End to End 2001

After stuffing all my requirements for three weeks into my panniers, my bicycle weighed a ton. I could hardly move it, let alone pedal it over 1 800 kilometres! Penny and Theresa, who had transported me to the youth hostel at Land's End, laughed when I dismounted not 100 metres after leaving them, to push up a hill. But after that, it was surprisingly easy. It was just as if I'd always ridden like that, and when they later overtook me on the road, they were amazed at how far I'd gone. I was following a route I'd ordered from the CTC (Cyclist Touring Club), the Scenic Youth Hostel Route. It was longer and hillier than other routes, and at times, the instructions were ambiguous, at others they were entirely lacking. But I kept forgiving the CTC for their bad route because it took me past the most wonderful scenery, and I had good maps, Ordinance Survey 1:250 000. If ever the instructions were too obscure, I could follow a major road to my destination.

The minor roads in Cornwall are only wide enough for one car, not even a car and a bicycle. I was amazed at how polite the motorists were. They give bicycles the same respect and consideration as they do other cars, and there were times when a car coming towards me would pull off the road and wait for me to pass. I felt obliged to put on a burst of speed so as not to keep them waiting. Relieving oneself can be a problem, specially as the roads and lanes are liberally lined with stinging nettles. Buying food is also difficult. My route followed minor lanes devoid of shops. Even if I found one, I didn't feel safe leaving my laden bike with all my worldly goods outside for anyone to steal. That first day was Saturday, and I found a Post Office just before it shut at 1 pm. Post Offices there sell a lot more than stamps. I bought a litre of orange juice and a packet of Digestive biscuits, sat on the Post Office steps to consume them.

The next place named on my route was the King Harry Ferry. I thought this was a town, but it turned out to be a ferry which I had to cross. I had to climb a hill to get there, up, up, up. Some of those hills, I couldn't climb even without panniers. I had a lot of pushing ahead of me. I rode right past the line of cars waiting for the ferry. A man at the front explained to his young son that it was a chain ferry, as was the case with the other ferries I crossed. The chain moves slowly as the ferry progresses, clatters and clanks as it moves.



After the ferry, I passed a beautiful old water mill, then missed some instructions, and followed the A road to St Austell. I had passed through St Austell in January when, with my cousin, Penny, I visited the Eden Project, brainchild of Tim Smit. The disused clay pits are being used to preserve a variety of eco systems in enormous biomes. Penny's brother, Rodney, and his wife, Sandra, called at the youth hostel at Golant at the end of my first day. It was good to see family members after a hard day of riding. From the window of the dining room, we watched the badgers feeding on scraps which were put out for them. Rod and Sandra offered me a lift to Exeter the next day. What a temptation!

Day 2 - Golant to Plymouth: More hills
Sunday July 8, 2001, 54 km (34 miles) - Total so far: 166 km (103 miles)
Next day, I had to cross another ferry at Fowey, followed some false trails before I found it. Unfortunately, these trails involved speeding down hill, only to find that I had to climb up again. I paid 75p to cross with the ferry, and the ferryman asked me of I was doing End-to-End. He said his son had taken the same route last year, and completed it in 14 days. He suggested I slipstream the cars climbing the hill on the other side of the ferry. No chance!

Looe was the next town on the route, a long hill down to cross a bridge into the town, and a longer and steeper hill out again. The houses were banked in layers on the hillside, like Clifton [Beach in Cape Town]. It was a bustling, seaside town on an estuary, no space in the car park and nowhere safe to leave my bike.

Looe

I settled for a couple of chocolate Digestives and a Mars bar while I sat overlooking the bridge and the activity on the water. I was far behind where I should have been, still had about 50k to go, so I decided to cancel my booking for Steps Bridge, near Exeter, and stay at Plymouth for the night.

It was a good decision and I started to enjoy myself again. The Torpoint Ferry to Plymouth was about 30k from there. There were seven lanes of traffic leading to the ferry, each with its own traffic lights. Lane 7 was for motorbikes, cycles and emergency vehicles. I tucked in behind a huge Honda ridden by a man with a woman on the pillion. There was no charge for us. The motorcyclists told me that motorbikes and cycles were only charged when leaving Plymouth. There were several ferries coming and going, all full of cars. This was Plymouth where it all happened! Where Drake played bowls on the beach! The harbour was full of imposing military ships, and yachts sailed past. In Plymouth, smoke was billowing from a building in the main street while Police cars and fire engines sped past sounding their sirens. A school group was staying at the hostel, but I had a dormitory to myself. In the dining room, I enjoyed the company of an old couple who had done a fair amount of cycling themselves.
Day 3 - Plymouth to Steps Bridge, Dunsford: Moors and sheep: an attempt to set a speed record has disastrous consequences
Monday July 9, 2001, 55 km (34 miles) - Total so far: 221 km (138 miles)

The next day it rained most of the day, but it was cool and the navigation was simple, just a road across Dartmoor with very little risk of error. The road knows nothing of contours, and goes up and down all the hills. The cyclist lady at the youth hostel had told me that there was an old prison at Princetown, which had been used for French prisoners during the Napoleonic wars, but it wasn't on the main route, and it was so cold and wet, I didn't want to deviate. I bought a substantial cheese and tomato sandwich and a cup of coffee for 1.79, ate it outside in the rain.


Speed restriction

On Dartmoor, there were miles and miles of unfenced roads, sheep wandering everywhere, and they have right of way! There were numerous Foot-and-Mouth Disease warnings, but nothing to prevent people from using the paths. I came to a wonderful downhill and was barrelling along, saw that my speed was 62 kph. What a pleasure! Then I was in a speed wobble and became airborne, spread myself all over the road. A woman travelling in the opposite direction stopped to ask if I was all right. My helmet was split, my water bottle shattered, and I was covered in bruises. I had a sore bum for days afterwards, but otherwise, I was all right.

It was always reassuring to see the sign to the youth hostel, and this one was clearly visible, up a very steep and slippery hill. I struggled to drag the heavy bike to the top. The warden phoned the youth hostel headquarters to apply for half rates for me at all the youth hostels, because I was riding for charity. He received a fax back within half an hour. I carried the fax with me and was granted half rates at most of the subsequent youth hostels. Three cyclists checked in that night. One had ridden 80 miles from Cornwall that day. The other two had ridden a tandem from John O'Groats and were nearing the end of their journey. They were very encouraging, told me that the worst hills were in Cornwall and that the Lake District and Scotland would be a breeze.

Steps Bridge is a self-catering hostel and no meals were provided. For supper, I walked to the Royal Oak Arms in Dunsford village. A notice outside the pub advertised "Dogs welcome on leads", and there were a good many. A couple came in with a huge dog called Bronwyn and a golden retriever. The woman was wearing a T-shirt which said "There's no such thing as too many dogs." She said her dog was a Leonburger, a combination of St Bernard, Pyrenian, Newfoundland and wild wolf. Bronwyn was as soft and gentle as she was big. When a German shepherd came in and barked at her, she practically climbed into her mother's lap and licked her all over the face.


and click here for the bit in between before I knew it I was there

I made a plan with Greg and Mandy, the South African and his girlfriend, to ride to John O'Groats early the next morning to photograph each other. After a hurried breakfast, I rushed out without checking whether I'd got everything, not wanting to hold them up. I told Patricia I'd be back to check out before 10:30. We took plenty of photographs under the signpost, the ferry to Orkney in the background.