our overnight destination of blustery Burnham on Sea at 6.15 having notched up a total of over 212 miles for the three days – an average of 70 miles a day. The eighth member of the cycling team, Dotty from Scotland, joined us here bringing with her not only her fiddle but almost the entire contents of her pharmacy to soothe us saddle-sore and wheel weary cyclists
Day four, Wednesday, started bright, clear and sunny but soon clouded over. We set off on the ride north towards Bristol on the A38 with its unrelenting traffic but quickly retreated to smaller lanes and enjoyed a delightful morning picking our way up towards Brunel’s Suspension Bridge and reached Clifton itself by 11.30 just as the skies were clearing and with over 240 miles on the clock. Three hours later saw us being swept across the Severn Bridge on a gloriously clear, afternoon with a strong westerly wind scattering gravel from the road like machine gun fire down our left hand sides. It was exhilarating to see Monmouthshire and the Forest of Dean stretched out before us and to know that we had covered nearly a quarter of the way to John O’Groats. We sped along the Wye valley to Tintern Abbey then branched off the main road in a north easterly direction and up our second most challenging hill of the trip to the castle of St Briavels. We picnicked there with Howard and Ed – a father and son duo – who were doing a similar but longer route via Cape Wrath only in far fewer days whilst carrying their own kit. From there we struck off north to reach our final destination for the night – Holly Barn just north east of Monmouth - arriving shortly after 7pm and making a total mileage for the day of 70 miles through four counties – Somerset, Avon, Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire. John the truck managed to meet up with us (replacing Geoff who had to go to South Africa?) and together with young Pete he cooked a brilliant barbecue supper while Dotty fiddled, big Peter piped and Nicki entertained Cath and Guy (fellow NDCS cyclists from Oxford) in a field overlooking the Black Mountains and Brecon Beacons.
We took a little detour first thing the next day and went to watch peregrine falcons teaching their young how to fly off Symonds Yat overlooking the river Wye. It was such an inspiring and uplifting moment that we happily dealt with the first mishap of the journey - Dotty’s puncture - though not in the split second timing of the mechanics on the Tour de France who fix these things in a matter of seconds. What it did do was build up an appetite for the market in Ross on Wye which we raided for Cornish pasties, pickles, dried fruit and other goodies which insidiously were adding to our waist lines. Our support vehicle, kindly donated by Volkswagon, was already groaning with supplies which we were greedily tucking into at every opportunity. Could we be the first group of cyclists to actually put on weight cycling over 1000 miles from Land’s End to John O’Groats? It was beginning to look like it. And no amount of hills particularly the killer Black Hill en route to our next stop in Clun in Shropshire seemed to be making any difference. Once at the youth hostel – a converted water mill - and having mended Dotty’s second puncture sometime earlier, we discovered the depressing fact that we could no longer fit into anything that wasn’t made of stretchy lycra and were quick to blame the youthful and slim Jane who, along with Bob, was creating another gourmet meal (spicy meatballs in goulash sauce with pasta). We took little comfort from the fact that within a couple of days she would be gone and we would be relying solely on John the truck whose bike maintenance skills were not rumoured to include cooking.
Friday morning was glorious with blue skies – and a hill in every direction. We left Clun at 8.30 with 345 miles recorded heading for Bishops Castle. It soon clouded over and a strong cold northerly wind picked up which didn’t help our rather fragile and wobbly progress north to Pontesbury over the steep but spectacular Shropshire hills. We reached Ellesmere at about 2.45 (where Nicki met up with yet another friend) and had tea and cakes somewhat oblivious of the fact that we still had a long way to go to reach Chester. We finally set off again at 4 and had an arduous 25 mile ride north along fairly busy but flat roads into a head wind arriving at the youth hostel in Chester just after 7pm. We had done 415 miles in six days. We were euphoric but wrecked and sorely in need of a day off. This we spent in various ways – visits to friends, family and most importantly bike shops, the processing of a ton of washing, saying goodbye to Jane and a big hello to John the lawyer who arrived with a photogenic grin, lots of new kit and boundless enthusiasm for stage 2.
Nine of us set off on Sunday 30th June at 8am feeling a little more refreshed. It was a glorious morning with high thin cloud to the east but rain forecast as we pedalled 20 miles northeast along flat quiet roads to the Mersey Ferry. John was keen to be part of the team but we felt he couldn’t earn his colours until he had done a hill. We caught the 10.40 crossing to Liverpool, Maria with a noticeable spring in her step and the broadest of smiles as she wheeled her bike off the boat 15 minutes later. Her brother and nephew were there to greet us along with a cheque for £110 from the local cabbies and a terrifying amount of chocolate. We had a couple of hours off in Southport while some watched World Cup footie, Dotty did a trip down memory lane and the storm clouds gathered and the westerly wind increased. The rain as we set off was tolerable as the wind was behind us. Two hours later it was still raining and despite John’s best efforts to cheer us up with roadside buns-to-go by the time we reached Preston we were deeply depressed (as much by the crowded McDonalds where we retreated to for warmth as by the weather). However miserable we felt we knew we were in for an even more ghastly slog ahead as our destination was Blackpool via Lytham St Anne’s – due west along the coast. For the first time in seven days one or two of us began to feel a bit tearful and it was a struggle not to sit down by the roadside and have a good cry. Lytham passed in a blur of gritted teeth, bowed heads, driving rain and the hope that once we reached St Anne’s and rounded the corner the going would get easier. Our ride into Blackpool, in contrast, was at 20 wind assisted miles per hour , the flashing lights and neon signs passing at frightening speed. We reached our hotel at 7.30 having cycled 81 weary miles only to be informed that we had to dismantle the bikes and stow them in the orange truck. Could Blackpool get any worse? Well, it depends on whether you like a fish and chip supper with mushy peas, sliced white bread and butter and cups of tea with not a glass of chardonnay or a sun dried tomato in sight.
Forget punctures. A real crisis hit first thing Monday morning….Dotty’s hair drier broke.
There she was solemnly trying to dry out her shoes with the help of Morphy Richards when the wretched thing died along with her sense of humour. Having cajoled it back into action, we gobbled down the first of many full English breakfasts (febs) and set off for Lancaster at 8.45. Bob had a puncture an hour later in an interval in the showers but by lunchtime the rain was pouring down and we were cold, wet and very fed up. Knowing that good coffee and a spot of retail therapy will revive most flagging spirits we settled down in Crows bar and sent Nicki off ahead to scout the shops for wet weather gear. The Ultimate Outdoors shop in Lancaster did very well out of us that day and certainly made our 30 mile ride after lunch that much more tolerable despite a return to Cornwall-type hills and of course continuing rain. At this point we decided to let John the lawyer join the club. You had to hand it to him – the boy was keen. He had cheerfully survived Blackpool, had tackled some serious climbs that afternoon and then as if from a hat suddenly produced two very nice parents (and a lovely aunt) who laid on a brilliant tea just outside Kendal which we scoffed in seconds.
By the time we reached the Union Tavern in Kendal we had done over 550 miles but big Peter was suffering with a swollen leg, Nicki felt full and John went home so a slightly smaller group of cyclists went out to join Maria’s sister and partner for supper. Bob (rtc) had painful balls but still managed to keep eating.
We gathered outside the hotel the next morning still giggling about the charming and good humoured waitress slamming down the febs, toast and coffee and delighted to talk to a passer by who had read John’s father’s letter about us in the local paper. We also decided in future to bring nothing to wear (especially not bikinis) and to just shop as we went along. .We headed off towards Bowness 10 miles away on the east side of Windermere with the plan to cross the ferry to Hawkshead and then decide on our route depending on the weather (at this stage very foreboding). We got a donation from the café owner at Bowness so felt justified in eating elevenses (the flapjacks now wedged somewhere between the fried eggs, bacon and several pieces of toast). Once on the other side some of the team – Nicki, Bob (rtc), Peter and John – took a detour over the hill to Coniston which involved so many discussions and debates about the route that we swore never to cycle without either t’other Bob or David again. The views were brilliant though and the ride north to Ambleside (and the shopping) were great. After lunch we had a very tough 500’ climb up to Rydal Water – thankfully with a following wind – accompanied by an impressive fly past of the Red Arrows as we topped the hill. John H did his impersonation of standing (on) stones before we found our own 4,000 year old version at Castlerigg above Keswick. Some (Peter) were more moved than others (Dotty) by so much ancient stuff lying around but then when you live in West Kilbride you’ve seen it all. Nicki had a hysterical evening due to a cocktail of wine and anti-inflammatory painkillers but even taking into account her euphoric view of the world we still decided that the Hogarth B & B was possibly the best place to stay in Keswick.
The next morning we awoke to clear skies, a light northwesterly wind and the prospect of a shortish day to Carlisle so were not too fussed about a later than normal start (9.45). Of course a mile out of Keswick we got a puncture half way up a particularly long, punishing climb and what with sheltering from spectacular thunderstorms, struggling up and around Skiddaw and Uldale Fells, hanging around while hunky shepherds sheared their flock and stopping frequently to put on and take off wet weather gear we had only done 20 miles by 2.30. We stopped for lunch (and to escape the rain) at Hesket Newmarket right on the edge of the Lake District national park then wiggled our way north through Sebergham, Gaitsgill and Raughton to the Golden Fleece
Hotel on the A689 north east of Carlisle. We did an unintentional detour via Irthington and Carlisle airport, the approach road to which was a slurry splattered farm track blocked as it presumably was most days by herds of cows returning to be milked. Shame if you were trying to catch that 6pm flight. We spent the evening playing darts, entertaining some of the kids from the local unit and eating (again) excellent haggis parcels with whisky sauce.
Ten past six, Thursday morning and Dotty was already up and in the shower singing ‘Flower of Scotland’. She could smell the air north of the border and was going to make sure she looked extra specially good for her homecoming. It was beautiful weather (as Dotty predicted it would be once we hit Scotland) and we set off at 8.15 cycling north to Longtown. For the first time in days it wasn’t raining but there was a brisk and rather threatening westerly wind blowing which Dotty ignored. Today Gill discovered the joys of being a media star and was thrilled to be interviewed by radio Cumbria. ‘You’ve got very nice rain’ she said ‘ but rather a lot of it’. We got to Gretna at about 9.30 and proceeded to sing Flower of Scotland down a mobile phone to Nicki’s dad in London while Bob (nav) had his first pee on (that should read ‘in’) Scotland and the rest of us trampled all over the flower beds for a variety of photo opportunities. Our first puncture in Scotland happened about 4 miles out of Annan which we reached at 11.30 having done 25 miles. We celebrated with some very peaty whisky and later with some icecream somewhere along the B724 to Dumfries. Having been bitten by the broadcasting bug (and having found someone in Annan who had actually heard her on the radio), Gill organised an interview with the Dumfries Standard and we got our photo taken at our lunch stop in Kirkton at 2 that afternoon. Knowing that we were now celebrities John the truck had made even more of an effort to set the picnic table and lay out the sandwiches (was this the cheese only day?) and muffins.
We then followed the river Nith north west through Nithsdale and some stopped for tea and cakes in Penpont. Nicki found her legs wouldn’t start again if she rested for too long so she and Dotty raced on ahead through the Drumlanrigg estate and had a wonderful fast ride along empty roads until they hit the busy A76 about 2 and a half miles out of Sanquhar. By the time the others joined them with smug tales of avoiding the main road (but getting punctures) Dotty and Nicki had already checked their luggage at the Black Addy Hotel, bagged the best (single) rooms and downed several whiskies and a pint of Belhaven beer. We had done 71 miles, it had been a long day and this was a terrific hotel whose facilities we were going to enjoy. Dinner was excellent – sauteed mushrooms on a puff pastry bed with a light stilton sauce followed by salmon and some good wine - at £16 per head.
We took some lovely photos the next morning in the garden of the hotel standing by the river Nith surrounded by begonias, fuchsias and swarms of midges. The weather as we set off at 9 am was clear and bright, we had done over 700 miles and had only about 50 miles to do to reach Glasgow and the end of stage 2. The first 9 miles that morning involved a fairly steady climb up to Spango hill in south Lanarkshire at a cracking pace and with the wind in our faces and by 11am we had done 15 miles and were at the junction with the B7078. All was looking good for an early arrival in Glasgow until Bob had a buckled wheel at Crawfordjohn and we had to retreat to a nearby hotel overlooking Black Burn to eat and drink until the wonderful John the truck could get back from shopping in Douglas to mend it. Meanwhile the media junkie was busy trying to make contact with Real Radio in Glasgow to get some publicity for our arrival and Dotty was planning how to get into the city without cycling through Stonehouse, Larkhall, Hamilton or anywhere else on a direct route. And so it was that we did an interesting diversion via Strathaven, Carnduff, Burnhouse, Crosshill and what seemed like hundreds of other villages to get to lunch at the Calderglen Country park on the outskirts of East Kilbride at 4 o’clock accompanied by much rumbling of stomachs and mutinous mutterings. After an hour of tummy filling we donned our helmets and followed Dotty into Glasgow and watched in horror as her wheel hit an edge and she flew over the handlebars landing very neatly on her head and hip. Much shaken but alive she negotiated the rush hour traffic and guided us to the youth hostel – a splendid Georgian four storey house in a handsome terrace overlooking Kelvingrove Park. We had done 48 miles that day and a total of 750 and were going to be very sorry to say goodbye to John the lawyer (but not his Banesto cycling shirt). We had a great supper with a friend of Gill’s called Miles in his fabulous house just across from the University of Glasgow and afterwards had the dubious honour of being asked to leave a pub called the Ubiquitous Chip at 2am possibly after one too many renderings of Land of Hope and Glory.
A larger group of us set off on Sunday morning – our numbers swelled by the addition of Roma and Bruce, Gill’s sister Pip, Pete the dentist, and the two boy racers Steve and James. Our back up had also increased and we were to be supported by not only John D in the minibus but Peggy and John in the camper van making a very satisfactory ratio of three and a bit cyclists to each sandwich maker. And talking of swelling, Dotty’s thigh where she had fallen was twice the size of the other and had turned an interesting shade of livid purple but miraculously still worked.
We set off early at the start of stage three but after 6 or 7 miles Gill had to stop as she felt an interview coming on with Radio Clyde. By midday we were just south of Loch Lomond having taken an excellent cycle path out of the city following the Forth and Clyde Canal. Sadly we now had to join the A82 north and it being a Sunday afternoon had to put up with fairly unrelenting traffic for the next 25 miles as we cycled along the west side of Loch Lomond. Fortunately Dotty knew a pub at the northern end called the Drovers Inn at Inverarnan which we happily stopped at after 47 miles for tea (and beer and a good ogle at the blokes in kilts). Finally after 55 miles we reached the rather unprepossessing and midge infested town of Crianlarich and got to the youth hostel just as the rain started in earnest. Nicki met up with her most northerly friend, another excellent meal was cooked and a few more bottles of chateau wollamalloo were downed.
At 9 the next morning we regrouped, checked our mileage (about 810 miles) and set off towards Fort William. It had stopped raining, there were tiny patches of blue sky around but the forecast looked bleak and the midges were still dancing around looking for a way in through the lycra. We stopped for coffee after about 12 miles at a brilliant place at Bridge of Orchy and then had a windswept ride across the weird moonscape of Rannoch Moor accompanied by blustery showers and ever present traffic on the A82. We stopped for lunch at the Kingshouse Hotel at the easterly end of Glencoe at about midday and sheltered from the increasingly stormy weather with a very real sense of foreboding. It was for some a terrifying experience to cycle on with a strong south westerly blowing us into the path of the oncoming lorries, with driving horizontal rain stinging our eyes and the feeling that we were just inches from certain death. And then there were others who found that particular section the most exhilarating part of the journey….and who even had time to enjoy the spectacular scenery. Seeing that Nicki was in the former category and a little wobbly about next 20 miles up to Fort William, the young ones took pity and allowed her to cycle furiously in their slipstream. And so it was that yet again Dotty and Nicki raced on and found themselves in Fort William by 3.30 with nothing to do but go to the puband buy the boys a few drinks to thank them for their support and patience.
We ended the day in the Glen Nevis youth hostel at the foot of Ben Nevis but couldn’t see much for the mist, rain and midges. We had a funny time after supper at a pub along the road trying out some traditional Scottish ales which all tasted of cough linctus and were pretty syrupy and disgusting. Dotty - one of the more discerning drinkers of the group - reckoned they were only fit for being poured down the sink. Bob (rtc) quietly finished everyone else’s glasses.
The beers obviously disagreed with Dotty’s constitution and she was up the next morning a 5 o’clock to practice her fiddling. Pied Piper like she attracted a huge cloud of insects which followed her halfway up the mountain – and sadly all the way back again.
We set off at about 10 having notched up a total of 876 miles. Some suggested that as the sign post at LandsEnd said it was 874 miles to John O’Groats then we must be there so could we go home. This was dismissed by Bob (nav) and David who were really getting into this route planning stuff and by Gill who was getting withdrawal symptoms and needed an interview or photo opportunity soon.
It was a sunny morning and we set off along a tow path by the Caledonian canal,mercifully away from the A82 and with clear views back to Ben Nevis. At Lochy Bridge we ignored the signs to the Ben Nevis Distillery Visitor Centre and instead headed along a quiet road (the B8004) towards Loch Lochy. There was a cycle path along the western shore of the loch and the cycling was beautiful if a little strenuous. We stopped at 12.15 for lunch at Laggan Locks at the entrance to Loch Oich and sat thorough several showers (fortunately in the comfort of a camper van or mini bus) while the weather made up its mind what to do. We continued on along the path to Invergarry where the young bloods did a detour up into the hills and the rest assembled at the Abercalder swing bridge at the Bridge of Oich. We stopped again 5 miles later for more sustenance at Fort Augustus at the southern tip of Loch Ness and again split up with some heading up into the Inverwick Forest and others continuing along the A82. The youth hostel was perched on the edge of the main road just out of the village of Altsigh about half way up the loch and commanded splendid views over the water. We couldn’t check in though until Maria arrived so we sat and chatted to Bob’s mother and brother in law until the rest of the team turned up. Our cabin was fairly basic but with great views (as long as you were in the girls dorm) but the midges clustering at the windows prevented all but the very brave, drunk or mad from walking along the shore. Of course, Dotty went out there to practice her fiddling – not sure what category she fell into.
The next morning was grey (though Dotty assured us it would ‘lift’) and some, who had drunk their entire body weight in white wine at dinner the night before, felt distinctly unhappy about the prospect of a long day’s cycling. We set off at about 8.30 and stopped after 8 miles at Urquhart Castle for one last look out for a monster. We then left the busy A82 and turned north west towards Drumnadrochit – home of the Loch Ness Monster exhibition and gateway to the Highlands via a particularly long, gruelling, steep hill. Dotty was proved right and the weather cleared as we topped the hill and we then had a glorious ride across the Aird in the sunshine to Beauly. For some reason we split up and spent the next few hours trying to reassemble for lunch somewhere north of Alness overlooking the Cromarty Firth. It was amazing to have started the ride on the most southwesterly part of Britain and suddenly see the North Sea. We never did get together for lunch but finally met up in the Ardross Forest heading north towards the Altnamain Inn. The scenery was stunning in all directions and we had a particularly memorable stop overlooking the Dornoch Firth,and the Kyle of Sutherland before speeding off down hill and mending the first of Bruces’s many punctures. The Carbisdale Castle youth hostel was delightfully baronial, had great sweeping staircases, ancestral portraits, empty wide corridors and commodious sofas where long suffering dentists could sleep to escape the tremulous snorings of the boys dorm.
We were now only 60 miles south of the north coast of Scotland and had two more days to go to reach John O’Groats and the end of the ride. We knew we would hit the 1,000 mile mark somewhere just north of Loch Shin so made sure we stopped to celebrate and record the moment for posterity. We climbed up to Crask Inn with lovely views over Ben Armine forest and stopped for a brilliant picnic lunch at a hotel at Altnaharra at the tip of Loch Naver. Roma may well be going back as she was particularly taken with the scenery ,the fishing possibilities and the friendliness of the the new hotel owner. The rest of us might go with her because the whisky macs were good.
The afternoon’s ride was just beautiful, heading north alongside loch Loyal with huge Ben Loyal looming up to the west at over 2,500 ft. We were bowled over by the setting of the youth hostel at Tongue on the edge of the kyle of Tongue which we reached just as the rain set in for the evening. We had several glasses of something celebratory at the pub to mark our arrival on the north coast and joined forces to produce one of the best meals of the trip – wild salmon, stuffed with herbs, cooked with roasted new potatoes ( in the ovens of the local hotel ). We proved that night that youth hostels are not for the young as we proceeded to entertain with Pete’s guitar playing , Dotty’s fiddling and an Argentinian playing Auld Langs Syne until the warden pointed out that some of the younger residents were trying to sleep. It was probably one of the best night we had and was partly due to the feeling that we had got to the north coast and had therefore ‘made it’. The last day as a result was all the more difficult.
However, we had ‘See ya jimmy’ hats to wear the next day so that made everything better. Dotty kindly shared her tartan pyjamas with Nicki who altruistically offered up lengths of tartan ribbon so that between them they looked totally ridiculous. The feel good factor lasted for a few miles of spectacular caribbean beach like scenery until the hills (and depression) set in. It was a never ending succession of ups and downs for 45 miles and even the normally urbane Roma was getting snappy. But maybe that was just because she realised for the first time that she had been carrying Bruce along in her slip stream for the past six days. Whatever, it was a pretty disgruntled, fed up group of tired cyclists who met up in Safeways carpark (in itself hugely unprepossessing) at 2pm in Thurso One last Cornish pastie, valiant culinary support from John and John (but no Peg and 3rd John who had gone home for son’s graduation) and the decision to regroup and bolster up at a place called Gills 15 miles further on. It was much flatter after lunch but the storm clouds above which threatened rain were kept at bay by a strong easterly wind – right in our faces. We went past the Castle of Mey, said a quick prayer for the Queen Mum and hit John O’ Groats at about 5pm. Nicki looked back and saw Pip wiping something out of her eye. Damned midges, she thought, then had a little cry herself. 1104 miles on Maria’s milometer, just over 780 on the signpost and a postcard that said that the journey had been cycled by someone in 48 hours. What was the point of doing a trip like that and not taking time to enjoy the scenery . More importantly, why cycle that distance and not take your message to the widest number of people. And finally why struggle on alone when you can gain strength and support from a group of friends – the sort of friends who stay by you when you get drunk at Gill’s house a few weeks later and pass out on the floor.
