Day 23 St Ives to Land's End

Zennor

I woke at 6am and couldn't sleep so went out to check on Horse who'd been locked to some railings all night. Horse was still there, but one of the rear lights had been nicked. I had a leisurely breakfast, and a late departure at 9am. It was a steep hill straight from the pub door, then a descent almost back to sea level before a steady climb to the cliff-top moors. Storm Clodagh was by now having a ball, gusting over 70mph, and I crawled along, occasionally being brought to a halt, and once getting blown completely off the road. The worst sections were as I approached the crest of hills, and my helmet would repeatedly lift up and down as the slack in the straps was taken up. At least on the downhill sections I felt like I

Carn Galver

was covering ground, and occasionally a high dry stone wall or hedge would provide some respite from the wind and there would be a few seconds of blissful calm. Zennor was only 8km, but it took an age to reach. Standing stones and old tin mines were passed, the most impressive at Carn Galver. In the distance I could just see the tops of the cliffs at Bosigran. The last time I'd climbed there was in 1982, just 24 years old. I wondered what I'd have said if someone had told me that in 34 year's time I'd be biking that road into storm force winds?  It was a relief to arrive in St Just and see Land's End signposted as 6 miles away. The headwind became more of a sidewind, then it was onto the A30 through Sennan. If I'd had the OS map for the area I'd have seen an off-road path through Sennan Cove and on to Land's End, which would have avoided the A road.
The last 20 metres were decidedly odd. There was a white stone plinth on either side of the road emblazoned with FINISH. 'Finished off' would have been more approriate as I collapsed over the line. The cheerful figure of Shaun the

Sheep waved from beyond the Grecian-style pillars, and the words UGHNU which had me wondering whether I'd become competely unhinged, until it became THE LAND'S END DOUGHNUT COMPANY. Visitors from the Far East were staggering around with looks of utter bemusement at a helicopter impaled on a girder, a temperance building, Arthur's Quest and the Lost World Experience, all closed. I had the obligatory photo underneath the sign.
'What do you want on it?' 'The Long Way To Little Comfort?' 'Not enough room. About End-to-End?' 'That'll do.
I went into the restaurant and order a Cornish cream tea, and rang Fiona up. "I've made it!', voice almost cracking with emotion. Then I rang the folks.

The end is nigh

'Hello Dad'
'Hello son. What's the weather like in Inverness?'
'Don't know. I've just arrived at Land's End'.
'Yes it's been windy here too. Is Fiona there?'
'NO DAD I'M AT LAND'S END. I'VE JUST ARRIVED!'
Heads were turning to see why I was shouting.
'Land's End? Just arrived? What took you so long?'







Day stats 31km    455 Metres of ascent

Off road 0km 

A road 4km 

B road  26km 

Unclassifed road 1km

Well done Horse

Day 22 Boscarne to St Ives

St Newlyns East

 I popped the last of my super-pills and was away by 7.45am in a brief lull between showers and took a back road to Rosenannon, then St Columb Major where I grabbed some sandwiches. I took the road through White Cross and into St Newlyn East,  a pleasant enough village but absolutely dominated by 100 metre high turbines (more than twice the height of the original ones). Nice one Scottish Power and local councillors. And what have you done with St Newlyn West? I dropped into the village shop which was busy, and had a cup of tea, chocolate, bananas and a pain au chocolat as good as any in France. I was less impressed with the headlines of the local paper: BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES FOR STORM CLODAGH.

Arsenic Mill, Cornish Coast-to-Coast

Cornish Coast-to-Coast

Then it was onto the NCN32 into Zelah, and down the east bank of the River Allen and into Truro where I took refuge in a Costa as a heavy shower went through. I headed for the Cornish Coast-to-Coast Trail along the very undulating NCN3, and joined the trail at Bissoe, where the friendly bike shop staff told me to take the higher of the two paths to stay out of the mud. Thanks chaps! The trail mainly followed old tramlines and railways; surely they must be flat(ish). I don't think Cornwall does flat. There were lots of spoil tips, chimneys and old mine buildings, and the area has World Heritage Status for its industrial past. Many of the pale white slag heaps are still vegetation-free after 80 years due to the toxic arsenic.
Wacky place names were now back in vogue: Playing Place, Come-to-Good,  Cripplesease, Splattenridden, Goon Gumpas and Wheal Busy. There were a lot of wheals around and I assumed it meant mine; in fact it's Cornish for 'place of work.'

Cornish Coast-to-Coast

 The rain held off for most of the trail, but the wind really hit me as I approached Portreath on the bike/pedestrian pavement. Storm Clodagh was ahead of schedule!

Portreath

I took the coastal B road, and once up on the moors I felt the full force of the wind, the strongest yet of the trip. The gusts would stop me, and during the lulls I wasn't doing much more than walking pace. St Ives was starting to look very distant. There was a steep downhill to St Gwythian, but with the wind roaring up the slope to meet me I could barely reach 20kph. It was soul-destroying.  By the time I reached Hale it was dark, and I took the St Ives turning which put me onto a horrendous large busy roundabout where I brought both lanes to a halt as the drivers let me scuttle to safety.  I headed along a hard shoulder for half a k, then turned back as this wasn't where I wanted to be.  I dismounted and led Horse around the roundabout of death, back to the B road and into Hale and back on track. There was a bit of off road around the estuary, then into Lelant where I did a wee back road diversion to avoid the A road, and into St Ives at 6pm. I went straight into the nearest pub and had a couple of celebratory pints.
After a couple of no's at B&B's (not for one night sorry) I booked into the Sloop Inn, and had a great night in the bar with good food, company and beer. Just over 30k's to go, into the teeth of Storm Clodagh.

Day stats 95km   1412 Metres of ascent

Off road 14km 

A road 4km 

B road  19km 

Unclassifed road 58km

Day 21 Okehampton to Boscarne

Melton Viaduct

I was away at first light, and onto the Granite Way, initially a tarmac trail following the Dartmoor Railway, then following the old line which skirted the west side of Dartmoor. I was pretty tired and put that down to the traumas of the Okehampton Experience. At least the knee was behaving itself. Despite the low cloud and limited views the Granite Way was really enjoyable, and it crossed two impressive viaducts on its way to Lydford where I traversed the edge of the gorge before heading across the moor to North Brentor on the NCN27. This turned into a bit of a nightmare, a really rough bouldery track where I seriously feared for Horse's health. I cycled most of it through bracken off to the side. Onto the back roads the route went through Longcross and Milton Abbot before passing a cider mill at the appropriately-named Felldownhead, before dropping down to the venerable Greystones Bridge over the River Tamar. The road out of the valley had three V gradient markers, so I set off with some trepidation and after eating some soggy glucose tablets I found lurking in the barbag, and slugging most of the water. The hill wasn't bad in the end and I was almost disappointed. Then it was on to a village with the delightful name of Little Comfort, set on the banks of the Lowly Brook. It lived up to its

NCN27 to North Brentor

name: no shop/cafe/pub/phone coverage. And it started to drizzle. My route then went through several confusingly-named villages all beginning with the prefix Tre, which means homestead in Cornish. At Higher Larrick there was a steep descent and climb past the valley of the River Inny, followed by a bit of B road to Plusha, then an A-road avoiding detour through Trevague, where the drizzle turned to heavy rain and I scuttled into the King's Head in Altarnum. I was too cold and damp for a beer, so had a big pot of tea and a baguette several feet long.
The route now headed just north of west across open moors to Davidstow Airfield, with the wind and rain really picking up. I rejoined the NCN3, and headed direct into the headwind past Crowdy Reservoir. It was grim going, and I put on my waterproof/insulated gloves for the first time. Within 5 minutes my hands were soaked and I'd have to squeeze the handlebars to drain them.The NCN signs were now painted on the road, and I missed a crucial turn-off and ended up taking a long descent down to the River Camel about 3km upstream from where I should have been.   All the way down I'd been thinking 'I wouldn't like to bike up this'. Cursing profusely I re-climbed the 80 metre hill and turned off to Churchtown and St Breward. Thoroughly drenched by now I went into a pub car park and tightened up the brakes which had been reluctant to stop me on the big descent. I asked a chap which way it was to the Camel Trail. He didn't say anything, just shook his head in disbelief and pointed down the road. I stopped at a shop and bought a pasta meal and chocolate. "Oh I've got a pair of those gloves. Great aren't they?" "Well they were for the first two minutes". I resisted the temptation to prove my point by giving them a squeeze.
I descended to the Camel Trail and pedalled furiously to avoid hypothermia. At one point there were four pheasants on the trail and they all flew off except one, which ran down the trail in front of me. After 200 metres I started to feel guilty, but not so guilty that I was prepared to sacrifice any forward momentum and let it escape. Its legs were still a blur after 400 metres, and just as I was starting to wonder if pheasant would go with pasta it shot through a gap in the fence and disappeared.
By now it was getting gloomy so I kept an eye open for camping spots, which were not forthcoming. Eventually I saw a sign which said NO ENTRY OR ACCESS TO THE RIVER. Perfect. It was nearly dark, and I'd be gone at first light. I put the tent up in double-quick time, threw the wet clothes down the end of the tent, chucked the soggy gloves outside in the hope that a passing badger would eat them, made a brew and a meal and must have been asleep by 7pm.

Day stats 93km   1094 Metres of ascent

Off road 28km 

A road 0km 

B road  7km 

Unclassifed road 58km

Day 20 Taunton to Okehampton

Grand Western Canal

I was awake at 6am and popped a pill straight away, hoping it would kick in by the time I'd left. With headlamp on and all lights blazing I biked in the dark through a fine drizzle to Nynehead, then joined the Grand Western Canal near Greenham Weir, still part of the NCN3. The towpath was perfect, the water crystal clear, and the rain stopped. What a great canal! Even the bridges were friendly; they had names, not numbers like all the previous ones: Whipcott, Fencer, Fussed, Ebear. My OS map suggested the NCN3 left the canal at Samford Peverell, but a couple of dog walkers said I  could bike all the way to Tiverton, a nice bonus. After Halburton there was an aqueduct over the railway that put the canal out of business, then a memorial to the crew of a  Canberra bomber that had crashed in the canal in 1961. The crash had been largely forgotten until dredging work in 2003 uncovered fuselage fragments and mud smelling of fuel.
I was sorry to reach Tiverton, the canal had been such a puncture-free delight. I had no hesitation in awarding it the Best Canal Oscar. I dropped down to Tiverton and had two flat whites, a panini and an almond twist which all hit the spot perfectly. 5km of B road took me out of Tiverton, then I turned off through Pennymoor, Paddington, Black Dog and Morchard Bishop, which sounded like a vegetarian variation on the 'More tea vicar?' phrase.

Aqueduct

Severe undulations led past a sign warning about kangaroos, through Bondleigh and on to Honeychurch where I stopped for a brew and some chocolate.
There was a big descent into Sampford Chapple, then across to Brightly and into Okehampton.
I decided to use the youth hostel. I hadn't been in one since my late teens, and thought it would be nice to have people to talk to. And I'd heard they did nice rooms these days, and had really 'upped their game'.
It was a steep hill up the YH, where I was offered a shared dorm for £18. I suspected my gear-spreading tricks might be more suited to a private room, so I asked if they had any. Yes, for £50. That sounded pretty expensive, but I was tired and thought it would be a nice hotel-style room, so I stabled Horse in the drying room, which wasn't heated, and took my bags up to the room. It was a tad disappointing: small, with two bunk beds, an attached shower room with paint flaking off the ceiling, mouldy sealant, and a hand towel. If I hadn't been so tired I'd have gone and found a B&B where I'd at least get breakfast thrown in. The room overlooked the railway terminus, which was blaring out Christmas carols over tinny loudspeakers. I made myself a cup of tea, and found the common room, where a cooking programme was on the TV, and a chap sat there with his laptop wearing those "Don't even think about talking to me" headphones. So much for company. I drank up, grabbed my wallet from Room 101 and fled into town for food and beer, where the London Inn filled both those requirements. The barman tried to tempt me with a dessert, but with an  ascent of Station Road  imminent I wisely passed. As turned onto the side road to the hostel I noticed two things. The hostel was on Klondike Road, and having just had £50 extruded through the nostrils, that came as no surprise. Secondly the carols were still going full belt at the station and it was gone 8pm. I crossed the bridge to the station and enquired when the carols would be turned off. "When the next train comes in, which is soon." I should have asked for a definition of 'soon'. Temporarily mollified I returned to my cell and phoned Fiona. "What's that noise?" "Oh, Once in Royal David's City." "It's very loud isn't it?" Eventually the last train came in, and it sat there engine turning over noisily. I kept telling myself it was just the purring of a large cat, and gradually the blood pressure dropped as I started to drift off to sleep. Then the engine was turned off, and "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" took over. I soaked tissues and shoved them in my ears, but there was no escape. It was like an acoustic torture they use to break people, and just as I was on the verge of cracking it all went quiet.

Not another wrong turn!

Back road bliss

Day stats 90km  1136 Metres of ascent
Off road 18km 
A road 2km 
B road  10km 
Unclassifed road 60km

Day 19 Monkton Combe to Taunton

I wasn't overly chuffed with a pricey pub that couldn't get a plumber in to fix a radiator, but they did arrange for me to start breakfast at early at 7.45, which was great. The staff had been really friendly, and the food excellent, so despite the unplanned sauna the Wheelwright's Arms gets a thumbs up.Traffic was heavy in the lane outside the pub. It was the school run for Midford College, and I threaded my way through a pride of 4x4's, then down past Tucking Mill, once the home of William Smith, the man who produced what has been called 'The Map That Changed the World', a geological map of England and Wales. It's incredibly accurate and detailed, and produced by him in 1815, when getting about would have been a mission in itself. Cycle helmet off to William Smith!

Shoscombe signage

The route rejoined the railway track, and after an enjoyable 4km off road, with a couple of tunnels thrown in, it was quiet back roads to Shoscombe Vale, before another off road trail into Radstock, a very cycle-friendly place. Another section of old railway track led to Kilmersdon, where I sat on the steps of the war memorial with a cup of tea. The left knee was hurting already, so I popped a couple of painkillers before setting off towards Chilcompton on the longest stretch of B road since Scotland. It was a busy road, and very undulating. The bike didn't sound too happy either. The back wheel budgie had returned with some mates, and they were squeaking away like there was no tomorrow. I emptied the last of the lubricant on any likely-looking suspects and headed down towards Wells. Originally I'd planned to go through Cheddar, but opted for this more direct line due to the knee. Another 6k's of B road saw me in Wells, where I admired the cathedral then had a couple of flat whites in Costa just as the drizzle started. It was a completely off road cycle path on the NCN3 out of Wells, then back roads through Launcherley and then a few

Wells

k's along a ruler-straight road over Queen's Sedge Moor  straight into a stiff headwind. An off road cycle path took me around Glastonbury and I was clear of the Mendips and hiding onto the Somerset Levels. Levels was a word with a lot of appeal. I followed the NCN3 west to Ashcott, and by this time I could hardly use my left leg to pedal. I struggled on to Chilton Polden where I made a jug of tea and ate the prawn sandwiches which had survived the Wheelwright Arms cauldron. I started making contingency plans, as I was seriously worried about being able to continue. I could rest up as there was nothing I had to rush back for (sorry Fiona). I could send all the camping kit back and carry on travelling as light as possible and abandon the 'carry your

Launcherley back road

home' principal. Hell I'd carried the kit for 1500km!I took out the first aid kit to see what pills I had left, and remembered I had five very out-of-date strong painkillers I'd been prescribed in New Zealand for a back injury. I swallowed one of those, raised the bike seat a little and carried on.
At Cossington I followed a short section of old railway track to Bawdrip, which sounded suspiciously like a Glaswegian STD, along the King's Sedgemoor Drain to Chedzoy, and onto a path along the River Parret which led into Bridgewater where I joined the Bridgewater to Taunton Canal. After the Rugeley debacle I decided to check with the locals for the right direction to Taunton.  The survey revealed that

Somerset Levels

2/3 people interviewed didn't have a clue. Fortunately the last chap did, and I set off after a short prayer to the god of puncture resistance, along a good towpath liberally sprinkled with dog walkers. Apart from one 500 metre section that was so wet and muddy I slewed off and landed in the slurry it was a great path.  By now it was 4pm so a camping spot had to be found soon. I filled up with water at a canal-side house, then reached the end of the canal at Taunton as darkness fell. I put on all the lights, eventually found the continuation of the NCN3, and camped in a wood near an electricity sub-station near Upcott.I hadn't stopped to buy any food, so I made a brew and took stock: five toffees from last night's room, two unopened cheese sandwiches and one egg butty, which unfortunately had escaped from its packet and was spread around the inside of the pannier.  One little-advertised feature of waterproof Ortlieb panniers is how easy it is to scrape errant food off the shiny surface, so nothing was wasted. There was always porridge if the stomach was keeping me awake.  Despite the knee problem it had been a reasonably good day distance-wise, my second-longest in fact. The knee had stopped hurting, and I hoped I had enough painkillers to see me to the finish line. A tawny owl was hooting as I read 'Middlemarch', and it was lights out by 7.30.

Bridgewater to Taunton Canal

Day stats 110km  560 Metres of ascent
Off road 49km 
A road 1km 
B road  18km 
Unclassifed road 42km

Day 18 Kineton to Monkton Combe

I had a shocking night's sleep in rain and heavy gusts, but still managed to be away by 7.30, headlamp on in the gloom.The River Windrush was chocolate-brown after the rain, which thankfully had stopped. After a busy couple of k's on a B road over the Naunton Downs it was bliss to get onto the backroads through Salperton, Compton Abdale and Cassey Compton. The steep climbs were less blissful, and it was a rollercoaster of a route. Just down the valley from Cassey Compton was Chedworth Roman Villa. Anywhere discovered by a gamekeeper digging for his errant ferret has to be worth a look, but it would have to wait until next time.
The White Way, another Roman road was relatively level going, though the knee was still quite sore and a bit of a worry. Cirencester was busy, with stalls, bunting and folk dressed up in peasant clothing. Fearing an outbreak of morris dancing I fled to the nearest Costa, and lined up two flat whites, a croissant and a carrot cake. I left Cirencester in drizzle, struggled to find the NCN45, but eventually escaped, eventually joining the NCN254 into Malmesbury, then Foxley and Norton. I had a second lunch in Corsham (mum's packed lunch was on its second day!), a town which had good NCN signs (though I confess I was cursing at one unsigned T junction until I realised it was one-way!) Back roads and a short section of B road led to Bradford-on-Avon, picturesque and surprisingly busy. I fled the travel and scuttled down to the Kennet and Avon Canal and the NCN4, for instant peace and quiet, but with some trepidation. I was still carrying the scars of the Coventry Canal puncturefest.

Bradford-on-Avon

The towpath was wide enough for a car, and I followed it for 7km. The Avoncliff Aqueduct was confusing, and I was pleased to see four other cyclists looking equally bemused. Once you realise the towpath changes sides it makes sense. I was soon at the Dundas Aqueduct and the Dundas Wharf where the original crane, tollhouse and warehouse still stand. It was a great wee trip along the canal: no punctures, and a light calm evening with even some patches of blue sky.

Kennet and Avon Canal

I followed the NCN24 along the Somerset Coal Canal for a short distance, then joined the railway line which put the canal out of business. At Monkton Combe I was planning to continue along the Collier's Way which went through farmland and would be ideal stealth camping country.  At that point though I spotted the Wheelwright's Arms, and temptation set in. It was only 4pm and I could have biked for another half hour, but the knee was nagging away, so I went in to see if they had a room. It was nearly twice the price of The Priory and didn't serve breakfast until 8, but they had a row of real ale pumps at the bar, and a very tempting menu, so I booked in. They even let me put my bike in the room! I hung all the damp gear up, but couldn't get the radiator to turn on, so reception sent over a chap with some pliers. He twisted a hidden knob and got it going, so I headed off to the bar for food and beer, both of which were excellent. There were two couples also eating in the bar. Remarkably four of us were ex-teachers, and I wondered what the collective known would be. An escaping, a relief or maybe a husk of ex-teachers? One chap asked why I was cycling to Land's End, and I said it was my diet plan. "Is it working?" "Yes it certainly is" He nodded to his not insubstantial wife and said "There you go." She shot him a look that suggested he could forget about sex for the foreseeable future.

Dundas Wharf

Back in the room the heat hit me as I opened the door. Plier Man came back and turned off the radiator, but I still lay there spreadeagled on the bed and sweating profusely with all the windows open, for at least an hour. I greatly feared for the prawn mayonnaise sandwiches that I'd bought for tomorrow's lunch, so I filled the sink with water and left them floating there for the night. At least the kit would be dry.

Day stats 102km  733 Metres of ascent
Off road 9km 
A road 0.5km 
B road  8.5km 
Unclassified road 84km

Day 17 Nuneaton to Kineton

Old farts re-united

Warwick, West Gate

After a reluctant goodbye to the folks it was back down to the Cat Gallows Bridge to meet an old friend Martin who'd borrowed a mountain bike and was going to accompany me as far as Coventry, which was great! After 5 minutes I had the first puncture of the day, but it was the front wheel which made a pleasant change. It was  quick change as well: I was getting quite slick after all the practise! At the Coventry Basin, where the canal terminated  I said goodbye to Martin and headed across the city centre to join up with NCN52. As usual there was a dearth of signage but after a couple of detours a posse of taxi drivers pointed me in the right direction, and it was off-road all the way to Kenilworth, where the signs once again dried up and I struggled to find the NCN52 where it left the town. A combination of back roads and cycle paths saw me into Warwick where a sign proclaimed 'NO MORE CYCLE SIGNS'. I liked that; at least they were being honest! Christmas lights were out in force even though there were still 33 days to go!  I took the NCN41 out of Warwick, but missed the turn-off at Sherborne, so took a drive that was marked on the OS map, through some very large well-kept lawns. By the time I reached the PRIVATE NO ENTRY SIGN I thought I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so continued blindly on, emerging by the church and onto the Hampton Lucy road. I chatted to a chap sweeping leaves. "You came through the hall?! Bloody hell, you're lucky they didn't shoot you!" The Hampton Lucy road was an absolute delight, and I stopped for lunch near the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford, one of the few towns where I didn't get lost! From Stratford I joined The Greenway, another extinct railway line, then through Pebworth and Honeybourne, and along Ryknild Street, an unclassified road but quite busy. From Saintbury my route was an unrelenting climb of over 200 metres, and I had sore legs and a concerning left sore knee. I found out later the hill had twice been used for national hill-climbing championships, and I belatedly congratulated myself  for such an excellent route choice......

Hampton Lucy road

The Greenway

On the summit I passed Broadway Tower, then a sign saying NUCLEAR BUNKER OPEN THIS WEEKEND. I thought my brain might be playing tricks, so I turned around and checked to make sure. Yes the Cotswolds has a nuclear bunker! At Temple Guiting I had my water bladder filled at a farm, as the day was getting late, then I passed through Kineton which had a promising-looking pub. A few hundred metres further on I saw a good camp spot in a field which had been cut and not replanted, so I led Horse down to the edge of a wood and put the tent up as dusk fell.This was one advantage of the short days: stealth camping was a skoosh. I made a brew, repaired the puncture from the morning, boiled up a sachet of rice and set about eating the cooked trout my folks had given me. It was a 3 pounder, and it had to go. I wasn't going to bike with any leftovers. Suitably replete I lay in the sleeping bag digesting and reading until it was late enough for me to go to the pub without feeling like a total jakey.
The Halfway House was a great pub, with friendly locals who offered me a bed in their converted barn for the night. If I hadn't already set up camp I'd have gratefully accepted. I had a couple of pints, and was back in the sleeping bag by 8.30.


Day stats 100km  625 Metres of ascent
Off road 35km 
A road 6km 
B road  3km 
Unclassified road 56km

An unexpected interlude

I'd planned to spend a couple of days with my folks, then continue on my way. The first day I sorted and dried out gear, cleaned Horse and then took him into town to be re-shoed with new brake pads.  I repaired the back tyre, which turned out to have two holes, followed by a long siesta and a general battery-recharge . The next day we nipped into town, and I picked up a new camera, more porridge and some rice for the next leg of the trip.

Dad didn't feel too well as we drove home, and later in the morning he staggered in from the garden looking very ashen-faced. We took him to A&E where we were told he'd had a heart attack. He spend the next week in hospital, until they could fit him up with some stents. "Is there anything you need dad?" "Can you bring my pint mug in? The cups in here are like thimbles!"

So there was a ten-day interlude in Nuneaton, and this would seem a good point to give the place a plug. It's really friendly! What's more it has great cycling credentials. Graeme Obree, the Flying Scotsman and world record-breaking cyclist was born in Nuneaton! He's the Flying Nuneatonian! Other luminaries include George Eliot, famed for her novels and sprint finishes, film director Ken Loach, comedian Larry Grayson and no nonsense Mary Whitehouse.

Dad came out on the 21st November, a new man. We managed to sneak a couple of hour's fishing at Draycote Water the next day, much to mum's displeasure, then the day after I hit the road again.

Day 16 Stone to Nuneaton

Another early start in the dark. I raided the batteries of the dead camera and the headlamp was invigorated. Within half an hour I'd reached Sandon Lock with over 4km on the clock, then the towpath reverted to type. At one point a herd of cows had broken through the fence, so the grass was nicely cut, but pugged with deep hoof prints; I juddered along, teeth rattling and dreaming of suspension forks. I crept along slowly but surely towards Fradley Junction and the turn-off onto the Coventry Canal some 30km away.
It was another clear day, with a nip in the air: the first cold start since Loch Awe. For a couple of K's at Great Haywood, where the Staffordshire and Worcester Canal branched off, the towpath was perfect, then it was back to mud as I headed towards Rugeley. An improvement heralded the arrival of that town, but I had the first puncture of the day, the fifth of the trip. The path then deteriorated for a while, and became two thin ruts and the wheels were spoilt for choice. The front wheel took the lefthand rut while the rear went for right, and I went flying into a hedge. It was an improvement on landing in the canal.
A little further on was an ugly factory, with walls that rose straight out of the canal, like some moated fortification. Beyond this the towpath came good and I bombed along to Handsacre where I pulled off and crossed over a bridge to try and get a coffee at the Crown Inn. It was closed, so I headed back onto the towpath and sped along, soon passing an ugly factory rising straight from the canal, then spotting skid marks where some idiot had fallen off his bike. With a rapidly developing  sense of deja vu, I checked with a dog walker: "Yes you'll soon be in Rugeley". Bloody hell I'd gone the wrong way up the towpath and added an extra 4km to the day. I pedalled and cursed my way back to Handsacre. The pub was still shut.
20 minutes later I was at Fradley Junction and went into the Swan Inn. The chef wouldn't be in for another 40 minutes, but the barmaid was brilliant and made me a pile of sandwiches. At the junction I turned onto the Coventry Canal, though it's also known as the Birmingham and Fazeley Canal at this point thanks to a confusing series of ownership changes. At Whittington I had another back wheel puncture, then it was on to the Tamworth canal interchange at Fazeley. The Coventry Canal headed north-west then swung south through Polesworth where progress became somewhat intermittent: I had four punctures in as many kilometres.
To make matters worse, ominous clouds were building up: Storm Abigail, Britain's first named storm, was gathering. I don't know why we'd started naming storms; it just encourages them. With imminent inundation a distinct possibility I pumped as much air as I could into the tyre as I could and set off like a thing possessed. A kilometre later, just through Mancetter I had to  repump, and right where I stopped there was an info board about this being the spot where 4000 Romans slaughtered 70000 Iceni and pals led by Boudica. No wonder I was getting so many punctures, bloody brooch pins and spear points everywhere.
The next pumping got me twice as far,and I could pick out the distinctive outline of Mount Jud on Hartshill Ridge. It has a classic Mount Fuji-like outline, not bad at all for a slag heap.The next pump took me three kilometres and I began to wonder if by some miracle the tyre was healing itself.  At the Cat Gallows Bridge in Nuneaton I turned off the canal, and 5 minutes later reached my parent's home, bang on 5pm, a ten hour day for just 84km.
Day stats 84km  165 Metres of ascent
Off road 80km 
A road 0km 
B road  0km 
Unclassified road 0.5km Doesn't include the deja vu section!

Day 15 Acton Bridge to Stone

I woke up early, and despite the dark decided to get cracking. After the usual tea and porridge I was on the towpath by 6.30, cycling carefully by headlight. It was slow going, and by 7am I'd done less than three kilometres. Saltersford tunnel was followed by Barnton Tunnel, where a gate on the path over the top was most bike-unfriendly. I tried rearing Horse up onto his hind wheel but it was too narrow so I took off the panniers and still couldn't get through the 180 turn. Eventually I had to push him up a steep muddy slope, slipping and sliding down the far sideband bending the mudguard stays when we hit the fence at the bottom. The trees and brambles were festooned with small black plastic bags, hanging like scrotums and swaying in the breeze. At least the path was clean.
Not far beyond was the Anderton Boat Lift, though I passed it without noticing and only realised when I saw an info board. Skirting Northwich it was all very industrial, with chemical plants, salt works and scrap metal yards. At the Tata Chemical Plant I had a puncture. With the puncture-resistant tyres I was expecting to have to remove some bygone relic of the industrial age, but it was just a thorn.

 I'd managed just 13km in two-and-a-half hours, and now the towpath was the consistency of my breakfast. An hour later things took a turn for the worse. I tried to avoid a bramble that was lying in wait and the front wheel dropped into a section of bank that had seen better days. In the blink of an eye I was in the canal, and out of it a little more slowly. Luckily it wasn't a particularly deep spot, and it was as if someone had drawn a line straight down the middle of my body with one side completely soaked. Apart from a wrecked camera and notebook everything else was fine, and the weather still mild so I blew dry in a couple of hours.
At Middlewich I had another puncture, then the towpath came good near Kidsgrove, and I pulled off for lunch at the Red Bull. I could have done with a pint but not wanting to risk another dip I settled for a half. Just beyond Kidsgrove was the Harecastle Tunnel, at 3000 yards, one of Britain's longest. Overland through some parkland led back to the Trent and Mersey Canal, and a great towpath through Stoke, and all the the way to Stone, where I stocked up on food for the night, and set up camp in the dark by a set of locks. 

I cooked up a great stir-fry meal, then took stock. I was bruised down one side, had one dry sock left and the camera was comatose. I'd be at my parents' house in Nuneaton the following day, so a couple of days there and I'd be scrubbed up, and I'd buy a new camera. I turned in at 7; I'd been on the go for 11 hours and was done in.


Day stats 71km  328 Metres of ascent
Off road 70km 
A road 0km 
B road  0km 
Unclassified road 1km

Day 14 Adlington to Acton Bridge

Leeds and Liverpool Canal

Up at 6am, no rain. Hung the wet clothes on some bushes in a vain attempt to dry them while I packed, then put wet clothes on. Fortunately the weather was still mild. I was away by first light, and the towpath was great compared to the Lancaster canal, just a 100 metres of quagmire near Red Rocks. I tried unsuccessfully to find a phone box in New Springs to let the girlfriend know I hadn't drowned, and soon reached Top Lock and a big flight of locks down towards Wigan. The towpath had now reached new heights of excellence: it was paved, and carried on like that for miles!

Towpath heaven near Wigan Flashes

Trans Pennine Way

I left the canal at Pennington Flash and spent the next couple of hours hanging around trying to get my phone fixed at a repairer in a nearby newsagents, before leaving them with the phone and cash and heading across country to join up with the Bridgewater Canal. 22km of backroads, B roads and a tiny bit of A road led through Culcheth, Glazebrook and into Lymm, where a bike shop miraculously appeared just as the hematoma on the tyre wall looked ready to burst. I was offered a higher-priced puncture resistant tyre, which looked like a good move with all the towpaths to come.
A short stretch of the Trans Pennine Way took me alongside the canal, where I nipped over a fence to have a look at the towpath. It wasn't too bad.There was an extensive notice listing all the things you couldn’t do on the canal. It would have been more economical to list the things you could do, and just say everything else is banned. Cycling was one of the proscribed activities, or at least on this section of canal. It’s one of the few canals in the country not to have been nationalised and is owned by The Bridgewater Canal Company. There were enough tyre marks in the mud to suggest the bike ban was not widely respected, so I unloaded Horse and threaded him through the wooden fence, loaded up and set off in a westerly direction, skirting Warrington.The

Bridgewater Canal

towpath was a another mixed bag, with some short sections of grass and mud which several times built up in the front mudguard and brought me to a halt. I soon became proficient at scooping it out, always hoping it was mud and not something of canine origin. The path was often narrow, but there was a decent gravel base and I made good progress.It was perfect compacted gravel, and I was flying along, and in what seemed no time at all I was over the footbridge where the Norton Arm branches off, then under the M56 to the Preston Brook Tunnel. 15 k’s of the canal already done and I was now heading south on the Cheshire Ring.I led Horse along the track above the tunnel, and saw The Tunnel Top pub. By now it was past four o’clock, and I’d

Preston Brook Tunnel

need to find a camping spot soon. I could get some water from the pub, and they’d probably have beer there too. Inside there were a couple of chaps at the bar, quietly drinking a pint. They didn’t look as though they wanted to talk, but when I raised my glass and said ‘Cheers’ it was enough to break the ice and we had a good chat. They thought my trip would be a great way to see a cross-section of the country and see the changes in people and places as I headed south. As I was bereft of technology one of the chaps pulled out his phone and checked the weather for me: it didn’t look too bad at all until Friday, giving me three days of possibly dry cycling. This was great news as the daily soakings had been getting on top of me. After another half hour of cycling into the dusk I found a great little posse tucked in a corner formed by a stone bridge over a farm track, and a thick hedge. I ws pleased to have knocked off 74k's despite the couple of lost hours trying to get the phone fixed. I cooked up the last of the dried meals I'd bought in Windermere, and had an early night.

Day 13 Scorton to Adlington

Into deepest Preston

Escape from Preton

I’d seen a weather chart on the TV the night before, and there was a line of windy depressions spread across the Atlantic, all rubbing their hands together in glee. I set off in the rain, following the NCN6 for 10k's before joining the canal at Catterall. The towpath was less than than ideal. It was just grass, and often I'd find the wheels tuning on the spot, like hamster wheels. There would be section  of compacted gravel either side of a settlement, then the towpath would revert back to grass, or even worse, mud. By the time I reached the Whistle Café, on the outskirts of Preston, it was nearly midday, and in well over three hours I’d only done 27k’s. The towpath finally came good, but I had an immediate puncture and an alarming swelling on the tyre wall. Preston turned into a nightmare. First I had to find a bike shop, then I had reach the cycle paths on the south side of the city. In a pattern that repeated itself right down the country, there were good bike signs to the edge of the city, none in the middle, then then they would reappear on the other side. It was frustrating couple of hours in hosing rain. Eventually I connected with the NCN55 and finally escaped Preston's grip just as the rain started to ease.After some more misleading signage I finally made it over to the Leeds and Liverpool Canal in the gathering gloom and renewed rain. I switched the headlamp on and continued, determined to get a few miles

River Lobstock

beyond Preston. After about 8km I spotted a perfect camping spot in a wood next to the canal. I needed some water though, so cycled to a nearby a road where I saw Frederick’s Ice Cream Parlour, so I l went in for a coffee, happy to hang around there until it was fully dark. I went to the loo to fill up my water bag and managed to drop my smartphone, which hit the tiled floor with a resounding crack, skittered away and bounced off the skirting board. Once the tent was up I had a look at the phone; it showed no signs of life. I was gutted; my wee connection with family and friends, and my Strava logging had ground to a halt.


Day stats 61km 324 Metres of ascent

Off road km 

A road km 

B road km  
Unclassified road km

Day 12 Windermere to Scorton

After a relaxing rest day, and some much needed bike maintenance, I was away by 8am, taking a cycle path out of Windermere, then backroads through Stavely and Bowston to Kendal, which was very bike friendly. Then heavy rain started, and the headwind picked up. The NCN6 through Natland to Milnthorpe, then Silverdale. The wind was now blowing uninterrupted across the sea and it was hard going. I stopped in Carnforth for a coffee, and couldn't help noticing a half smile on the lips of the girl that served me. The source of her mirth became apparent when I caught my reflection in a window. I was wearing a yellow rain cover over my helmet, and it looked as though a lemon and meringue pie was sitting on my head. I hastily stuffed it in a pocket.

Carnforth to Lancaster

From Carnforth I followed the Lancaster Canal south, on a brilliant tarmac towpath that would have had the South Lanarkshire road repair department looking at the floor in shame.I passed a pike angler about to cast out a deadbait.Anything doing? No mate, I’m the world’s worst fisherman.I never catch anything.A piscatorial version of Marvin the

Lune Aqueduct

Paranoid Android. The route then went over the impressive Lune Aqueduct, which was apparently painted by Turner. He must have had a bloody big tin of paint. Things took an odd near Lancaster, where I passed a drunk tacking his way to windward and slugging beer from a bottle, then there was a totally unselfconscious teenager wearing a leopard suit, padding along the tow path as if this was all perfectly normal behaviour. I briefly considered donning my yellow helmet raincover on the grounds that it would help me blend in with the locals. From Lancaster I'd planned to continue along the canal, but in an absolute deluge I was accosted by four road bikers who led me through the university grounds and onto the backroads to Scorton. It was my first deviation from The Plan, and I was disappointed that I hadn't continued, as I'm sure it would have been a struggle but still doable. However it did mean I got to spend a wonderful night in The Priory at Scorton, where £45 got me a huge room and a bathroom with a bath the size of a small swimming pool. It had great food, good beer and really friendly service. Best accommodation of the trip! 

Day stats 79km 593 Metres of ascent

Off road 24km 
A road 4km 
B road 2km  

Unclassified road 49km