Travel Biography - Week 46.

Note: All the photos displayed here were taken on the 1991 holiday. No stock photos.

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Our 1990 End-to-End bicycle ride through the length of Great Britain was a success. The ride, starting from John O'Groats to Lands End, was accomplished with one other person, a long-standing friend, Gareth Philips, with whom I still keep in touch to this day.

The 1991 Coastal Cycle Ride from Lulworth Cove to Dover.

As one who always loved being independent, it would have been natural to love travelling on my own. However, when I had to go through a period of a more restricting budget, there were options to experience travel, both overseas and at home, accompanied by one or more friends. And such characterised the late eighties into the nineties. With four other people, namely Keith White, Paul Hunt, Gareth Philips, and Tim Kingcott, I have completed a couple of cycling circuits through Holland, Belgium and Germany. This was followed by a cycle ride in 1989 along the French coast from Cherbourg to Paimpol and back in a week. Like the End-to-End cycle ride a year later, I shared this particular holiday only with Gareth.

At the Fossil Forest, Dorset, 1991.

However, in this blog, I would like to concentrate on the one solo cycle ride here in England. It was 1991 and for the first time since 1985, I took a week off work to first cycle the 105 miles from my apartment in Bracknell to Lulworth Cove in Dorset. Setting off at 6.00 in the morning, I arrived at Lulworth Cove around four in the afternoon. From Lulworth Cove, I then cycled the approx 230 miles from Lulworth Cove, which is near the Dorset ferry port and seaside resort of Weymouth, to the ferry port of Dover in Kent. Although I completed the ride on my own, there were three unusual features on this ride.

First, I was joined by Tim Kingcott at YHA Swanage on the third evening after leaving home. This was after he asked me if he could ride the Isle of Wight leg of the journey with me before boarding the train for home at Portsmouth. Secondly, my first full day in Swanage was taken up by the Swanage Triathlon, an annual sea swim event corresponding to the Swanage Summer Festival. That year, I competed in the triathlon. Tim arrived at Swanage in the evening after I had completed the triple-mode sport. Thirdly, after spending a night at YHA Dover, I boarded a cross-channel ferry to Calais to complete a cycling circuit from the French port to the small town of Ardres, 16 miles inland.

Stair Hole.

Here is a list of overnight stops I made during this short break, all at YHA hostels:

Lulworth Cove

Swanage - 2 nights

Totland Bay

Arundel

Eastbourne

Dover 

With Tim Kingcott:

2nd night at Swanage

Totland Bay.

I saw Tim off at Portsmouth Harbour Station whilst I continued eastwards to Arundel.

Approximate total miles cycled: 

My apartment - Lulworth Cove: 105 miles.

Triathlon cycle route - 12 miles.

Lulworth Cove - Dover: 230 miles.

In France, Calais - Ardres: 32 miles round trip.

Total miles ridden on two wheels: approx 380 miles, 614 km.

After arriving back at Dover from the cross-Channel crossing, I boarded a train at Dover Priory Station for the homebound train on the Charing Cross line to Waterloo East Station, where I changed trains at Waterloo Main Line. I didn't have either the energy or the mood to cycle homeward. 

So, why I have included this short break in this Travel Biography? Mainly to centre on the Dorset Coast with its dramatic cliff formation, along with participation in a sporting event.

Stair Hole with Lulworth Cove in the background.

In the world of Geology, the hard and resistant Portland Stone on this stretch of coastline was eventually breached by the sea, exposing and then eroding the softer rock layers behind. These softer rocks include the Purbeck Beds, with the Wealden Beds further inland. Behind the Wealden Beds, the Chalk landscape continues inland. There are three stages of erosion, each represented by three different locations, making this part of the Dorset coastline so spectacular. Stair Hole is the youth stage, where the sea had "recently" breached the Portland stone to form two arches under the cliff. The middle age is Lulworth Cove itself, where the erosion of all four rock layers had formed an oval bay penetrating inland. At the east end of the cove, a ledge protrudes from the cliff, on it are the remains of circular burrs surrounding what used to be antediluvian trees. This area is known as the Fossil Forest. It is reached by a short flight of steps.

The old age of coastal erosion is at Durdle Door, a famous arch a mile west of Lulworth Cove, which is a 61-metre-high bridge of limestone that still bear remains of an ancient forest. I have visited this natural wonder several times and actually completed a circuit swim passing under the arch. Unfortunately, during the heat of the summer, there have been serious injuries occurring at the site by those tombstoning into the sea from the crest of the arch.

At Stair Hole.

The Swanage Triathlon 1991.

After arriving at the hostel from my hometown of Bracknell, I spent that night at YHA Lulworth Cove, which is part of a school, and therefore with restricted opening times. It's quite a walk to get to it from the coast. But with the rolling hills plunging into the sea and with such dramatic cliff formations, it looks to me like this is one of the wonders of Great Britain.

It was the next day after I arrived that I explored the coastline, including a visit to Fossil Forest. By late afternoon, I began the ten-mile ride to Swanage and checked into the YHA hostel there, a large country house that's open throughout most of the year. That night, I spent alone. However, the next morning, a Sunday, I assigned my bike to one of the pegs reserved for me. A crowd of nervous athletes were gathering on the beach. Yet, the air was electric.

Here we were, all dressed in a lycra tri-suit, a one-piece, tight-fitting garment that's compatible with swimming, cycling, and running. I was in my late thirties by this time, and I was at the peak of my fitness.

We all plunged into the sea from the moment the starter's gun fired. It must have been quite a spectacular sight - a crowd of athletes literally running into the sea and throwing themselves forward to a front crawl stroke. With hundreds of arms swinging in and out of the water all around me, I kept my eyes on the Ballard Down chalk cliff directly ahead whilst on this 400-metre swim. Eventually, we neared a buoy placed there to turn us around as we headed back to the beach.

Back at the beach, it was a dash across the road to the bike park. After slipping on some footwear and a mandatory helmet, I was off. No messing about with a towel or having a shower or a coffee break. In a triathlon, the transition would make all the difference between you holding up the winner's trophy or watching somebody else lift it.

The twelve-mile (20k) bicycle leg was fast but very demanding, as the terrain was very hilly. The 6-mile (10k) run that followed included a very steep climb up Ballard Down, then a downhill fast run into Studland Bay. Then its route passed through a gap in the hills before winding through the town to finish by the beach. In all, I probably completed the whole event in around one hour and fifty minutes.

Durdle Door, Dorset.

The Coastal Ride Resumes.

That evening, after most of the athletes had gone home, I was greeted by Tim as he checked into the hostel. The next day, we decided to walk along the cliffs to Old Harry Rocks, a series of chalk stacks at the tip of the Foreland Point, the angle of the mainland where Studland Bay begins, and on a clear day, it's clearly seen across 15 miles of sea from the Isle of Wight. After returning to our bikes, we both made off for Totland Bay on West Wight, the very same hostel where Tim first introduced me to this shared form of accommodation six years earlier in 1985.

Lulworth Cove.

The next day we hugged the south coast of the Isle of Wight as we made our way from Totland Bay to Ryde Pier, one of the very few piers in Britain that carries a railway, the Island Line from Ryde Pierhead Station to Shanklin, where the line ends, although it once carried on further to Ventnor.

We crossed the Solent back to the mainland again by ferry, just as we did the evening before when we used the Lymington-Yarmouth ferry. At Portsmouth Harbour Station, I saw Tim off as he boarded a train for home. Alone once again, I carried on the ride for an overnight stop at Arundel. The next morning, from Arundel, I made my way to Eastbourne, stopping at Brighton on the way.

The YHA Eastbourne is a couple of miles out of town, as the hostel actually serves hikers using the South Downs Way, a hiking trail from Eastbourne to Winchester. Therefore, I arrived at the hostel before reaching the resort. But once at the hostel, I stayed there rather than wander into town. 

The Pinnacles, Swanage.

By the next day, a strong westerly started blowing. This gave me a great advantage. For example, the road from Hastings to Rye, then on to Folkstone, was flat and very fast! Indeed, fast enough to overtake a lorry, after making sure that the oncoming lane was clear and safe enough for me to make the manoeuvre. It was exhilarating! Had I ridden that fast at the Swanage Triathlon, indeed, I wonder whether I might have won overall?

At the YHA in Dover, I wasn't too impressed with the member's kitchen. It looked more like a corridor than a proper room. However, like at all other hostels, I managed to prepare a decent meal to refuel all my energy.

The next morning, after checking out of the hostel, I made my way to the docks and bought a return ticket to board the ferry to Calais. This wasn't spontaneous, rather, it was planned, as I had my passport on me in readiness. I boarded the ferry and parked my bike in the car hold without a hitch. This was one of the benefits of membership in the European Union. The freedom of movement such membership offered made it so easy and effortless for a cyclist to cross the Channel.

At Calais, I turned off the motorway that took traffic to Paris and rode on a quiet, traffic-free road. I eventually arrived in the small town of Ardres.

The most famous Old Harry Rocks, Swanage. 1991.

There I was, across the English Channel on my own for the first time since 1985. Will I revert to travelling overseas solo like I did before? 

That was when I had as if a divine vision of standing on the Mount of Olives in Israel, and looking down towards Jerusalem. That occurred in October 1992, after turning 40. That vision I had whilst at work, and it was proved to be a Morning of Destiny. Little did I know that this very vision opened up what I call the explosive climax of world travel, covering seven years before I married Alex.

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Next Week: On the Throne of England and more about the vision.

Travel Biography - Week 45.

In this blog, I'll show the best pics I took of the whole ride. 

What does the United Kingdom mean to me?

Throughout the last few weeks of writing this Biography, I focused on Great Britain rather than overseas. It was the late eighties into the nineties, and this was a time of my life when I lived on a tighter budget as a self-employed domestic window cleaner. Hence, those trips I had made far and wide, especially to Israel and North America, had become a distant dream, yet pleasant memories of the seventies remain for life.

At the famous Signpost.

At the Start, The House Hotel, John O'Groats.

Although I have always dreamed about another visit to the Grand Canyon, this time with a better camera than I had in 1978, I accepted the possibility that I would never cross the Atlantic Ocean again. This was very important to me psychologically. It meant that I could travel as far as my budget allowed without feeling restricted or resentful. And that included the so-called "staycation" - enjoying a holiday within the UK.

For my grandparents' generation, a week at a British seaside resort was something of a privilege, a traditional holiday enjoyed by both the working and middle classes alike. However, British summers always had a reputation for being cool and wet. The predominant southwesterly wind draws in moisture from the Atlantic, usually in a form of a wide concentric circle the weatherman once called a depression, now it's an area of low pressure.

But the term depression was very appropriate. As I visualise a seaside resort in the rain, I can't help seeing the dreariness of a deserted beach sloping into a grey sea, whilst at the promenade and pier, the outdoor fun-fair is closed with its rollercoaster cars kept dry under a protective canvas. Meanwhile, crowds take shelter in the indoor arcades with their rows of amusements, with bright, flashing lights and sounds emitted to entice the customer to part with their hard-earned money. Not to mention a thrifty family stuck in their hotel with a couple of bored children fussing and prone to cause mischief.

It's this cool, temperate climate so characteristic of the British Isles that makes the weather such a talking point in any conversation and can even be used as a greeting. More than that, as far as I'm aware, when it comes to taking a holiday, the UK has become incredibly unique to those with an entrepreneurial mindset. William Butlin was one classic example. By digging a hole in the ground, covering it with a decorative roof and filling the hole with chlorinated water, and then by building a funfair, some shops, several restaurants, a theatre, a pub, a ballroom, plenty of amusements, and several rows of chalets, the Butlin's Holiday Camp had been a booming business for decades - and provides the perfect answer for the bored family stuck in the rain.

As I see it, the very presence of holiday camps, seaside hotels, fun fairs and the abundance of the amusement arcade indicates that on a geographical scale, the British Isles have very moderate physical superlatives, making our landscape "boring" to explore. What do I mean by this? Consider the UK's highest mountain, Ben Nevis. It stands 1,343 metres high. In my Philips Atlas of the World, I have a list of the 168 highest mountains in the world. Starting with Mt Everest at 8,848 metres, and going through the list, Ben Nevis is right at the bottom of the list. The next two higher mountains are located in Sweden (2,117 m.) and Iceland (2,119 m.) 

I suppose it's reasonable to say that Great Britain is only a small island, therefore, it would be unfair to assign a very high mountain on an area of land of just 80,823 square miles in area. However, the highest mountain in Iceland at 2,119 metres, dominates a volcanic island of just 40,000 square miles in area. Therefore, as I see it, with the mellow, gentle landscape that makes up our island, it doesn't come as a surprise that the UK is unique in the provision of holiday camps as well as an abundance of amusement facilities along Britain's coast. 

At Blair Atholl Castle.

True enough, roller coasters are found worldwide. Outside the UK, I rode on one in Brisbane, Queensland, and on another one at Coffs Harbour in New South Wales. And I couldn't resist the one at Mission Beach, San Diego. Then not to mention Disneyland...

Yet the holiday camp of Butlin's calibre is uniquely British. So to conclude, I like to ask: Does Great Britain lack the geological, geographical, and natural dynamism that is found overseas? Then added to that, the cool temperate climate which dampens our summers - thus, the need for a raincoat, woollies, and an umbrella instead of swimming trunks, sunglasses and sunblock?

As one who loves Travel, and one who also loves both natural and dynamic beauty as well as ancient history, taking a vacation in the UK with its gentle, more mellow landscape with green rolling hills dotted with sheep, cottages lining the valleys, footpaths running alongside quiet rivers and small-scale waterfalls - along with the unpredictable weather - all present something of a dilemma for me. Although I love scenic dramatism and excitement coupled with spiritual awe, there is much beauty in Great Britain with its own dramatism which is just as pleasing to my soul. And that's where taking on the challenge of riding a bicycle from one end of Great Britain to the other end, a 900-mile ride through the gentle beauty that is our country. The cycling challenge, along with my admiration of the British landscape, fits the bill well for me without the need to travel overseas.

Lake Windermere.

The Ride Continues.

And so far, in the last two weeks, I have narrated our ride from John O'Groats to Lands End, and so far, made our one-night stop at Chester, which I rank as the most historic and picturesque city in the UK. Having tasted the delights of the Lake District National Park, and then riding on a roller coaster at Blackpool Pleasure Beach, we arrive at this ancient Roman fort where excavations reveal the remains of this military civilisation.

From Chester, on the next day, we proceed to our next stop, which is Ludlow, a market town in Shropshire with its medieval castle and medieval bridge over the River Teme. To get there, we crossed the border into Wales and cycled within its borders until we arrived at Wrexham, where we stopped for coffee. Afterwards, we crossed back into England to visit Shrewsbury, also in Shropshire, before arriving at Ludlow Youth Hostel.

The route between Ludlow and Bristol passed through some of the prettiest countrysides of the Ride, the Wye Valley on the border between England and Wales. We stopped to gaze at the ruined Tintern Abbey, just within Wales and dedicated in 1131. We then crossed back into England on Severn Bridge, which was near where the River Wye emptied into the River Severn, before eventually arriving at the city hostel in Bristol.

A Roman excavation at Chester.

Of all the hostels we stayed at, YHA Bristol was the one I least liked. A converted warehouse, it was large and spacious and had all the facilities of a hotel. But I found the other hostellers at this venue rather impersonal, as unlike up in the north, the other backpackers here kept themselves to themselves. And it was precisely that which brought up the discussion about the North/South cultural divide. Where up in the North, other people had an interest in us and were willing to talk, here in the South, people were far more reserved, and quite likely saw us as a threat to their privacy if we began to talk to them as if we were longstanding friends. Indeed, I felt that this was a shock to the system, and I think Gareth felt it too.

But throughout the ride, we came across other hostellers who were cycling or even walking from End to End, mainly in the northerly direction from Lands End to John O'Groats. Of those riding a bicycle, one issue of curiosity emerged. That is, the majority of riders we met and spoke to lived in the Birmingham area. What is it about this West Midlands city that seems to breed the majority of long-distance cyclists remains a mystery.

As already mentioned, the 88-mile leg of the journey from Bristol to Exeter in Devon was a real stinker of a ride! The road was wide and virtually straight, it was hilly and worst of all, we were riding into a strong headwind. It was while we were pushing up a long slope of a hill that I became discouraged, and I was at the point of quitting. But I also knew that had I quit, I would deeply regret it for the rest of my life. Thankfully, a meal at a roadside cafe lifted my hopes and reset my determination to finish the ride properly. After all, we had already done much more than what was still left to do. The finish was only a couple of days away.

The River Wye, Wales.

Arriving at the YHA Exeter in Topsham that evening was a huge relief! It was such a welcoming sight. However, it was the next morning after we had checked out that there was some unexpected drama. The driveway to the hostel bordered a private garden, separated by a wire fence. I felt that both my tyres need to be pumped up to full pressure, so we leaned our bikes against the fence and pumped our tyres. The next moment, the landowner approached and gave us a stiff rollicking for leaning our bikes against his fence. He then returned to his house, shouting to his wife about how we cycling scum kept on taking advantage of his property.

I was angry and upset, and not in a fit state to continue with the journey. We headed into town. It was at a table in a coffee bar that Gareth brought up the discussion about the Earth's gravitation, whether we were "cycling downhill all the way." Feeling refreshed, we continued to YHA Fowey in Cornwall.

We crossed the headstream of the River Tamar and saw the sign, Cornwall at the roadside. We were jubilant. We rode along until arrived at YHA Fowey. From the dormitory window was a splendid view of the River Fowey passing through the Cornish countryside.

Tintern Abbey.

The next day saw the end of the ride. We left Fowey Hostel and made our way along the A30. It was hard to believe that this very road branched off the A4 near London Heathrow Airport, just west of the capital, and passes near our hometown of Bracknell.

The A30 was a dual carriageway until we arrived at Penzance. As we approached the town, we passed St Michael's Mount off the coast at Marazion. We passed straight through Penzance without stopping. Beyond the coastal town, the A30 became a single-carriageway and a country lane as it headed towards Land End. However, there was a hill to climb, as Gareth said, we grind to the bitter end. Near the end, we stopped at a wine shop and Gareth went in to buy a bottle of champagne.

The End of the Ride.

At Lands End, there was no Start/Finish line as there was at John O'Groats. Instead, the A30 narrowed to a footpath which looped over the cliffs. It was at this loop that the ride finally ended. 

A celebration Dinner in Penzance.

We broke open the champagne bottle, and the foamy drink went all over me! But we were happy, exhilarated.  

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Next Week: Our final "staycation" before I was hit by a vision whilst at work. 

Travel Biography - Week 44.

The End-to-End Ride - Coping with the Weather.

The 1990 End-to-End cycle ride southward from John O'Groats to Land's End was the less frequent direction taken among cyclists, as the most prominent wind direction in the UK has always been the southwesterly, a mild wind from the Atlantic Ocean that prevents our winters from getting too cold and keeps the summers cool and wet. Hence, here in the UK, a centimetre of snow in the winter is enough to close all the schools, halt all the trains, and clog up the traffic on the roads. And one warm, sunny day in the summer will bring on a drought alert.

The Geo of Sclaites, Scotland.

What a Contrast! Blackpool Beach at low tide.

However, the weather throughout August of 1990 wasn't too bad. Probably, it may not have done us any good to cycle long distances under scorching sunshine and risk hyperthermia. Or, for that matter, pedalling in continuous rain would have caused us to shiver in the wet. But riding into the headwind was at times a problem, and we had experienced the worst of that on the 88-mile Bristol-Exeter leg of the journey. Here, the A39 ride was up a long but gentle uphill slope banked by flat fields on both sides. The strong headwind and the boring and featureless scenery had brought me to the point of giving up altogether, and I was that close to throwing in the towel.

That is until we arrived at a roadside cafe, and there was no hesitating on a rest stop for refreshments. A lunch with coffee made all the difference. When I was at the point of quitting, with a hungry hole in my stomach at last plugged, the feeling of encouragement and the determination to press on returned. By the time we passed through the town of Honiton, I was already feeling elated, as we knew that Exeter with its district of Topsham and a promise of a bed not far away, and by then, the wind had died down.

How did we set about on the whole ride? Basically, we alternated on leading. For example, I led from John O'Groats to Carbisdale Castle. Then, on the next day, Gareth led from Carbisdale Castle to Aviemore, and I then led from there to Perth. And so it went, on each alternate day, taking turns to lead. The only exception was in the Warrington area, between Blackpool and Chester. Since we were passing through a series of conurbations between Liverpool and Manchester, Gareth wanted to lead for that day also. I was happy with that. Give me a straight, fast road and I'm happy. He felt just as much at home among road junctions and traffic lights.

At each hostel (and one hotel in Blackpool) we spent just one night. However, other than at John O' Groats where we spent two nights before the start of the Ride, we spent two nights at Windermere Hostel in the Lake District. Rather than skirt the National Park by staying on the traditional route (which was the A6 through Penrith and Kendal) - we diverted into the Lake District to see the dramatic beauty of England's mountains and lakes. It's in this area where "the Throne of England" sits, Scafell Pike, at 978 metres, making England's highest mountain.

How the Ride was Nearly Abandoned.

However, the hostel we stayed at soon after entering the Park boundary from the North was Carrock Fell Hostel, the all-time smallest hostel I ever stayed at, with just 18 beds. A tiny, isolated building, yet the Ministry of Transport didn't reckon it was worthy of a sign pointing to it when we arrived at a turning leading directly to it. Instead, we carried straight on, only to get lost and end up cycling around in circles.

After adding around two miles to our ride, a truck arrived and stopped where we were, and the driver asked us where we were going. I explained that we were heading for Carrock Fell Hostel and we went wrong somewhere in our attempt to find it. Fortunately, he knew where it was, and offered to take us there. Already crestfallen, we accepted his offer. About a mile down the road and we were there.

Whilst cooking supper, I felt my spirit fall to its lowest point. Gareth noticed. I was so adamant about not going near a motorised vehicle until we had reached Lands End that I felt that the challenge was compromised, or in effect, ruined. My companion then said,

Tomorrow, we'll ride up to the junction where we should have turned and redo that part of the ride. Then we can say that we did it.

I accepted his proposal. After all, this was a very different situation from the boat ride taken by the group of cyclists we met at John O'Groats. Their sailing across the Mersey was planned and deliberate. By contrast, we fell victim to poor navigation worsened by a lack of direction.

The next day, we fulfilled Gareth's proposal. We made our way to the road junction where we should have originally turned, and having proceeded further back, we approached the junction and turned into it, then rode until we arrived at the hostel. We then locked up our bikes outside the hostel and started a dayhike up the slopes of Carrock Fell itself, a 661-metre high mountain on the northern edge of the Park. We made it to the summit for some splendid views. Then, after we made our way back down, we collected our bikes to commence the 25-mile ride to Windermere Hostel, the shortest leg of the entire Ride.

Crossing the Boundary. Leaving Scotland for...

England. And I should have posed better.

From Carrock Fell to Windermere.

The journey from Carrock Fell to Windermere might have been a short ride, but it was very dramatic. It took in two of the largest lakes in the District, Lake Ullswater and Lake Windermere, the latter being the largest natural lake in England. Of the two, Lake Ullswater is more dramatic by the higher mountains that surround it. On the other hand, Lake Windermere is more commercialised, with cruises laid on from the southern end of the 11-mile ribbon lake to the northern end, on which Ambleside Hostel is located, the largest provincial hostel in the UK, or the second largest after London's Rotherhithe.

Lake Ullswater is separated from Lake Windermere by Kirkstone Pass, a very steep hill climb. This was part of the End-to-End cycle ride where we had little choice but to dismount and walk up the slope. But to us, that was acceptable. The whole purpose of covering the whole of Great Britain was to use the energy our own bodies had created without any motorised aid.

After arriving at the summit of Kirkstone Pass, we mounted our bikes and allowed ourselves to roll downhill towards Lake Windermere, which had already come into view. We rode on, continuing southward, east of the lake until we arrived at Windermere Hostel as the evening approached.

We spent a whole of the next day off from cycling, a mid-holiday rest break. We spent that day on the lake itself. The nearest shoreline village from the hostel was Bowness-on-Windermere, and from here, a cruise boat sailed north to Ambleside, calling at a couple of other piers throughout its sailing. It was also in this vicinity that we found a leisure centre, and the two of us had a swim at the local indoor swimming pool. This goes to show that no matter what kind of holiday we may embark on, it's always wise to bring a pair of swimming trunks!

The next day, it was back on our bikes, and we left the Lake District behind with a promise that one day we would be back (which was fulfilled two years later in 1992.) After joining the main road at Kendal, we proceeded on with Gareth leading.

Blackpool.

We took a second detour from the traditional route to spend the next night at the Hotel Wilcot in Blackpool. This was the only non-YHA accommodation during the whole trip. Finding the hotel, which was on Lord Road, wasn't difficult, thanks to the large map of the town placed in front of one of the pier entrances.

The tide was out when we arrived at Blackpool Beach, leaving a wide expanse of exposed sand along the seven-mile-long strip. Whilst we were there, I couldn't help comparing this wide, sandy strip to the cliff face of Duncansby Head, with both the Geo of Sclaites and the nearby stacks. But that is the beauty of the natural side of Great Britain. The vivid contrast, whether it be the mountainous country of Highland Scotland or the flat plains of East Anglia, the coastal cliffs, or as here in Blackpool, a wide, featureless strip of sand. That was why I inserted two contrasting photos of the British coastline - the Geo of Sclaites and Blackpool Beach when the tide is out.

However, Blackpool offered something other than the quiet evenings spent at the hostel lounge. And that was fun - plenty of it. After all, this is a holiday. I'm referring to Blackpool Pleasure Beach, a seafront fun fair that has made Blackpool famous, and had made younger holidaymakers move to this popular resort after leaving behind the more quieter and sedate neighbour resort, Morecambe. 

One of the "gutsy" rollercoasters we rode on, the Revolution, involved looping a loop backwards, and I recall letting out a yell as my brain tried to figure out what was the ground and what was the sky. We also found ourselves standing in front of the Laughing Policeman enclosed in a glass cubicle. I cracked a joke, at other times not that funny, but the presence of the Laughing Policeman intensified the mirth, and the three of us were locked into uncontrollable laughter!

The next day, after breakfast, we were back on our bikes. Although it was meant to be my turn to lead, I agreed on Gareth's request to lead, as we were about to pass through one of the busiest stretches of the Ride, the suburban gap between Liverpool and Manchester, with a rather confusing road layout of Warrington. When we both studied our route on the map and concentrated on this city, I was able to see that the city centre was encircled by a ring road, from where other roads branched off in different directions. It was familiar. Bracknell, our home town, had the same road system.

As we were cycling towards Wigan, my bicycle chain began to make a noise as I pedalled, and I brought this to Gareth's attention. As the noise got gradually louder, I knew instinctively that the life of the chain is coming to an end, and I still have plenty of miles yet to cover.

We arrived at Wigan and I kept a lookout for a bicycle shop. Lo and behold! There was one on the High Street. I went in and bought a new derailleur gear chain. Then, with the chain breaker I carried in my toolbag, I removed the old chain and fitted the new one, making redundant a few links that weren't needed. However, was the new chain compatible with the present gear cassette? So I asked Gareth to remain where he was as I completed a test ride around the block. Had the chain kept on jumping the gear cog, then the whole gear cassette had to be replaced as well. This would have caused a delay, as I would have had to have taken the whole bike into the shop for a professional change, as I didn't have the appropriate tools for such a job.

But as I rode around the block, the new chain bedded in well and there were no more problems for the rest of the Ride. We carried on for Chester, where we would spend the coming night.

Chester.

We arrive at Chester, a city built on an ancient Roman fortress, hence it was full of Roman and Medieval history. I fell in love with the city as soon as we arrived. YHA Chester was a little out of town, a country house set in a well-to-do housing estate near the city park. Sadly, the hostel was closed and sold off by the YHA in 2010. After supper, a shower and a change of clothing, we walked to the city centre, and immediately I was impressed. There was even a Roman ruin, an echo of my 1982 visit to Siracusa in Sicily. The excavations included part of a Roman amphitheatre and the Temple of the Roman goddess Nemesium. The main precincts were lined with Medieval shops and the High Street was traffic-free. Part of the Roman wall enclosing the original fortress was still intact.

At the Roman Temple of Nemesium, Chester, 1990.

I could say that, just as Blackpool was the centre of holiday fun, Chester could be regarded as a city of learning. But unlike Oxford or Cambridge, Chester is a hands-on exhibit of an ancient civilisation excavated and left on-site.

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Next Week: The Ride Concludes.

Travel Biography - Week 43.

The Day Before the Start of the End-to-End Ride. 

Gareth and I arrived at John O'Groats Youth Hostel one early August evening in 1990 after travelling on several trains from my hometown of Bracknell in Berkshire to Thurso on the Scottish coast, a journey stretching around 23 hours. This was similar to the boat-train journey between London and Rome I completed a couple of times in the 1970s, although this particular journey to Scotland included a wait for several hours for the connecting train at Inverness.

Before the Start of the Ride.

We shared the dormitory with several young men, more to Gareth's age than mine (he's ten years my junior) - all from the Continent, mostly Dutch. That evening, a group of them in the hostel's lounge sat around a large map of Great Britain laid out on the floor whilst celebrating their success in completing their End-to-End cycle ride northwards from Lands End to John O'Groats. However, in the Liverpool area, they hitched a ride on the Mersey ferry, hence their challenge was compromised.

Afterwards, whilst I was alone with Gareth, I spoke firmly to him, saying that in no way would we hitch any motorised ride, whether on a boat, car or train, although we both agreed that walking was allowed on steep hill climbs.

The next morning, a Saturday, was a day for local exploration around the John O'Groats area before commencing on our main ride. So we stayed in bed for longer than the rest of our dormitory. Whilst there was quite a bustle coming from outside our dorm, a richly Scottish female voice carried her words to our slumbering ears, explaining to some hostellers from the Continent that here in Scotland, everyone must carry out a mandatory duty. She then told them to stop fussing and get on with it. This became a standing joke between us for the months to come. Indeed, this particular incident made me think that the SYHA was still way behind other hostelling associations around the world when it came to modernisation to suit the desires of the adult backpacker.

Sometime after, my task was to mop the bathroom floor, a task that took less than five minutes. Gareth was given a similar task elsewhere. Throughout that holiday, mandatory duties were assigned in most hostels, the two exceptions were Carbisdale Castle in the Scottish Highlands (which closed in 2011 and sold off by the SYHA in 2014) and YHA Bristol. Also, as expected, we weren't assigned any duty at the Wilcot Hotel in Blackpool.

Here is the full list of accommodations throughout the whole holiday. All except one were YHA hostels and unless specified, each was for one night only:

Scotland.

John O'Groats - 2 nights.

Carbisdale Castle.

Aviemore.

Perth.

Broadmeadows.

England.

Carrock Fell.

Windermere - 2 nights.

Wilcot Hotel.

Chester.

Ludlow.

Bristol.

Exeter.

Fowey.

Penzance.

Duncansby Stacks, taken August 1990.

After Breakfast, we decided to explore the locality, and we had a full day to do this. First, we made our way to Dunnet Head on the north coast. It's a tongue of land jutting into the Arctic Ocean and thus, the most northerly point in the whole of mainland Britain. As we approached, we stopped at a small freshwater pond (Loch Bunfa) just a little way inland from the cliffs. At the sight, I exclaimed with loud excitement, Wow! This must be the most northerly lake in England!

To which my friend gave me a hard stare, looking straight into my eyes as if I had just uttered a blasphemy, which, actually, I did. What did you say? He asked.

Oh, I meant Scotland. He then reminded me never to refer to the Scots as English, as this would stir hostility. Fortunately, we were the only two at that isolated location.

We then cycled the 16 miles to Duncansby Head, located on the corner where the coast swings from east-west to north-south. We had a strong westerly tailwind, and I shifted to the highest gear. This evoked a response from Gareth, who was behind me, with the approximate words, By heck, he's off! And indeed I was. I rode along the quiet coastal road fast - one of those few occasions throughout the holiday.

However, the weather was moody. During the ride, the heavens opened, but there was a roadside cafe nearby, and we stopped there over warm coffee as it bucketed down outside. But it was a shower rather than prolonged rain. As we passed over a hill, in front of us looked to be something promising. I turned to Gareth to get closer to the site and check out what it was.

They turned out to be two huge Old Sandstone stacks, just off the coastal cliff, with a third stack "in the making" as it was still attached to the mainland by a narrow arch. We had arrived at Duncansby Head. I was awestruck! We never expected to see such a natural dramatist so soon, on our first full day in Scotland.

Being of sandstone rock, the sight of these stacks reminded me of the cliffs and buttes in the Grand Canyon, where I hiked twelve years earlier in 1978. Nearby, and near the Duncansby Lighthouse, was a "slot canyon" cutting into the cliff face, alive with Puffins with their loud squawks echoing within the narrow cliff walls of the canyon. This is the Geo of Sclaites, a natural phenomenon caused by cliff erosion over the millennia. At this point, I wish to remind the reader that at the time, I knew nothing of these features described here, let alone their names. It was after we returned home that, after buying an Ordinance Survey map of the area, I became familiar with the names.

The End-to-End Ride Begins.

That next morning, the hostel warden did not assign us any duties. Whether it was due to being Sunday and the Scots were religiously devoted to the Lord's Day, or whether we carried out our duties already and therefore had no need for another assignment, I will never know. But we got on well with her. She was due to retire in a short while, and we agreed to send her a postcard from Lands End as soon as we arrived there. 

We arrived at the House Hotel, next to the harbour. The white building enclosed a car park which was actually the terminus of the A9, a major class A road leading to Falkirk, near Edinburgh, along 290 miles before becoming the M9 into the Scottish capital. Back in 1990, this road was the A9 from the hotel car park in John O'Groats to just beyond Falkirk. At present, some 32 years later, the 23-mile route to Latheron from John O'Groats became the A99 whilst the road to Thurso became the new A9 when before it was the A895. Therefore, in this Biography, I will refer to the A9 as it was in 1990.

Across the entrance of the hotel car park was a white line painted right across the start of the road. At each end, there were two logos, one at each end, the Start and the Finish. At first, I was baffled why each of the two words was at "the wrong end" of the line. It was afterwards that I realised that the Start/Finish line was painted on the road for the benefit of walkers, who by law, had to walk on the right side of the road here in the UK.

We lined our bikes behind the line and a bystander, at my request, took photos. Then I began the countdown, 5,4,3,2,1, Go! And we set off on what would have been the traditional 874-mile route to Lands End. But with a couple of detours, first through the Lake District, then soon after another for Blackpool, we most likely pushed a total of 900 miles in two weeks.

We found the A9 to be quite an amazing road, including crossing the Dormoch Firth on a very long, low road bridge, and another low bridge spanned the Cromarty Firth, and as we approached Inverness, the A9 crossed the Moray Firth. The road also passed some lovely rivers, including the River Shin backed by mountains of the Scottish Highlands and gives a spectacular view from our dormitory Window at Carbisdale Castle. Other rivers we crossed include the River Tilt and the River Tummel, the latter before joining the River Tay as it passes through the city of Perth.

Of historic sites, Blair Atholl Castle is worth mentioning. This white edifice, similar to the House Hotel at John O'Groats, is surrounded by beautiful public gardens. It was lunchtime when we arrived here, and the gardens were the ideal spot for a picnic. And except for Lands End, this was how we ate throughout the holiday. We made our own breakfast and evening meal in the hostel member's kitchen. We took turns. One evening, I did the cooking, and he did the washing up. The following evening, our tasks were reversed. During the day, we lunched on snacks we bought at a grocery or superstore. All this fared well for our budget.

There was only one puncture throughout the entire trip, and that was on Gareth's front wheel after we left Aviemore for Perth, a remote, deserted spot on the road. Fortunately, I carried a puncture repair outfit, a spare innertube, and some essential tools necessary for the job, and having stopped, I handed my kit bag to him and he made a successful repair. We had no more flats since then.

Gareth repairs a puncture after leaving Aviemore.

Then we came across an elderly local who cautioned us with a degree of seriousness that we were riding during "the busy rush-hour traffic." Afterwards, we both laughed. There wasn't a vehicle in sight. The road was deserted for a weekday morning. Perhaps, we should escort this chap to London during a typical weekday morning during the school term. He'll then realise the real meaning of rush hour!

The stretch of the A9 between Aviemore and Perth was most deceptive when it came to the gradient. Pedalling out of Aviemore, we were unaware that we were cycling uphill. The road looked so level, yet, I couldn't understand why I felt a draining of energy. Even after the puncture repair break, there was mile after mile of tough pedalling without much reward. Eventually, I saw a roadside sign telling us that we'd reached the summit. 

From the moment we passed the sign, everything changed. I was riding in front, and I changed to the highest gear as we began to accelerate. In next to no time, we were going fast - like the clappers, as we sped towards Perth. It was during this part of the ride that we eventually stopped at Blair Atholl Castle for a rest and a picnic lunch.

By evening, we arrived at Perth Youth Hostel, our fourth stop on the ride, to settle for the night. As this hostel boasted a laundrette, this was a good time st stuff all our sweaty, smelly clothing into the front load and leave the following morning dressed in fresh clothing.

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From now on, all distances will be given in miles only. To convert to kilometres, multiply the number of miles by 1.62. Examples:

1 mile = 1.62 km.

16 miles = 25.9 or approx 26 km.

23 miles = 37.3 km.

290 miles = approx 470 km.

874 miles = approx 1,416 km.

Next Week: The Ride Continues.

 

Travel Biography - Week 42.

At last, the 1980s made way for a new decade, the 1990s. A rather colourful decade when Travel mattered. As for long-distance cycling, as already mentioned last week, the charity ride from Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Reading, totalling 300 miles in three days, was completed successfully and on schedule. And the feeling of euphoria remained in the months to come.

Some Thoughts whilst Preparing for the Big One.

Hence, in the Spring of 1990, after overhearing one of my friends, Gareth Philips, expressing his ambition to ride a bicycle from End to End, I had an idea. That evening, soon after he had completed his training as a marathon runner with members of the Bracknell Athletic Club, I approached the club hut, back then, a new addition to the existing running track, and entered. Gareth was resting on one of the benches.

After commenting about the new club hut and all the club memorabilia displayed in it, I put this proposal to him:

Have you booked your summer holidays yet?

"No, not yet."

Well, this might sound preposterous, but how do you feel about cycling from John O'Groats to Land's End in two weeks?

Gareth's face lit up with excitement. Our holidays were decided there and then.

As I had mentioned a few weeks earlier in this Biography, Travel doesn't always involve the long haul. Not while some spectacular but more local views are worth visiting. And all that can bring up some rather geographical surprises. Like the time, back in the seventies, when a work colleague asked me (as he had asked others on the shop floor) which of the two cities was further to the west, Bristol or Edinburgh?

Why, Bristol of course! was my spontaneous answer.

He smiled, having received the answer he was expecting. Actually, Edinburgh is further to the west. Being aware that the Scottish capital is built near the east coast whilst Bristol is close to the Welsh border, brings out this subconscious illusion. This is relevant that our route southward from John O'Groats to Land's End will pass through both cities, with an overnight stop at Bristol.

The ride proved that long-haul travel is not a necessity for me to gasp, oo-aah! at a beauty spot. Yet, supposing that a young man named Jim was with a group of colleagues in a pub near home. He may say that he has been to Duncansby Head up in Scotland. A colleague, Jake, then pipes up, boasting of his adventures Down Under, visiting Byron Bay and making his way south to Seven Mile Beach, south of Broken Rocks Nature Reserve in New South Wales. With whom would the rest of the group be more impressed?

Looking South at 7-Mile Beach, NSW, taken 1997.

Looking North at 7-Mile Beach, NSW. Taken 1997.

I could be mistaken here, but I would get the impression that among those who had never travelled far and wide, Jake's story of his trip to Australia would bring out far more gasps from the group than Jim's story of Scotland. Yet, if asked whether each of them have photos of their respective scenes and those two showed them, Jim's pics would be of the Old Sandstone Stacks, along with the nearby deep cliff crevices of the Geo of Sclaites, while Jake showed photos of the stunt peninsula of Broken Rocks Nature Reserve at the northern end of a seven-mile-long strip of sand backed by a flat area of bushland. 

How many would gasp at Jake's pics rather than Jim's? Especially when he was there, a strong southwesterly gale blew northwards along the Pacific coast, bringing in dark, thundery skies and torrential downpours. The chances are, that the more local Duncansby Stacks would bring out more whistles than the faraway featureless, deserted beach in the rain!

But when it comes to long journeys, there's something romantic, perhaps even mystical, about travelling overseas. Arriving in a different country with a warmer climate, a different government, a different currency, a different flag, and most importantly, a different language. A trip to Rome, for example, would have been a desirable dream for many Brits during the fifties and sixties whose only encounter with the sea was at Bognor.

By using the CalcMaps website, I saw that the shortest route from my hometown of Bracknell to Rome is 907 miles. That is a dead straight line, which wouldn't quite exist in reality due to the curvature of the Earth. But whilst such a trip to Rome would most likely have concluded with endless chat with the neighbours, the straight line from New York City to St Louis, Missouri, would be 875 miles. That is only 32 miles shorter than the Bracknell-Rome route, which isn't much, yet such a journey confined within the USA would have little or no romantic or mystical impact as the European cross-Channel journey.

For further comparison, the shortest distance from my hometown to Duncansby Head, near John O'Groats, is 508 miles. That is further away from home than the French port of Calais (114 miles), or from the French capital (224 miles). John O'Groats is a tad further away from home than the Swiss city of Zurich (502 miles) or the French city of Bordeaux (454 miles). Yet, would it be worth the expense, the time, and the effort to travel 10,383 miles to see a featureless sandy beach under an overcast sky with the threat of rain? Yes, it is, when considering that it's only a small part of the whole Australian adventure, as we shall see in future weeks. 

The Duncansby Stacks, stock photo.

The Geo of Sclaites, taken 1990.

Oh, Please!

The word that we were preparing to take on the End-to-End challenge on our bicycles brought a reaction from members of my church (Gareth went to a different church.) A few of them came up to me asking whether we were raising funds for a charity. However, I wasn't in the mood to go around knocking on doors and asking for sponsorship and then dealing with any bureaucratic stickiness that comes with it. Instead, all I wanted was a holiday. 

But the all-time nadir of knowledgeable thinking came from one middle-class church member who was, and perhaps still is, proud to wear a shirt-and-tie in the office, therefore well-schooled and living far from a life of hardship. He approached me with the seriousness of the announcement that since we will be cycling from north to south, it will be downhill all the way! - hence hinting at a compromise in the challenge. At first, I thought he was merely teasing me, perhaps out of envy for not taking on the challenge himself. But as the weeks leading to our departure elapsed, this idea of gravitation was shared by other members of the church and even Gareth began to wonder whether it was true.

This occurred in a coffee bar in Exeter, Devon, one morning after leaving our hostel at nearby Topsham. Before proceeding on with the journey, we sat at the table in this city coffee bar. It was there when Gareth brought up the question of the centre of gravity and asked me whether there is any evidence that riding in a southward direction proved to be advantageous.

I tried to explain the centre of gravity is at the central core of the Earth and not at the Equator or even Antarctica, and everything would fall towards the Earth's core unless there's something to stop it from happening, as it's the case globally, thanks to the solid hard Crust, both on land and under the oceans. Hence, whenever the road we were on was heading skywards, our pedalling was so much harder and took greater effort. Yet, this was something I didn't learn recently, rather, I already knew all that since boyhood.

We're Off!

The day arrived when we boarded the train at Bracknell Station with our bikes and appropriate equipment packed in a holder strapped to our panniers. This would be the major difference between the Newcastle-Reading bike ride and this End-to-End, covering the whole of mainland Britain. Whereas at the former, all our equipment was carried in the van. On this holiday, we had to carry our own luggage, making our mounts extra heavy and requiring a greater energy output to keep moving. As for repairs, I also carried the basic tools needed for any repair, including a chain breaker, a pump, a spare inner tube, a puncture repair kit, and a can of WD-40 spray oil. Just as well. Gareth's tyre punctured at a remote spot between Aviemore and Perth.

From London Waterloo to London Euston, we cycled through London, passing Trafalgar Square, then into Charing Cross Road, Tottenham Court Road, and finally along the A501 to Euston, where we arrived well before our Inverness Sleeper departed with us and our bikes on board. During the first part of the journey, I stood at an open window, watching the world go by under the cover of night darkness. After a while, the guard arrived, and after checking our tickets, let down the two couchettes so we could bed down for the night. 

The train split into two at Edinburgh Waverley Station, two termini built back-to-back with a through line running alongside. Our train was at the through platform. When it eventually pulled out as we headed on towards Inverness, I saw that we were right at the back of the train, with the bike shed a few coaches ahead. Further on, breakfast was served and the couchettes were lifted back to normal daytime seating.

We eventually arrived at Inverness, and I saw that its station is a terminus. Our connecting train to Thurso, a village on the most northerly coast of mainland Britain, was to depart later in the afternoon from the same station. Therefore, we locked up our bikes at the station bike rack and we spent a few hours checking out the city.

When it was time to board the connecting train, we saw that it was packed to the hilt with people and bicycles, and it looked to us like there was absolutely no more room on the train for us and our bikes. Then an aggressive-looking conductor or guard arrived and asked us if we booked a reservation on the train. I felt shocked. I heard nothing about the need to book. Then the guard dismissed us with instructions to book a reservation for the next train which was due to leave in a couple of hours. And so, we watched as the train depart without us whilst we made our way to the ticket office to book our reservations.

At the back of the train near Aviemore, 1990.

Later, we prepared to board what we believed was the last train to Thurso. Unlike the previous departure, this train was practically empty. The guard, more of an elderly Scotsman with a friendlier temperament, welcomed us and our bikes on board without even asking to see our tickets or reservation passes. As far as I was aware, we could have boarded without making (and paying for) any bookings.

The train passed through the hilly moorlands of the Scottish Highlands, a barren, treeless, semi-desert country. After the train called at Helmsdale Station, the railway line hugged the east Highland coastline before turning back inland to pull into the little terminus of Thurso Station, our train journey ended.

We cycled the 19 miles to John O'Groats Youth Hostel which was on the way to the village from Thurso. By the time we checked in, it was beginning to get dark. This goes to show that the timing was perfect, despite missing the train we intended to board and the need to wait for the next one. 

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Next Week: The Journey South Commences.