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.