Aunt Susie's montage here.
Lots of photos can be found here.
Photos taken by Ben, the pro:
Ben's shots . My friend Richard Shama spotted two eagles on short number 37 but they look more like seagulls to me. You decide.
The soundtrack.
Day Zero
London - Penzance.
Horrid drive through SouthEast London for Ben and Ma. Ma almost got us arrested trying to negociate roundabouts clockwise!
Day One
Land's End - Okehampton
Hilly, busy road, cold rain and hail.
Day Two
Okehampton - Bristol.
Hilly then flat. Sunny then snow.
Day Three
Bristol - Shrewsbury
Rolling hills. Wales. Wey Valley. Tintern Abbey. Traffic. Black Mountains to the left. Pennines to the right.
Day Four
Shewsbury - Lancaster
Flat. Sunny. Pennines still there but with more snow. Heavily built.
Day Five
Lancaster - Langholm
Lake District. Kirkstone Pass. Third and last day Pennines were with us.
Day Six
Langholm - Edinburgh
Scotish Borders. The remote wilderness is with us. It feels like we will make it.
Day Seven
Edinburgh - Kingussie
The mighty Grampians.
Day Eight
Kingussie - Brora
Aviemore. Snow. Final mountain pass. Beginning of our coastal route.
Day Nine
Brora - John O'Groats
The beautiful Scottish coastline. Sunshine. Strong tailwind. Smiles then "the hideous falling of the veil". Our grand adventure comes to an end.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Day Ten/Eleven - The aftermath
30.03.2008 - Back to London
So we shaved our heads – Ben documented this well, check out his pdf montage of our trip on http://www.mailinformer.com/mailinformer/lejog/lejog_pics.pdf and out we went looking for a B&B in Wick town, where my Aunt Susie, Angus, Ben and Hen would be spending the night ready for the sleeper train back to London the next day - Sunday - arriving in London Monday morning.
After much searching, a place was found that could accommodate all four. We bid our farewells, racked three bikes – Ben took his one back on the train while I took Angus and Hen’s steeds to other regions of Scotland.
Me and mother started by going to the Orkney Isles. Six months ago, back at her place I was explaining the enterprise singling out various points on the map. As soon as she saw the Orkney Isles near John O’Groats she said me must visit. As it turns out, she found many of her family names in the Kirkwall phone directory – the main Orkney city with 19 thousand inhabitants according to our local source – more than she found in the Dublin phone directory so it softened even more the soft spot she has for Scotland.
The light also got softer the closer we got, taking a short cut through the country lanes in good time for the 1845h ferry – a very small ferry, if you are used to crossing from Dover to Calais.
The sea was a different matter altogether with big waves that sent the boat seriously up and down. No sign of sea sickness anywhere, though. My boss tells me this particular sea presents one of the strongest currents in the world and ongoing plans exist to harness sea power in the region.
On the ferry I had my first taste of Orkney Ice Cream. And some more followed in a very brief period. Whenever I could approximate my gluttonous self enough. Once moored in St Margaret’s Hope we set off to Kirkwall via St Mary’s, crossing three “causeways” – from Wikipedia, “a road or railway elevated by a bank, usually across a broad body of water or wetland” – bridging the islands.
We managed to find a place to sleep were we also had a nice meal and a long retrospective chat in the remains of the day.
After a good night sleep we had a hearty breakfast and were ready to set off when we got chatting to a BA air crew, well, Logan Air operated by BA. They told us most flights and landings were bumpy and on the occasion flew from Edinburgh to Kirkwall. One of the stewardesses mentioned the beautiful sight from the air of crashing waves against the “Old Man of Hoy” – Wikipedia again to the rescue; “a 137 metre (450 ft) sea stack of red sandstone perched on a plinth of igneous basalt, close to Rackwick Bay on the west coast of the island of Hoy, in the Orkney Islands, Scotland.”.
As usual, I asked – in this instance the day receptionist – as I always do in the higher latitudes if the Northern Lights were visible. She said she had seen them twice and that in the Summer the night never went completely dark, dusk lingering until dawn.
We set off and at the first corner stopped by the cathedral, where the most unusual bell tolling was going on. It was very sombre, spaced out and slightly melodic, slightly harmonic. So mysterious.
A man on a bicycle listened intently. He had found God, according to my mother’s report, was from Yorkshire and settled in Orkney. He had cycled once to Yorkshire and back, thus completing two halves of LEJOG. His handshake was as gentle as his demeanour as you would expect from someone who stood listening to Kirkwall Cathedral’s Sunday morning chiming bells.
We made it back to the ferry in good time, via the inverse route but this time admiring the sights in daylight. A sunken ship here, cliffs there and the beautiful sky.
As we were ready to set sail a livestock haul backed into the ferry. The big cattle sounded desperate, eyes full of fear, looking through the narrow gaps. My heart sunk. And so did my ma’s. One had developed some kind of peat armour, the small adjoining rounded chunks stuck to the hairs, holding a natural sheen. So different, like I have come habituated to.
The driver told me that on this occasion they were being transported to another farm and farmer, to whom they had been sold – and that in this instance they would not be taken to the slaughter house. They would live another day and both of us smiled.
On the ferry we met a squash team – 16 members who had been to Kirkwall the day before playing against the local team, from 1700h to 2100h then drinking whiskey till 0500h the next day. Busy schedule!
We were given many precious tips, that we should visit Dunnet Head and go back via the West Coast. We followed all this good advice and did not repent for a mile. Well, we could not follow the “stay another day” advice that seemed so logical and should have given us enough time to visit the Isle of Skye.
We stopped one last time in John O’Groats, four miles east of Gills - our ferry port – for some gift shopping.
Then our way to the fishing village of Ullapool presented so many natural beauties we gave up taking photographs. There were numerous mountains en route, rising hundreds of metres above sea level, many alcoves with sandy beaches and surfers and not that much traffic, given the time of the year. The B roads were empty and we went through some remote regions, with not a hut in sight.
It’s worth mentioning to prospective travellers the road around Lock Eriboll going southwest then back northeast, before continuing west. And the sight of many such mountains, like Ben Hope – by Loch Hope – standing proud and covered in snow.
Why have we never seen these images on print or film we wondered? Why were they hidden from us? By indifference or by design? We figured no one would want this spoiled, although the environment is very tough, and deduced no great painters would hail from these parts, because there is not much time for indulging in much other than surviving.
Our tea break was in Scourie and the hotel was all about fly fishing. Although having heard this expression for the best part of two decades, I did not know what it meant, until Henry enlightened me. I won’t go into the particulars except that Henry noted it is more akin to hunting as the fisherman must take a more active role in pursuing prey.
After sipping our tea and coffee by the fireplace and talking to one of the guests, a BBC cameraman and birdwatcher from Bristol, who told us he flew over regularly to visit a friend living on an island a few miles offshore. The friend he said, who collected him by boat, did not have good network coverage in the are and had to climb to the top of a mountain to collect her mobile phone messages! I found it very hilarious – living on the bourne of technology and wilderness.
Once we finished our drinks, we were back on the road again until the fishing village of Ullapool, were we stopped at the first hotel we saw – the Argyll Hotel. It was raining and we were happy to get indoors were even keeled Nigel, the proprietor together with his partner Franner, booked us in for the night. Both had attempted to set up pub in their native Guildford but could not get the brewery to sponsor so found a situation in the Western Highlands which suited them better.
After a quick incursion into town to get an Indian takeaway at Jasmine plus a walk along the sea loch while our delicious meal was prepared we returned to the Argyll to eat. There was a lot of food but me managed to polish it off, minus a bit of the bonus Peshawri Nam, which was ravaged the next night, while me and my starving mother unloaded the car, finding the leftover.
The Argyll was fairly empty, only a few bods hanging out at the bar. Nigel played an entire Jimi Hendrix album and my mother enjoyed the music of her contemporary, having never listened to him carefully. After finishing our meals we proceeded to finish our drinks by the fireplace, en route my mother asked a group of revellers – one sporting yellow wellies – if the pub was a fisherman’s hang out. The barman replied that every pub was a fisherman’s hangout. He also said he owned a pub down the road, before being employed by Nigel. Now having known Scots in London who referred to “going up the road” as going home I could not figure out where he meant by “down the road”.
Anyway, he added some logs and stoked the fire, while describing how the sea became depleted and nowadays yielded mainly shellfish. I asked if it had been the Spanish fleet and he replied “something like that”.
After a good night sleep, to cap the first day of rest after nine days cycling we had breakfast and a good chat with Franner, who is busy decorating the Argyll, after switching careers – she had previously been a music lecturer, the euphonium being her instrument. It is similar to a tuba, she explained, but higher in pitch.
She certainly had enough space to start her own brass band but that was low on her priority list for the time being. Still, Nigel and Franner were as musical as a couple could get. The previous weekend they had live music in the pub – Scott MacDonald – and salsa lessons concurrently at the back function room.
We left Ullapool like many places before, along the journey, wishing we could have stayed more. Still, our final day driving to London, the last day of March, was to be filled with beautiful site and reencounters.
As we approached Fort William the mountain ranges began to appear, and big ones they were. The same Grampians but more impressive still that our first view. Near Fort William, as we went past heading southwest on the A82 we saw the ski resort of Nevis Range perch atop the mountain near the peaks of Aonach Mòr (1219) and Ben Nevis (1343). We drove past the lift and were tempted to stop but time was running out.
We stopped at a viewpoint by Loch Ness and I could not resist going for a dip in the legendary waters. They were crystal clear but reflected the brown stone, making the reflected light go brown, too. It reminded me of Jaws except Nessy was lurking in the depths, waiting and ready to subtract some limbs from my defenceless frame. In the end it was the low temperatures that really scared me off. Out I went as my mother reminded me I was crazy just like my dad. But it made all sense in the world - my skin tingling for a long time afterwards.
We attacked the Fort William Morrison’s booty while my mother had some hysteria attacks, having lost track of the satnav’s location in this planet of ours. It turned out to have been left in the Sutherland Inn, back in Brora.
As we approached the last bump before Glencoe the mountain biker I talked to on the first day appeared on the horizon, on the tenth day of her planned 14 day journey to John O’Groats. I hooted and wandered if by association – the bikes on the rack - she could figure we set out on the same day – or like us, had been hooted some many times, mostly in encouragement but occasionally in rage, and was oblivious to my identity. Anyway, she definitely chose the scenic route. Henry’s dad, Colin, recommended the Western route but due to time constraints we chose the Eastern way. As we left her behind I came to the most stunning view of the trip, an infinite opening of rock and heather surrounded but mountain ranges, by Glencoe mountain resort. The mountain biker had just sipped this unhurriedly why we were zooming past in a car. The car park in Glencoe mountain resort was tiny and inviting. I wish I could have followed the squash players’ final suggestion - “Stay another day”. That would have been the simple solution.
We carried on and before long were driving through Glasgow on our way to Carlisle, where we refuelled and rang Henry to fine tune the evening’s get-together. We knew then – 1700h – that we would make last orders in the best case, which we did, after driving non-stop till 2300h, almost matching a similar drive of yesteryear from Glasgow to Heathrow but that tale will wait till another blogging down memory lane session.
The pub was emptying as I sipped my red wine and some gifts exchanged hands. And the adventure seemed to be over.
So we shaved our heads – Ben documented this well, check out his pdf montage of our trip on http://www.mailinformer.com/mailinformer/lejog/lejog_pics.pdf and out we went looking for a B&B in Wick town, where my Aunt Susie, Angus, Ben and Hen would be spending the night ready for the sleeper train back to London the next day - Sunday - arriving in London Monday morning.
After much searching, a place was found that could accommodate all four. We bid our farewells, racked three bikes – Ben took his one back on the train while I took Angus and Hen’s steeds to other regions of Scotland.
Me and mother started by going to the Orkney Isles. Six months ago, back at her place I was explaining the enterprise singling out various points on the map. As soon as she saw the Orkney Isles near John O’Groats she said me must visit. As it turns out, she found many of her family names in the Kirkwall phone directory – the main Orkney city with 19 thousand inhabitants according to our local source – more than she found in the Dublin phone directory so it softened even more the soft spot she has for Scotland.
The light also got softer the closer we got, taking a short cut through the country lanes in good time for the 1845h ferry – a very small ferry, if you are used to crossing from Dover to Calais.
The sea was a different matter altogether with big waves that sent the boat seriously up and down. No sign of sea sickness anywhere, though. My boss tells me this particular sea presents one of the strongest currents in the world and ongoing plans exist to harness sea power in the region.
On the ferry I had my first taste of Orkney Ice Cream. And some more followed in a very brief period. Whenever I could approximate my gluttonous self enough. Once moored in St Margaret’s Hope we set off to Kirkwall via St Mary’s, crossing three “causeways” – from Wikipedia, “a road or railway elevated by a bank, usually across a broad body of water or wetland” – bridging the islands.
We managed to find a place to sleep were we also had a nice meal and a long retrospective chat in the remains of the day.
After a good night sleep we had a hearty breakfast and were ready to set off when we got chatting to a BA air crew, well, Logan Air operated by BA. They told us most flights and landings were bumpy and on the occasion flew from Edinburgh to Kirkwall. One of the stewardesses mentioned the beautiful sight from the air of crashing waves against the “Old Man of Hoy” – Wikipedia again to the rescue; “a 137 metre (450 ft) sea stack of red sandstone perched on a plinth of igneous basalt, close to Rackwick Bay on the west coast of the island of Hoy, in the Orkney Islands, Scotland.”.
As usual, I asked – in this instance the day receptionist – as I always do in the higher latitudes if the Northern Lights were visible. She said she had seen them twice and that in the Summer the night never went completely dark, dusk lingering until dawn.
We set off and at the first corner stopped by the cathedral, where the most unusual bell tolling was going on. It was very sombre, spaced out and slightly melodic, slightly harmonic. So mysterious.
A man on a bicycle listened intently. He had found God, according to my mother’s report, was from Yorkshire and settled in Orkney. He had cycled once to Yorkshire and back, thus completing two halves of LEJOG. His handshake was as gentle as his demeanour as you would expect from someone who stood listening to Kirkwall Cathedral’s Sunday morning chiming bells.
We made it back to the ferry in good time, via the inverse route but this time admiring the sights in daylight. A sunken ship here, cliffs there and the beautiful sky.
As we were ready to set sail a livestock haul backed into the ferry. The big cattle sounded desperate, eyes full of fear, looking through the narrow gaps. My heart sunk. And so did my ma’s. One had developed some kind of peat armour, the small adjoining rounded chunks stuck to the hairs, holding a natural sheen. So different, like I have come habituated to.
The driver told me that on this occasion they were being transported to another farm and farmer, to whom they had been sold – and that in this instance they would not be taken to the slaughter house. They would live another day and both of us smiled.
On the ferry we met a squash team – 16 members who had been to Kirkwall the day before playing against the local team, from 1700h to 2100h then drinking whiskey till 0500h the next day. Busy schedule!
We were given many precious tips, that we should visit Dunnet Head and go back via the West Coast. We followed all this good advice and did not repent for a mile. Well, we could not follow the “stay another day” advice that seemed so logical and should have given us enough time to visit the Isle of Skye.
We stopped one last time in John O’Groats, four miles east of Gills - our ferry port – for some gift shopping.
Then our way to the fishing village of Ullapool presented so many natural beauties we gave up taking photographs. There were numerous mountains en route, rising hundreds of metres above sea level, many alcoves with sandy beaches and surfers and not that much traffic, given the time of the year. The B roads were empty and we went through some remote regions, with not a hut in sight.
It’s worth mentioning to prospective travellers the road around Lock Eriboll going southwest then back northeast, before continuing west. And the sight of many such mountains, like Ben Hope – by Loch Hope – standing proud and covered in snow.
Why have we never seen these images on print or film we wondered? Why were they hidden from us? By indifference or by design? We figured no one would want this spoiled, although the environment is very tough, and deduced no great painters would hail from these parts, because there is not much time for indulging in much other than surviving.
Our tea break was in Scourie and the hotel was all about fly fishing. Although having heard this expression for the best part of two decades, I did not know what it meant, until Henry enlightened me. I won’t go into the particulars except that Henry noted it is more akin to hunting as the fisherman must take a more active role in pursuing prey.
After sipping our tea and coffee by the fireplace and talking to one of the guests, a BBC cameraman and birdwatcher from Bristol, who told us he flew over regularly to visit a friend living on an island a few miles offshore. The friend he said, who collected him by boat, did not have good network coverage in the are and had to climb to the top of a mountain to collect her mobile phone messages! I found it very hilarious – living on the bourne of technology and wilderness.
Once we finished our drinks, we were back on the road again until the fishing village of Ullapool, were we stopped at the first hotel we saw – the Argyll Hotel. It was raining and we were happy to get indoors were even keeled Nigel, the proprietor together with his partner Franner, booked us in for the night. Both had attempted to set up pub in their native Guildford but could not get the brewery to sponsor so found a situation in the Western Highlands which suited them better.
After a quick incursion into town to get an Indian takeaway at Jasmine plus a walk along the sea loch while our delicious meal was prepared we returned to the Argyll to eat. There was a lot of food but me managed to polish it off, minus a bit of the bonus Peshawri Nam, which was ravaged the next night, while me and my starving mother unloaded the car, finding the leftover.
The Argyll was fairly empty, only a few bods hanging out at the bar. Nigel played an entire Jimi Hendrix album and my mother enjoyed the music of her contemporary, having never listened to him carefully. After finishing our meals we proceeded to finish our drinks by the fireplace, en route my mother asked a group of revellers – one sporting yellow wellies – if the pub was a fisherman’s hang out. The barman replied that every pub was a fisherman’s hangout. He also said he owned a pub down the road, before being employed by Nigel. Now having known Scots in London who referred to “going up the road” as going home I could not figure out where he meant by “down the road”.
Anyway, he added some logs and stoked the fire, while describing how the sea became depleted and nowadays yielded mainly shellfish. I asked if it had been the Spanish fleet and he replied “something like that”.
After a good night sleep, to cap the first day of rest after nine days cycling we had breakfast and a good chat with Franner, who is busy decorating the Argyll, after switching careers – she had previously been a music lecturer, the euphonium being her instrument. It is similar to a tuba, she explained, but higher in pitch.
She certainly had enough space to start her own brass band but that was low on her priority list for the time being. Still, Nigel and Franner were as musical as a couple could get. The previous weekend they had live music in the pub – Scott MacDonald – and salsa lessons concurrently at the back function room.
We left Ullapool like many places before, along the journey, wishing we could have stayed more. Still, our final day driving to London, the last day of March, was to be filled with beautiful site and reencounters.
As we approached Fort William the mountain ranges began to appear, and big ones they were. The same Grampians but more impressive still that our first view. Near Fort William, as we went past heading southwest on the A82 we saw the ski resort of Nevis Range perch atop the mountain near the peaks of Aonach Mòr (1219) and Ben Nevis (1343). We drove past the lift and were tempted to stop but time was running out.
We stopped at a viewpoint by Loch Ness and I could not resist going for a dip in the legendary waters. They were crystal clear but reflected the brown stone, making the reflected light go brown, too. It reminded me of Jaws except Nessy was lurking in the depths, waiting and ready to subtract some limbs from my defenceless frame. In the end it was the low temperatures that really scared me off. Out I went as my mother reminded me I was crazy just like my dad. But it made all sense in the world - my skin tingling for a long time afterwards.
We attacked the Fort William Morrison’s booty while my mother had some hysteria attacks, having lost track of the satnav’s location in this planet of ours. It turned out to have been left in the Sutherland Inn, back in Brora.
As we approached the last bump before Glencoe the mountain biker I talked to on the first day appeared on the horizon, on the tenth day of her planned 14 day journey to John O’Groats. I hooted and wandered if by association – the bikes on the rack - she could figure we set out on the same day – or like us, had been hooted some many times, mostly in encouragement but occasionally in rage, and was oblivious to my identity. Anyway, she definitely chose the scenic route. Henry’s dad, Colin, recommended the Western route but due to time constraints we chose the Eastern way. As we left her behind I came to the most stunning view of the trip, an infinite opening of rock and heather surrounded but mountain ranges, by Glencoe mountain resort. The mountain biker had just sipped this unhurriedly why we were zooming past in a car. The car park in Glencoe mountain resort was tiny and inviting. I wish I could have followed the squash players’ final suggestion - “Stay another day”. That would have been the simple solution.
We carried on and before long were driving through Glasgow on our way to Carlisle, where we refuelled and rang Henry to fine tune the evening’s get-together. We knew then – 1700h – that we would make last orders in the best case, which we did, after driving non-stop till 2300h, almost matching a similar drive of yesteryear from Glasgow to Heathrow but that tale will wait till another blogging down memory lane session.
The pub was emptying as I sipped my red wine and some gifts exchanged hands. And the adventure seemed to be over.
Day Nine
29.03.2009 - Brora - John O'Groats
We tried to make an earlier start and ended up leaving around 0900h after bacon sandwiches, sacrificing our fried breakfast, it would have been the 8th in a row. It would have been a first in my life, breaking the record of 7 from the day before. The amount of food we've been eating deserves mention. Big breakfast, big lunch, big dinner, lots of munchies, tea stop in the evening. Still it looks like we are losing weight. What can I say. It's crazy.
A friend at work who knows about nutrition says that when you get stuck in that loop - eat and exercise and repeat - the body uses a considerable amount of energy to digest the food so I figure we need to eat even more to make up for the digestion overhead.
Anyway, we set off and the road was flat for a long while, while the strong tail wind made us sail effortlessly at 20mph. It felt like it would be that way until the end but we then hit some respectable coastal ascents and descents, Ben clocked 47mph on one downhill falling 3 short of hitting the mythical 50. Some were quite scary. On one bridge I felt that a strong cross wind could throw me over.
At one point, just before another tea stop at the "Tea Room" in Dunbeath the valley covered in heather, with a stream down the middle did look unreal but I had no idea then of the scenery I would see the following two days - driving back to London along the north and west coast.
We all agreed the terrain was unexpectedly hilly and had a good look at the ordnance survey map to assess what laid ahead. The contour lines were definitely more spaced out from Dunbeath to Wick, where most of our team would be getting the sleeper train back the next day, and non existent from Wick to John O'Groats - 61 metres/200 feet between lines with some gentle ascents and descents for the final section that could not be accounted for on the map.
The day was glorious beyond words. In the North Sea, the Beatrice oil field was visible. Angus and I stopped by a graveyard, facing the sea and the oil field. Angus jumped over a fence and proceeded to a monument on the opposite side of the road, erected in honour of the fallen men in WWII from those surroundings. He was surprised to count about 50, in an area that seemed to scarcely populated, and imagining the impact of the loss in the community.
After a few more beautiful folding rocky cliffs on the coast we arrived in Wick and by a red light spotted two Scottish lassies walking side by side with a bottle of Irn Brew each. That was quite funny because stereotypical and Angus told me to take a photo, which I did, and got a good reaction from the girls as we cycled past.
Then it was the last turn to John O'Groats and a sadness set in. The journey was over. The wind was pushing us. There was no way we would not get there and there we got. My mother and aunt, our support crew passed us a few miles before the end and were awaiting us. At the end. Handshakes, hugs and photos.
Then we headed to the pub and signed the guest book, a must for all "End-to-enders". My mother refused initially but I twisted her arm, given that a motorcycled gang were the first Saturday entry.
I managed to find Mark Parson's entry. He did it the year before in a group a six, in 5 days. One of the members being a very fit 70 year old man. On the entry they wrote about 3 1/2 days of rain.
We had rain, snow, hail, headwind and cold weather but also a lot of sunshine and tailwind and I don't mean Henry's farts. Enough to get tans and cracked lips.
And that was the end. We racked our bikes and drove back to Wick. Me and Henry shaved our heads and the hairdresser, like a drunken woman we met in an Edinburgh pub, made a contribution for "Riders for health". I was touched and my view of charity changed on this trip. And that was it.
We tried to make an earlier start and ended up leaving around 0900h after bacon sandwiches, sacrificing our fried breakfast, it would have been the 8th in a row. It would have been a first in my life, breaking the record of 7 from the day before. The amount of food we've been eating deserves mention. Big breakfast, big lunch, big dinner, lots of munchies, tea stop in the evening. Still it looks like we are losing weight. What can I say. It's crazy.
A friend at work who knows about nutrition says that when you get stuck in that loop - eat and exercise and repeat - the body uses a considerable amount of energy to digest the food so I figure we need to eat even more to make up for the digestion overhead.
Anyway, we set off and the road was flat for a long while, while the strong tail wind made us sail effortlessly at 20mph. It felt like it would be that way until the end but we then hit some respectable coastal ascents and descents, Ben clocked 47mph on one downhill falling 3 short of hitting the mythical 50. Some were quite scary. On one bridge I felt that a strong cross wind could throw me over.
At one point, just before another tea stop at the "Tea Room" in Dunbeath the valley covered in heather, with a stream down the middle did look unreal but I had no idea then of the scenery I would see the following two days - driving back to London along the north and west coast.
We all agreed the terrain was unexpectedly hilly and had a good look at the ordnance survey map to assess what laid ahead. The contour lines were definitely more spaced out from Dunbeath to Wick, where most of our team would be getting the sleeper train back the next day, and non existent from Wick to John O'Groats - 61 metres/200 feet between lines with some gentle ascents and descents for the final section that could not be accounted for on the map.
The day was glorious beyond words. In the North Sea, the Beatrice oil field was visible. Angus and I stopped by a graveyard, facing the sea and the oil field. Angus jumped over a fence and proceeded to a monument on the opposite side of the road, erected in honour of the fallen men in WWII from those surroundings. He was surprised to count about 50, in an area that seemed to scarcely populated, and imagining the impact of the loss in the community.
After a few more beautiful folding rocky cliffs on the coast we arrived in Wick and by a red light spotted two Scottish lassies walking side by side with a bottle of Irn Brew each. That was quite funny because stereotypical and Angus told me to take a photo, which I did, and got a good reaction from the girls as we cycled past.
Then it was the last turn to John O'Groats and a sadness set in. The journey was over. The wind was pushing us. There was no way we would not get there and there we got. My mother and aunt, our support crew passed us a few miles before the end and were awaiting us. At the end. Handshakes, hugs and photos.
Then we headed to the pub and signed the guest book, a must for all "End-to-enders". My mother refused initially but I twisted her arm, given that a motorcycled gang were the first Saturday entry.
I managed to find Mark Parson's entry. He did it the year before in a group a six, in 5 days. One of the members being a very fit 70 year old man. On the entry they wrote about 3 1/2 days of rain.
We had rain, snow, hail, headwind and cold weather but also a lot of sunshine and tailwind and I don't mean Henry's farts. Enough to get tans and cracked lips.
And that was the end. We racked our bikes and drove back to Wick. Me and Henry shaved our heads and the hairdresser, like a drunken woman we met in an Edinburgh pub, made a contribution for "Riders for health". I was touched and my view of charity changed on this trip. And that was it.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Day Eight
28.03.2008 - Kingussie - Brora
Route:
After the epic squadron night fly into Kingussie the troops are divided on the final destination for today. I wanted to go until Helmsdale, about 108 miles while Ben was happy going to Brora, about 97 miles so Angus suggested we decide at lunchtime.
We had the second cleanup of the trip, giving the chains a good de-greasing and some GT-60 all around the moving parts. Then, as the rain stopped, lucky us, we set off.
After the ascent in the dark last night we more or less figured there would be a lot of snow on the ground and indeed there was.
We had a tea stop in the Scottish sky resort of Aviemore which according to Sue's son - from the Osprey Hotel where we stayed in Kingussie - is having the best season in the last five years. Angus said it was dangerous to stop but still we all had a cuppa. It was interesting to feel that resort vibe in Scotland, with the obvious snowboarders walking around town. Cafe Bleu had live slope webcams and the town was full of security, because of the Labour Party Conference - Gordon Brown was supposed to come in the afternoon, to state that the SNP was a threat to Scottish prosperity.
After Aviemore we did a fair amount of climbing and at this point noticed various signs to cycling routes. They added some mileage but lots of scenery. We managed to lay down some fresh tracks on up to two inches of snow. Now that was really unexpected.
On the downside Henry picked up two more punctures, taking his total tally to five. The rubber does not deal with snow very well which made me wonder at what temperature are tires designed to function. Continental are you listening? We now have a new cycling in the snow sport and need advanced designs haha.
Just before Inverness we came upon the ancient Clava Cairns, supposed to be between 3 and 5 thousand years old. And they had stone circles around them, sun worshippers that the people of the land were.
Then we wondered, when would we see the sea? We expected it to appear after every bump and it indeed appeared.
So did Inverness, where we stopped for lunch in a cafe by the bus station.
It was a popular hangout. Good food at good prices. The building dated probably from the 50's or 60's.
It was a quarter circle shape with a high ceiling and large windows. On the mezzanine balcony were on display
4 very stylish Italian motorbikes. Angus, who also rides motorbikes pointed out the funky exhausts.
Altogether the arrangement looked bizarre and not quite compatible with the clientele and Angus concluded that people like to show off their riches.
After a big lunch we worked out the remaining mileage and that we would not manage our original target - Helmsdale - at a reasonable time, so settle for Brora.
Now Brora merits some background info. When Henry and I plotted the stages for the first time we had no means of measuring accurately the mileage for each stage so we used a piece of dental floss that on the map scaled to 100 miles. Unlike other stages, the eight dental floss measurement did end on Brora.
We left Inverness and stopped for a photo shoot next to a sign that read John O'Groats 120 miles.
Now, with the Grampian mountains behind us it seemed like we would make it for sure.
Across the suspension bridge we went and followed the cycle lane number 1 along some beautiful country until
we decided that it was sending us the long way around, when we rejoined the A9 over the next bridge
and carried on B roads and country lanes. By then the landscape's overwhelming beauty put me off taking anymore
photos. We went by and over so many stone bridges that I gave up for the day. No, I lie, I did do some night
shots for documentation's sake.
By the time night fell we got off the country lanes and once again landed on the A9 in the town of Tain where
it started to feel like deep Scotland. In the coop we had our early evening feed. We looked a little bit
like astronauts walking between the shelves and a scottish toddler came up to my thigh and pulled my tights
to figure out what material they were made of - while mildly admonished by the adult accompanying her.
After a couple of hours riding in the dark with some stunning night time views of the coast line, with city lights and lighthouses, we arrived at the Sutherland Inn - Brora. And were "fed and watered" grandly. With 12 oz sirloin steaks and whiskey.
The effort is starting to show. The after ride high is lasting less and less.
Route:
After the epic squadron night fly into Kingussie the troops are divided on the final destination for today. I wanted to go until Helmsdale, about 108 miles while Ben was happy going to Brora, about 97 miles so Angus suggested we decide at lunchtime.
We had the second cleanup of the trip, giving the chains a good de-greasing and some GT-60 all around the moving parts. Then, as the rain stopped, lucky us, we set off.
After the ascent in the dark last night we more or less figured there would be a lot of snow on the ground and indeed there was.
We had a tea stop in the Scottish sky resort of Aviemore which according to Sue's son - from the Osprey Hotel where we stayed in Kingussie - is having the best season in the last five years. Angus said it was dangerous to stop but still we all had a cuppa. It was interesting to feel that resort vibe in Scotland, with the obvious snowboarders walking around town. Cafe Bleu had live slope webcams and the town was full of security, because of the Labour Party Conference - Gordon Brown was supposed to come in the afternoon, to state that the SNP was a threat to Scottish prosperity.
After Aviemore we did a fair amount of climbing and at this point noticed various signs to cycling routes. They added some mileage but lots of scenery. We managed to lay down some fresh tracks on up to two inches of snow. Now that was really unexpected.
On the downside Henry picked up two more punctures, taking his total tally to five. The rubber does not deal with snow very well which made me wonder at what temperature are tires designed to function. Continental are you listening? We now have a new cycling in the snow sport and need advanced designs haha.
Just before Inverness we came upon the ancient Clava Cairns, supposed to be between 3 and 5 thousand years old. And they had stone circles around them, sun worshippers that the people of the land were.
Then we wondered, when would we see the sea? We expected it to appear after every bump and it indeed appeared.
So did Inverness, where we stopped for lunch in a cafe by the bus station.
It was a popular hangout. Good food at good prices. The building dated probably from the 50's or 60's.
It was a quarter circle shape with a high ceiling and large windows. On the mezzanine balcony were on display
4 very stylish Italian motorbikes. Angus, who also rides motorbikes pointed out the funky exhausts.
Altogether the arrangement looked bizarre and not quite compatible with the clientele and Angus concluded that people like to show off their riches.
After a big lunch we worked out the remaining mileage and that we would not manage our original target - Helmsdale - at a reasonable time, so settle for Brora.
Now Brora merits some background info. When Henry and I plotted the stages for the first time we had no means of measuring accurately the mileage for each stage so we used a piece of dental floss that on the map scaled to 100 miles. Unlike other stages, the eight dental floss measurement did end on Brora.
We left Inverness and stopped for a photo shoot next to a sign that read John O'Groats 120 miles.
Now, with the Grampian mountains behind us it seemed like we would make it for sure.
Across the suspension bridge we went and followed the cycle lane number 1 along some beautiful country until
we decided that it was sending us the long way around, when we rejoined the A9 over the next bridge
and carried on B roads and country lanes. By then the landscape's overwhelming beauty put me off taking anymore
photos. We went by and over so many stone bridges that I gave up for the day. No, I lie, I did do some night
shots for documentation's sake.
By the time night fell we got off the country lanes and once again landed on the A9 in the town of Tain where
it started to feel like deep Scotland. In the coop we had our early evening feed. We looked a little bit
like astronauts walking between the shelves and a scottish toddler came up to my thigh and pulled my tights
to figure out what material they were made of - while mildly admonished by the adult accompanying her.
After a couple of hours riding in the dark with some stunning night time views of the coast line, with city lights and lighthouses, we arrived at the Sutherland Inn - Brora. And were "fed and watered" grandly. With 12 oz sirloin steaks and whiskey.
The effort is starting to show. The after ride high is lasting less and less.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Day Seven
27.03.2008 - Edinburgh - Kingussie
The Castle View Guest House in Edinburgh had just that. The sun was shinning but we could see the locals in the street wrapped up warm so we opted to stick to our layers.
It was a pig of a job navigating out of Edinburgh but we had some small bonuses, like cycling past Murrayfield stadium which Angus pointed out, being the rugby man he is.
Also, it was nice going over the Forth road bridge. There is something nice about bridges.
Our first criminal act of the day - we had been jumping "safe reds" for a while now - led by me (don't really want to drag the rest of them into the much) was to jump a road block only to discover that we were entering a tree felling area. No trees fell on our heads as the workers were on their lunch break - that's how long we took to leave Edinburgh! And we went on our merry way.
Now the shadow of the Grampian mountains lay heavily upon us. Unlike the Cumbrian mountains, which approached us quite quickly in comparison, the mighty Grampians took their time and loomed bigger and bigger.
At the cash point in Kinross, a woman after learning our plight advised me and Angus that "it will be cold up there". Our fish and chips in Perth I think it was were eaten in silence. We knew it would be a late one with lots of climbing on the busy A9. With the massive lorries to make us company.
Still, the after lunch route was very pleasant, on some B roads ending in Pitlochry I think it was, where we had our late afternoon tea break. Thereafter the Grampians hit us hard and we were climbing for a long time. Darkness fell and we were still climbing. When we got to the pass Henry took over with his powerful legs and headlights and pulled us all the way down at high speed. At one point disaster struck and his light went out but after some fidgeting it came to and off we went again. It was wonderful to see the road sign "Kingussie 16 m".
And soon enough we were there, taking the detour through Newtonmore, flying in like a squadron, two abreast, with a strong tailwind.
At the Osprey Hotel big Sue pulled our legs suggesting breakfast was at 4am but Henry pulled her leg right back saying 4.30am would do.
At the Duke of Gordon Hotel, opposite the Osprey we had dinner. The place was packed with OAPs and the portions were compatible with the clientele. We felt big voids in our bellies but the fireplace made up for it, as we sipped our whiskey and dried our feet.
The Castle View Guest House in Edinburgh had just that. The sun was shinning but we could see the locals in the street wrapped up warm so we opted to stick to our layers.
It was a pig of a job navigating out of Edinburgh but we had some small bonuses, like cycling past Murrayfield stadium which Angus pointed out, being the rugby man he is.
Also, it was nice going over the Forth road bridge. There is something nice about bridges.
Our first criminal act of the day - we had been jumping "safe reds" for a while now - led by me (don't really want to drag the rest of them into the much) was to jump a road block only to discover that we were entering a tree felling area. No trees fell on our heads as the workers were on their lunch break - that's how long we took to leave Edinburgh! And we went on our merry way.
Now the shadow of the Grampian mountains lay heavily upon us. Unlike the Cumbrian mountains, which approached us quite quickly in comparison, the mighty Grampians took their time and loomed bigger and bigger.
At the cash point in Kinross, a woman after learning our plight advised me and Angus that "it will be cold up there". Our fish and chips in Perth I think it was were eaten in silence. We knew it would be a late one with lots of climbing on the busy A9. With the massive lorries to make us company.
Still, the after lunch route was very pleasant, on some B roads ending in Pitlochry I think it was, where we had our late afternoon tea break. Thereafter the Grampians hit us hard and we were climbing for a long time. Darkness fell and we were still climbing. When we got to the pass Henry took over with his powerful legs and headlights and pulled us all the way down at high speed. At one point disaster struck and his light went out but after some fidgeting it came to and off we went again. It was wonderful to see the road sign "Kingussie 16 m".
And soon enough we were there, taking the detour through Newtonmore, flying in like a squadron, two abreast, with a strong tailwind.
At the Osprey Hotel big Sue pulled our legs suggesting breakfast was at 4am but Henry pulled her leg right back saying 4.30am would do.
At the Duke of Gordon Hotel, opposite the Osprey we had dinner. The place was packed with OAPs and the portions were compatible with the clientele. We felt big voids in our bellies but the fireplace made up for it, as we sipped our whiskey and dried our feet.
Day Six
2006.06.2008 - Langholm - Edinburgh
Route:
I'll owe the readers this one, will post at a later date, basically all the way up the B709 till the A7 the into Edinburgh.
Had the most amazing day travelling up the B709. If you have a chance do not pass it by. This is cyclists paradise. Remote, long gentle ascents and descents through the heathers and monroes. It really bowled me over. The roads are all lines on the map and you never know what to expect to it was pretty breathless. And because remote, we had a long more time riding two and three abreast and chatting for long parts of the way. The weather became milder and Ben and I stripped off a couple of layers before starting out.
Well there were Angus and I riding side by side, he spoke about his rugby years when suddenly a bhuddist temple appeared! It was very bizarre, and quiet as expected. We had a quick nose and walk around the ribboned tree to make a wish.
The air was still most of the day. In the afternoon is turned southerly so we bombed it down to Edinburgh and really ate up the miles. It is great approching Edinburgh on the A7, going past Arthur's Seat and heading into the Old Town. We cycled up the cobbles to Edinburgh Castle for a photo shoot and I really gave it some welly, to remind myself of the Tour of Flanders and and the shock my fellow cyclists from Dulwich Paragon Cycling Club will be absorbing next weekend. There is a big committee travelling to Belgium to attend.
As we were happily snapping away by the Castle, Ben managed to hook up with a friend that put us up for free! What a bonus, we saved a bundle between us. Had some Haggis. Hooked up with my cousin Katie - studying in St Andrews and had a mini family reunion - 4 family members including my Aunt Susie. Then dropped off cuz and headed to Henry's place of birth on 13 Warriston Crescent. Many snaps were taken in the rain, as Hen proudly posed by the front door.
Today we are off to Kinhussie and it's deep breath time, it should be amazing x 3 at least! Two mountain passes, etc.
And that's the message from the troops today, have a nice day at work everyone and don't forget to check out the blog tomorrow, although not sure I'll be able to update today.
Route:
I'll owe the readers this one, will post at a later date, basically all the way up the B709 till the A7 the into Edinburgh.
Had the most amazing day travelling up the B709. If you have a chance do not pass it by. This is cyclists paradise. Remote, long gentle ascents and descents through the heathers and monroes. It really bowled me over. The roads are all lines on the map and you never know what to expect to it was pretty breathless. And because remote, we had a long more time riding two and three abreast and chatting for long parts of the way. The weather became milder and Ben and I stripped off a couple of layers before starting out.
Well there were Angus and I riding side by side, he spoke about his rugby years when suddenly a bhuddist temple appeared! It was very bizarre, and quiet as expected. We had a quick nose and walk around the ribboned tree to make a wish.
The air was still most of the day. In the afternoon is turned southerly so we bombed it down to Edinburgh and really ate up the miles. It is great approching Edinburgh on the A7, going past Arthur's Seat and heading into the Old Town. We cycled up the cobbles to Edinburgh Castle for a photo shoot and I really gave it some welly, to remind myself of the Tour of Flanders and and the shock my fellow cyclists from Dulwich Paragon Cycling Club will be absorbing next weekend. There is a big committee travelling to Belgium to attend.
As we were happily snapping away by the Castle, Ben managed to hook up with a friend that put us up for free! What a bonus, we saved a bundle between us. Had some Haggis. Hooked up with my cousin Katie - studying in St Andrews and had a mini family reunion - 4 family members including my Aunt Susie. Then dropped off cuz and headed to Henry's place of birth on 13 Warriston Crescent. Many snaps were taken in the rain, as Hen proudly posed by the front door.
Today we are off to Kinhussie and it's deep breath time, it should be amazing x 3 at least! Two mountain passes, etc.
And that's the message from the troops today, have a nice day at work everyone and don't forget to check out the blog tomorrow, although not sure I'll be able to update today.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Day Five
25.03.2008 - Lancaster - Langholm
Potential route:
http://www.bikely.com/maps/bike-path/LEJOG-2008-DAY-5
Finally caught up with the blog. Was feeling pretty gone on the first two days but that was what I expected from Cornwall and Devon. As we crossed the county borders the terrain got flatter and we seemed to have caught our breath and found our legs.
Anyway, I hope all readers had a good Easter break and keep tuned in for more adventures of Angus, Ben, Dan and Hen. The four moving shadows, at least when the sun is shining.
(...)
After a gigantic breakfast at the luxurious 4 star Lancaster House Hotel - courtesy of "the Imperturbable", Angus told many hilarious stories of his times
working as a roadie/sound and lighting engineer for a wedding band in Ireland. These memories rushed back to him as Abba or something in those lines was
pipped through the breakfast room. As the chorus played Angus mimicked himself at the mixing desk, lighting and smoke machine console, moving his protruding
thumb and index fingers, tapping the table in time with the music and saying "Yellow, yellow, green... Yellow, yellow, green..." then with the other hand he
released some imaginary smoke by pressing another imaginary button. Then remembered how the bass player reprimanded him when he got the colours wrong. "Not
blue! Green!" He shouted the bass player's telling off as we laughed.
Then he proceeded to describe the gypsy weddings - very lavish affairs - where some family feud always broke out, usually at the car park but sometimes in
the reception room.
He recalled a massive brawl. As soon as it started the band leader who was also the lead singer shouted retreat orders in angry desperation, which they did
in great haste, carrying all equipment off the stage while the fight consumed everything before it, like a furniture eating monster.
Then at his request Ben the Languid and I described our worst jobs ever but none could match Angus the Brave's tales, who went on to become a lawyer.
Coincidence? Haha.
We then had our first clean-up of the trip. The chains became so gritty we were having problems shifting gears so left Lancaster with squeaky clean moving
parts.
The approach to the Cumbrians was awesome. With the Pennines now for the third consecutive day still to our left, both mountain ranges covered and sometimes
caked in snow.
At one point we had a good view of the sea to our left and the Cumbrians sprawling from North to North West. And up there, somewhere, was Kirkstone Pass,
which would lead us through the mountains.
After crossing the M6 due northeast and again further up due northwest, the Cumbrians looming bigger and bigger, we joined the A694. The ominous sign read
something in the lines of "A694 360 casualties in 5 years, please drive carefully". It was a busy road and it lead us into the Lake District National Park.
On my first visit, a couple of years ago, at least, there was very low cloud. At the time I was looking forward to seeing Ireland from the top of Scafell
Pike but there was no more than 50 metres visibility on that occasion. Today was a different story, although there would be no Ireland to search for in the
horizon - we would not be going that high.
Angus picked up a slow puncture and those not engaged in replacing the inner tube procured some Kendal mint cake. I had every intention of bringing some back
to the office but it seemed like everything we got that was edible disappeared very quickly. And it did taste good. I assure all readers. Sweet and non-sweet
toothed alike.
Once in our saddles Angus began to recall the legend of Donald Campbell, an action man who broke many land and water speed records, some in the Lake
District. I found many interesting tales about this man, including the recovery of his body from the depths of Lake Coniston, decades after his boat
disintegrated at high speed, while he reached 300mph. The rescuer was inspired by a Marillion album singing Campbell's feats. He is now buried near the lake.
We got past Kendal and had a lovely gentle ascent - we would encounter many such the next day - then before Windermere found a handy shortcut in the town of
Ings heading north west.
As we headed up and got closer and more personal with the snow, a fighter jet flew by our right. Another flew by our left, just before Kirkstone Pass,
turning then right into the pass where it flew out of sight. To me it looked like it would have crashed into the mountain side but it described a gracious
albeit noisy curve and off it went to admire the beauties before us. Then a Spitfire followed. I don't recall ever being so closed to these powerful aircraft
in flight.
We made the pass with good legs and had a celebratory lunch in the cozy Kirkstone Pass Inn. And one of the patterns of our journey once again reared its face
when the waitress fumbled Henry and Ben's Spotted Dick desert and we were held for another 20 minutes or so. Not a bad desert it was.
We left snowboarders and kids with plastic sledges on the pass and proceeded with the help of geography and gravity to the valley floor. Ben was aiming for
the mythical 50mph. On the level I saw a brave girl cyclist starting off in the opposite direction. And what a brave woman she was going up the hard way. On
our route we had 1 chevron, indicating accentuated inclination. She had four chevrons to deal with. At least all avoided "The Struggle".
This turns out to be a very effective notation, the chevron (or "greater than" sign or arrow head) pointing the upwards direction, so the cyclist and
hiker may take stock. It does not make that much difference to the driver, unless the road is icy or very wet.
The night before in the sauna we were advised about the infamous double chevroned climb - "The Struggle". And a fellow guest took great offence when I called
the Cumbrians "bumps". He assured me that we would be climbing 400 metres to go over Kirkstone Pass so afterwards, before bedtime I revisited bikely.com and
plotted the route. It did turn out to present 1000m ascent in total, from end to end. We discussed it in the morning and unanimously chose to take it,
instead of the flatter option coasting around the east.
And we left the Cumbrians behind. Carlisle was now in the sign posts and we took a pleasant country lane into town, parallel and west of the M6.
In Carlisle we got directions to reach the A7. They included a skirt around a chimney that "we could not miss". Indeed it was gigantic. And I was surprised I
missed it on my first visit to town. Nearby was a McVities installation and the air carried the freshly baked biscuits. After our tea stop we made it to
Langholm without incident crossing the border into bonnie Scotland and doing the last 16 miles at the greatest average speed of the day, which is turning
into a habit. We call it Angus' Guinness legs.
We stayed at the Border House, where our host Dennis guided us to the pub to we could get "fed and watered". Not before playing at my request some music on his
acoustic guitar. He went for a ragtime. Truly awesome. I had never heard ragtime played on the guitar.
Langholm is a cracking town. Opposite the pub we had dinner the local brass band was rehearsing. A musical evening all around. The last sight of my waking
hours was Henry surrounded and wired by gadgetry - iPod, HTC handheld phone and vaio laptop, reading up on John O'Groats and discovering in Wikipedia that
"The town takes its name from Jan de Groot, a Dutchman who obtained a grant for the ferry from the Scottish mainland to Orkney, recently acquired from
Norway, from King James IV in 1496."
To which I add, also from Wikipedia "The local football team is John o' Groats F.C. who recently reached the semi finals of the Highland Amateur Cup but lost
out to Point F.C of the Western Isles."
Potential route:
http://www.bikely.com/maps/bike-path/LEJOG-2008-DAY-5
Finally caught up with the blog. Was feeling pretty gone on the first two days but that was what I expected from Cornwall and Devon. As we crossed the county borders the terrain got flatter and we seemed to have caught our breath and found our legs.
Anyway, I hope all readers had a good Easter break and keep tuned in for more adventures of Angus, Ben, Dan and Hen. The four moving shadows, at least when the sun is shining.
(...)
After a gigantic breakfast at the luxurious 4 star Lancaster House Hotel - courtesy of "the Imperturbable", Angus told many hilarious stories of his times
working as a roadie/sound and lighting engineer for a wedding band in Ireland. These memories rushed back to him as Abba or something in those lines was
pipped through the breakfast room. As the chorus played Angus mimicked himself at the mixing desk, lighting and smoke machine console, moving his protruding
thumb and index fingers, tapping the table in time with the music and saying "Yellow, yellow, green... Yellow, yellow, green..." then with the other hand he
released some imaginary smoke by pressing another imaginary button. Then remembered how the bass player reprimanded him when he got the colours wrong. "Not
blue! Green!" He shouted the bass player's telling off as we laughed.
Then he proceeded to describe the gypsy weddings - very lavish affairs - where some family feud always broke out, usually at the car park but sometimes in
the reception room.
He recalled a massive brawl. As soon as it started the band leader who was also the lead singer shouted retreat orders in angry desperation, which they did
in great haste, carrying all equipment off the stage while the fight consumed everything before it, like a furniture eating monster.
Then at his request Ben the Languid and I described our worst jobs ever but none could match Angus the Brave's tales, who went on to become a lawyer.
Coincidence? Haha.
We then had our first clean-up of the trip. The chains became so gritty we were having problems shifting gears so left Lancaster with squeaky clean moving
parts.
The approach to the Cumbrians was awesome. With the Pennines now for the third consecutive day still to our left, both mountain ranges covered and sometimes
caked in snow.
At one point we had a good view of the sea to our left and the Cumbrians sprawling from North to North West. And up there, somewhere, was Kirkstone Pass,
which would lead us through the mountains.
After crossing the M6 due northeast and again further up due northwest, the Cumbrians looming bigger and bigger, we joined the A694. The ominous sign read
something in the lines of "A694 360 casualties in 5 years, please drive carefully". It was a busy road and it lead us into the Lake District National Park.
On my first visit, a couple of years ago, at least, there was very low cloud. At the time I was looking forward to seeing Ireland from the top of Scafell
Pike but there was no more than 50 metres visibility on that occasion. Today was a different story, although there would be no Ireland to search for in the
horizon - we would not be going that high.
Angus picked up a slow puncture and those not engaged in replacing the inner tube procured some Kendal mint cake. I had every intention of bringing some back
to the office but it seemed like everything we got that was edible disappeared very quickly. And it did taste good. I assure all readers. Sweet and non-sweet
toothed alike.
Once in our saddles Angus began to recall the legend of Donald Campbell, an action man who broke many land and water speed records, some in the Lake
District. I found many interesting tales about this man, including the recovery of his body from the depths of Lake Coniston, decades after his boat
disintegrated at high speed, while he reached 300mph. The rescuer was inspired by a Marillion album singing Campbell's feats. He is now buried near the lake.
We got past Kendal and had a lovely gentle ascent - we would encounter many such the next day - then before Windermere found a handy shortcut in the town of
Ings heading north west.
As we headed up and got closer and more personal with the snow, a fighter jet flew by our right. Another flew by our left, just before Kirkstone Pass,
turning then right into the pass where it flew out of sight. To me it looked like it would have crashed into the mountain side but it described a gracious
albeit noisy curve and off it went to admire the beauties before us. Then a Spitfire followed. I don't recall ever being so closed to these powerful aircraft
in flight.
We made the pass with good legs and had a celebratory lunch in the cozy Kirkstone Pass Inn. And one of the patterns of our journey once again reared its face
when the waitress fumbled Henry and Ben's Spotted Dick desert and we were held for another 20 minutes or so. Not a bad desert it was.
We left snowboarders and kids with plastic sledges on the pass and proceeded with the help of geography and gravity to the valley floor. Ben was aiming for
the mythical 50mph. On the level I saw a brave girl cyclist starting off in the opposite direction. And what a brave woman she was going up the hard way. On
our route we had 1 chevron, indicating accentuated inclination. She had four chevrons to deal with. At least all avoided "The Struggle".
This turns out to be a very effective notation, the chevron (or "greater than" sign or arrow head) pointing the upwards direction, so the cyclist and
hiker may take stock. It does not make that much difference to the driver, unless the road is icy or very wet.
The night before in the sauna we were advised about the infamous double chevroned climb - "The Struggle". And a fellow guest took great offence when I called
the Cumbrians "bumps". He assured me that we would be climbing 400 metres to go over Kirkstone Pass so afterwards, before bedtime I revisited bikely.com and
plotted the route. It did turn out to present 1000m ascent in total, from end to end. We discussed it in the morning and unanimously chose to take it,
instead of the flatter option coasting around the east.
And we left the Cumbrians behind. Carlisle was now in the sign posts and we took a pleasant country lane into town, parallel and west of the M6.
In Carlisle we got directions to reach the A7. They included a skirt around a chimney that "we could not miss". Indeed it was gigantic. And I was surprised I
missed it on my first visit to town. Nearby was a McVities installation and the air carried the freshly baked biscuits. After our tea stop we made it to
Langholm without incident crossing the border into bonnie Scotland and doing the last 16 miles at the greatest average speed of the day, which is turning
into a habit. We call it Angus' Guinness legs.
We stayed at the Border House, where our host Dennis guided us to the pub to we could get "fed and watered". Not before playing at my request some music on his
acoustic guitar. He went for a ragtime. Truly awesome. I had never heard ragtime played on the guitar.
Langholm is a cracking town. Opposite the pub we had dinner the local brass band was rehearsing. A musical evening all around. The last sight of my waking
hours was Henry surrounded and wired by gadgetry - iPod, HTC handheld phone and vaio laptop, reading up on John O'Groats and discovering in Wikipedia that
"The town takes its name from Jan de Groot, a Dutchman who obtained a grant for the ferry from the Scottish mainland to Orkney, recently acquired from
Norway, from King James IV in 1496."
To which I add, also from Wikipedia "The local football team is John o' Groats F.C. who recently reached the semi finals of the Highland Amateur Cup but lost
out to Point F.C of the Western Isles."
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