Tuesday, November 29, 2011

20-Jun-1996 - Day 3 - Tavistock to Willand

  • Day’s Distance: 52.8 Miles
  • Total Distance: 160.42 Miles
  • Travel Time: Around 6 hours
  • Average Speed: Around 10.0 Miles/Hr
  • Max Speed: 37.5 Miles/Hr
  • Punctures: 0

The worst day so far. From the word go my legs felt tired and just got worse. At Crediton I stopped to visit the loo and as I removed the cycle computer, accidentally zeroed it (which is why the travel time and average speed are only approximate). There is little to say about today other than “ouch” and “help”. I hardly noticed the countryside as I needed all my concentration just to keep the bike moving forwards at what seemed a snails pace. I should have stopped for something to eat at Crediton but did not and quickly regretted it. It is the first time onthe journey I’ve actually felt hungry (i.e. starving). I asked for directions at Tiverton tourist information and they directed me to Waterloo Cross. A strange caravan park which seems to be more residential than touring and has the strange feel of a council estate with gangs of kids hanging around outside the toilet blocks and men in oily overalls playing football. The toilets and especially the showers are filthy. I cannot bring myself to have a shower here, I preferred the rough and ready, ant filled showers of the Masai Mara in Kenya to these. One advantage is the pub next door which does a selection of passable meals.

Day 3 map (approximate route)


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Sunday, November 27, 2011

19-Jun-1996 - Day 2 - Veryan to Tavistock

  • Day’s Distance: 55.57 Miles
  • Total Distance: 107.62 Miles
  • Travel Time: 5Hr 23Min
  • Average Speed: 10.3 Miles/Hr
  • Max Speed: 40.0 Miles/Hr
  • Punctures:0

Today was a day for meeting characters. I set off to St Austell to find something to eat. St Austell is an old town with a now pedestrianised narrow high street. It’s also on a hill side which means you are unwilling to cycle up and then have to come down again. I did cycle up and found that I had passed the high street, so I did the only sensible thing, got off and walked. I quickly found a baker selling some nice looking bread and freshly baked pasties. I bought some buns for later and a steak pastie for immediate consumption. The high street had a number of seats and so I made myself comfortable to allow the pastie to cool. This was just in time to catch the attention of the town drunk/tramp. Seeing somebody who equally stood out, he walked over to ‘greet’ me, sat down and began to talk. His name was Hector and he was 60 years old. He described himself as a “crazy old man” an alcoholic and a street philosopher. He had no money and his only comfort at night was an old sleeping bag he had hidden in the churchyard. He cheerily waved hello to nay ‘likely punters’ passing, especially young women. His beard was encrusted with the outpourings of his hairy red nose. He disappeared for a short time and just as I was finishing my pastie, he returned. He suddenly began quoting poetry about a daffodil which he said had been written by somebody approximately contemporary with Chaucer. A Scot, he was a real life Rab C Nesbitt character. Having now finished my pastie I made my excuses and left.

Bypassing Lostwithial and Liskeard, the town where we were so rudely dumped by Great Western Railways, I began to head for a camp-site at St Anns Chapel, just a few miles west of Tavistock. I found the place and turned in, but to my dismay it was only a field with no facilities. Iwas turning to come out again and look a little further when a man came running up asking if he could help. I explained that I was after somewhere with showers and shop, etc. and he apologised that, as yet, he did not have those developments in mind. We continued talking, with him telling me about some Germans and Dutch who had also stayed there and were keen cyclists. I told him of my trip to John O’Groats and he remembered about a young girl who was doing the same thing about six years ago on a three wheeler. I asked him if it had a seat in front and he said it did.

“Was she 5’2” with spiky blonde hair?”
“Yes, that’s her. Tiny she was, we thought she’d never make it, it took four blokes to push her and her bike off the campsite. But she did have this air of determination.”

I explained that I thought she was Josie Dew and quite a famous travel writer (in cycling circles at least). He couldn’t believe it when I told him of all the places she had been to. “I’d often wondered what happened to her. I’m really pleased you’ve been able to tell me.”

In the end we were talking for three quarters of an hour and it was starting to get a little late. Dartmoor was visible in the distance but becoming less so as the mist descended. I bid farewell to the camp warden, promising to return when more suitably equipped and set off for Tavistock. Fortunately it was not too far to the camp-site and I turned in only to find the shops already closed. I looked in and asked if there was any chance of getting any provisions. The warden agreed to open the shop for me and I bought some milk, eggs, fruit and cheese so I could have a reasonable meal that evening.

Picking a likely looking spot I began to pitch the tent but after all the hot, dry weather, the pegs were not keen on being buried in the hard baked ground. Several times I had to go to the brook that ran along the back of the tent to straighten bent pegs with suitable rock hammer and anvil. I was struggling with another peg and pulled it out almost bent double when a man came up offering a loan of his hammer. He saw the state of the peg and offered me some spares. I said I had enough and could straighten the bent pegs but he refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. We returned to his tent where he showed me a bucket full of different types of peg. “Take what you want” he offered. I gratefully took two metal pegs at which he gave me a couple of plastic pegs as well. I thanked him profusely for his generosity and returned to my half erected tent. It now took only a few moments to finish off with the help of his hammer. I’d showered, laundered my clothes and just finished off my cheese omelette when the man returned to check I had food. I told him I had just eaten and showed him the Trangia meths stove I was using. He was very interested since he had not seen anything quite like it in his fifty five years of campling, since he was 16/17. Again we were talking for an hour or so and it was quite dark by the time we returned to our respective abodes. He told me of his working years as an electrical fitter working on power stations for the CEGB (Central Electricity Generating Board). He also told me of the devastation of industry in Cornwall since all the tin mines had closed down. Not just the mines but all the ancillary industries had disappeared leaving unemployment and despair. Many of the miners had moved abroad and there are now Cornish miners all over the world. He told me a local saying: “When you find a hole in the ground, if you look deep enough, you’ll find a Cornishman down there”.

As I turned in to bed, rain began to fall, which it continued to do right through the night, stopping only as I was finishing my breakfast.

Day 2 map (approximate route)


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Saturday, November 26, 2011

18-Jun-1996 - Day 1 - Lands End to Veryan

  • Day’s Distance: 52.05 Miles (not including the 5 miles from the camp-site to Lands End)
  • Total Distance: 52.05 Miles
  • Travel Time: 4:51
  • Average Speed: 10.7 Miles/Hr
  • Max Speed: 34.0 Miles/Hr
  • Punctures: 0
I set off at 10:25am after saying goodbye to my very friendly hosts - Liz and Kevin. It did not take long to reach Lands End and I had an ‘official’ photograph taken. At 10:40am I set off on the journey retracing my steps of the morning and the previous night.
Bypassing Penzance I started travelling on ‘virgin’ road and headed for Marazion which was a very pretty village but most notable for being the access point for St Michaels Mount - an island with a tidal footpath to the mainland. A dramatically high hill, taking up almost the entire island, is topped by a large, incredibly impressive monastary / abbey. Unfortunately the light at that time of day left the island in near silhouette and so the photographs may not be quite so inspiring as the reality.
The landscape unfolded as a series of gentle valleys and hills which I felt quite happy about coping with. That is until I crossed the King Henry ferry - a transportation across the river set in a beautiful, tranquil wooded valley. The road wound up steeply from the ferry and carried on going up. Eventually I reached the top and felt exhausted. At this point I knew I would not reach my destination. Consulting the map I saw a camp-site marked just past Veryan which was not far away. With much effort in the heat of the afternoon I reached my new found goal only to discover that it had been taken over only the previous week and the shop’s stock was minimal with only a few tins and packets and no deliveries of eggs, milk, bacon, etc. With tent pitched I cooked some rice as the sun began to set. The cloud formations were so impressive I photographed my tent with this incredible backdrop.
Day 1 Map (approximate route)

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Friday, November 25, 2011

17-Jun-1996 – Day 0 - The Journey Down

Sue came to pick me up at 06:20. With the van loaded and on our way to Darlington, I started to remember things that I had forgotten, such as the vaseline intensive care for the chamois in the shorts and the new batteries for the lights.
The train arrived on time and we made rapid progress down to Bristol. So accurate was it running to schedule that it started pulling out of Birmingham New Street only three seconds after its alloted departure time.
With three hours to spare in Bristol I had a whistle stop tour of the centre, or rather, its one way system. After several tours around these roads I eventually stumbled into Bristol Temple Mead station and decided to stay there rather than risk losing it again.
After a twenty minute delay I left BTM for Penzance. This was a 'Sprinter' train although it is drastically misnamed. At Plymouth we had a twenty minute extended stop due to 'staff difficulties' they explained they were sending someone up from Cornwall by road. After this the train slowed down, stopping at every station possible and not moving quickly between them. Finally at Lizkeard the train stopped altogether and we were instructed to assemble on the platform to await another train. Twenty minutes later, this arrived and we duly got on. This train was itself forty minutes late and the extra stops it now had to include for our trains schedule now put it 48 minutes late.
We finally arrived in Penzance at 9:20pm, 2 hours and 20 minutes after our scheduled arrival time. I was greeted by a man who was also doing the LETJOG on a bike, setting off tomorrow and expecting a friend who had not turned up. We chatted for a while and he kindly offered to let me share their B&B room of I didn't fancy travelling to Lands End, but I gratefully declined and set off into the gathering dusk for a camp site.
I soon realised that I needed my lights and so they were dug out from a pannier – miraculously I could remember which one. With the onset of dusk O realised I would not be able to get to Lands End and have time for something to eat. Eventually I came across a camp-site and turned in. Immediately I sensed I'd hit on a good spot and the owner greeted me cheerily with a Geordie accent! He explained the facilities and offered to make me dinner, even though it was after the normal finishing time for catering. I gladly accepted and erected my tent. On my return to the shop/bar – yes it was licensed! I ordered a chicken and mushroom pie and what turned out to be a very bice pint of Edridge Pope Bitter. Feeling full and happy I retired to bed.

The story of a solo cycle ride from Lands End to John O'Groats in 1996

Article from the Evening Gazette 12-Jun-1996
I've finally started to transcribe my notes from my Lands End to John O'Groats solo cycle ride which I completed a mere 15 years ago. So this is the story of the journey faithfully transcribed from the notebook I used - no editing nor massaging. This is how I expressed myself at the time, usually on the evening sat in a camp-site, or even better, a bar!
As this was long before I had a digital camera, all the pictures are on 35mm slides. If I can dig them out and get them digitized, then I'll add them to the relevant pages.
So here goes, the story of how I managed to cycle from one corner of Great Britain to the other via some curious route choices. Some on purpose, others less so.