We enjoyed another excellent breakfast and said our farewells to the Ryce-Garwoods. As we left, our hostess pressed two £10 notes into my hand as their contribution to the National Kidney Foundation. We are always very grateful for touching gestures like that.
We made very good progress this morning and reached Fort William in time for coffee – but we had to take care not to drench other customers as we had cycled through constant rain. We were due some, of course, so we can’t complain. In fact, the weather was quite mild and there was little wind so cycling in the rain was not that unpleasant.
We saw some eider ducks on the sea lock (Loch Linnhe). We had seen some previously but could not make out what they were.
On leaving Fort WIlliam we made for the Great Glen Cycle Way and once on it, we ate the lunch we had just bought at Tesco’s. The route was a bit stony but reasonably flat, so we made quite good progress. On reaching Clunes me net a lovely pair of English setters in a garden and made friends with them whilst chatting to their owner. Then we returned to the Great Glen Cycle Way.
It was pretty unpleasant, being quite rough, hilly and hard going. On another day, the views of the mountains would have made for a wonderful ride, but but by this time we were all thoroughly damp and simply looking forward to a shower and some food.
We returned to the A82 as soon as we c ould and it was quite a good ride. Some of it had just been resurfaced and it was very smooth going.
We arrived at our digs, The Bank House in Fort Augustus, around 6.45, so after showering and finding the driest clothes we possessed, we set off for the Lock Inn, where Chris and I consumed venison, whereas Janet had chicken.
Another fine breakfast. Rosebank is an interesting house. Chris remarked that it was the like the tardis. One enters through the front door of what appears to be a modest cottage and suddenly you are faced with an unexpectedly impressive and spacious hallway and stairwell.
Yesterday was probably the prettiest day of our journey, but today was probably the wildest. We left Kilmartin soon after 9.20 and initially we made good progress. Before we reached the village of Ford, I mentioned to Janet about two large birds of prey I had seen along the loch. One was silhouetted against the sky, the other against the hillside, but both were perched on a dead limbs of an old pine tree. The sign on the gate said “No Entry – birds nesting”. My immediate suspicion of ospreys was confirmed a few minutes later. We met a man, from Norfolk as it happened, having a quick drag outside the Ford village inn. He confirmed that there were indeed ospreys at that location.
Soon we began climbing, and it was tough. The aptly-named Loch Awe appeared to our right. Janet and I had a good view of a bullfinch and frequently the trees would give way to a splendid view along the loch. We came across a coffee shop in Dalavich where we each had coffee and cake. Is there really anything better than a thoroughly glutinous chocolate cake to bring strength back to tired legs?
We didn’t stay long because we still had a long way to go. As usual, Chris was well ahead. Suddenly my attention was drawn by the shrill cry of a bird of prey of some sort. I could not tell what species it was that uttered the cry – the manner of its dive suggested it could have been a peregrine – but I had no doubt about the object of its ire: there, majestic, with long, slow wingbeats, was a golden eagle. I stopped the bike in an instant and readied the camera, but in my excitement I forgot to zoom in. I had only the time for one shot and the entertainment was over, but there were three birds in that shot: a large gull, the unidentified raptor, and the eagle, the last being mobbed by the other two.
We stopped for lunch in Kilchrenan and it was there that a mystery was explained. All morning, a series of cars and some much larger vehicles kept overtaking us on a road that I would have expected to be pretty much deserted. Apparently, there had been some sort of chemical spillage not far north of Kilmartin and all the traffic had been diverted from the A road to this tiny highland lane.
When we reached Taynuilt, we were so much behind the clock that we decided to press on. The A road offered the opportunity to make much better progress and we grasped it with both hands. At one point a large troupe of motorcyclists, all seemingly immaculately turned out in the Geordie Chapter of Hell’s Angels’ Team Colours, went thundering past on their Harley-Davidsons. Somewhere amongst them was an absolutely pristine Land Rover, in the same livery as the riders, clearly their support vehicle. So there you have it: the Geordie Chapter of Hell’s Angels needs a sag wagon. What a bunch of big girls’ blouses!
We crossed Loch Etive by the Connel Bridge. Now some seriously high mountains were coming into view. Loch Etive is fed by the Etive River, in Glen Etive, which in turn is a southerly branch off Glen Coe. We still made good progress. all the time keeping a weather eye open for an otter or other interesting wildlife on the shores of Loch Linnhe, but although the water was beautiful and crystal clear, we saw no creatures of any great interest.
Gradually we approached the House of Keil and suddenly we came upon it. We rode down the driveway to be met by the spectacular sight of a fortified Jacobean mansion and a pair of noisy labradors. I rang the bell and the Lady of the House appeared. We were made most welcome, showed to our rooms, and what rooms they were! Janet and I had a superb family room overlooking the loch and there, below our bedroom, were the fortifications and three cannons pointing out to sea. We were informed that two of the cannons were 17th century and the other from the Armada.
The whole house was steeped in history: antlers on the wall alongside portraits of long-dead ancestors, and pictures of dead birds: was it a snipe and a woodcock, and a wood pigeon and a greater spotted woodpecker? In addition the Broadwood upright piano, probably Victorian to judge by the sconces, was still in place. Beethoven himself used a Broadwood, a gift delivered to Vienna in person by Thomas Broadwood. I was tempted to ask to give it a try, but I felt so strongly that I was so privileged to have a window opened slightly into a bygone ear that I didn’t have the nerve.
We had taken our own food this evening, as there were no restaurants or pubs within eary reach, and the Lady of the House supplied us with a tray of tea. Unfortunately, the first one ended up all over the floor with the teapot smashed – the carpet looked expensive and I’m sure a pot of scalding tea and a jug of milk did it no good at all. The second tray full was more of a success and we had a very enjoyable, if simple, meal of bread, ham, red wine, tomatoes and red peppers followed by a lump of bannock and, of course, a cup of tea.
Before I went to bed tonight, I don’t think I knew what dark was. There were no street lights in the road outside the House of Keil, and our room overlooked the loch. I pulled the curtains back, turned the light off, and I cannot make out the shape of the window on in the wall opposite. It is darker now than anything I can ever remember – darker than the cupboard I used to hide in as a child, because there was always a friendly gleam of light to connect one to the world outside. Here, there is nothing. Just a complete, total and utter absence of light.
We set off fairly early, given the 8.30 breakfast, and bought some rolls and dried fruit for lunch. The weather really let us down with wave after wave of fine, west-coast drizzle drifting across.
Our road followed the coastline initially, there was little climbing and we were sheltered from the wind, so we made pretty good progress. At one point, a rare occasion in which Chris was cycling behind Jan and me, a red squirrel ran across the road. Chris saw it, we did not.
Then the climbing began. The first climb was not to bad, and we reached the top without getting off, but when we reached the descent, the wind was so strong that we had to pedal all the way down. Arran is a really beautiful island and it was a pity that we were just rushing through, having to catch the midday ferry.
The main climb was quite a brute, reminiscent of Sunday’s ascent of Bowland. It took a little over half an hour to cycle/push the bike up but on a hill like that we actually walk faster than we cycle.
The descent would have been exhilarating had it not been for the headwind, which kept our speed below 30mph for the most part. When we were quite close to Lochranza, another cyclist was coming the other way. He had a heavily-laden bike but was climbing the hill as though it wasn’t there. He looked to be into his 70s – very impressive!
The ferry left on time and in half an hour or so we were back on the mainland, but as for Claonaig, there is not much there. We now had another stiff climb over the Kintyre peninsula, during which we broke off for lunch. We heard the first cuckoo of spring.
The weather improved dramatically during the afternoon, and we headed north in almost unbroken sunshine. We reached Tarbert, a very pretty place, and it occurred to me: why do people make so much fuss about the coast-to-coast ride? We did three today!
We had a good cup of coffee at a rather pseudy art-gallery-cum-coffee-chop in Tarbert. I quite liked some of the pictures on display, but was not so keen on the prices. Then, after a visit to the Co-op to stock up on calories, we headed north to Lochgilphead with Loch Fyne to our right.
It was a lovely ride with the sun shining on the sea and the mountains. It wasn’t too hilly and we made quite good progress.
After Lochgilphead we turned inland with the Crinan Canal to our left and made for Kilmartin There was little climbing left but we arrived at Rosebank soon after 7pm, bathed, and enjoyed a splendid meal at the Kilmartin Hotel. I had duck, Chris roast beef and Janet venison sausages. Chris and I had a couple of pints of a local brew, Highland Ale. All in all, another excellent day to add to our growing list.
Although today dawned bright and clear, it didn’t last long. Soon there was plenty of grey cloud and it was also by far the coldest start we have had. I started with my longs on and kept them on all day.
Breakfast at The Porridge House is an Event. Our hosts were very good at entertaining, and as we were eating in the kitchen, there was a very friendly informality about the meal, as we chatted with the chef as he wielded his frying pan. The fine points of the preparation and cooking of porridge were discussed, as were the merits of the spirtle over a wooden spoon for the stirring thereof. Personally, I prefer the wooden spoon, no matter how much this offends the purists.
When we set off at 8.40, armed with a very fine packed lunch, we were in for a morning of climbing. Initially the B7000 gave us spectacular views, but after Carsphairn, where joined the A713, there was yet more climbing, something like 8 miles of unbroken slog as we approached Dalmellington. There was not much wind to begin with, but as the day wore on a nagging westerly was more of a hindrance than a help.
We entered Ayrshire and its rocky roadsteads were not to our liking. Neither was the occasional enormous lorry which came thundering past, usually laden with the trunks of the conifers which were being systematically felled. There was not a lot of traffic, but what there was was mostly heavy commercial stuff.
Some of the villages we passed through looked decidedly run down. Patna was fairly scruffy-looking, which was a pity as the impressive River Doon runs nearby, and Waterside, a small hamlet, had once been dominated by a large travellers’ inn which was now boarded up.
We turned off the A road onto the B730 and after one final stiff climb we were out of the highest of the day’s hills and into rolling pastures, reminiscent of Hertfordshire or the hillier parts of North Essex. We ate our sandwiches by a field gate, but were keen to press on: we had to catch the 6pm ferry from Ardrossan and did not have a lot of time to spare.
Just after we reached the highest speed of the day, 39mph, a wee lassie on a very fine bike sped past us, wished us a “Good morning!” and was gone.
Now the hills were behind us we pushed our speed up quite a bit and it wasn’t long before we were in Dreghorn. I had planned what looked like a very neat route through an estate into Irvine, but every couple of hundred yards we committed the offence of ignoring a “NO ENTRY EXCEPT BUSES!” sign, much to the annoyance of one bus driver. Soon, though, we were through Irvine and onto the Sustrans route. This time it worked very well and was a good surface taking us all the way out to the ferry terminal. We were there with at least an hour to spare and seldom have a warm lounge, hot coffee and a sticky cake been more welcome.
Arran is a spectacular island and was shrouded in cloud as we approached, although with enough sunshine to give a variety of light.
The captain had to wait for the tide to rise before he could berth the ferry, and this delayed our arrival at our B & B. We therefore decided that finding food was our top priority.
Brodick is a pretty little town nestling at the foot of the Arran mountains. It doesn’t have much in the way of neon lights, but if it ever does, the harbour entrance should be emblazoned with the words “Ye’ll have had yer tea…”. As we left our digs at about 8.20 looking for food, we came across restaurant after restaurant which were closed. We tried a promising-looking hotel but were turned away: they stopped serving at 8.30. We walked the entire length of the waterfront and were just on the point of going into the Co-op for some ham, salad and rolls when I asked some passers-by where we could eat. They suggested a bistro near the port office, although without confidence. We found it and asked for a table for three.
There was a large blackboard covered withe exciting menu items and we were on the point of planning our orders when the waitress informed us that as the kitchen was on the point of closing down for the night, we could have fish and chips or pizza. Three portions of haddock and chips it was then and we each had a dessert as well. When we left, at about 9.45, we were the last customers.
We returned to our rooms, showered and did some hand washing. This presents a problem when we are late to our B & B. We have travelled as light as we dare, but even so we have three sets of cycling gear. Frequent washing is necessary. Washing the stuff isn’t the problem. And fool can make stuff wet with soapy water and rinse it out again. The problem comes with trying to get it dry before you set off again in 12 hours’ time. Our method is to take the kit into the shower with us, dry ourselves on the towels and then roll the kit up in the towels we have just used. When the lycra is no longer dripping we hang it up anywhere we can. This works pretty well for getting stuff dry – everything so far has dried after two nights’ hanging up – but then this leaves us with absolutely sopping wet towels. We just bung them in the bath or shower and then spread them out in the morning just before we leave. Whoever tidies our rooms after we go must wonder what on earth we have done to the towels.
We left the Old Vicarage at about 9.30 in bright sunshine. On crossing the river Annan we took some photographs and a local chap, out walking his dog, helpfully pointed out the Sustrans route, down a flight of steps, which took us out to the seaside. I hope I didn’t sound to ungracious when I told he we were going to stick to the road.
We hadn’t gone far when a bank of cloud appeared to the north-west and threatened rain. It was enough for us to don our waterproofs, but it was not many miles before we had removed them again.
At one point, a dead rabbit lying in the road attracted my attention as it started to move across the road towards the hedge. A stoat was attempting to drag it away. I stopped the bike but of course that scared away the stoat, but we could see it running up and down a labyrinth of tracks in the bank, willing us to leave so that it could secure its lunch.
In Bankend, we came across a “ROAD CLOSED” sign precisely where we wanted to go. We ignored it as normally it is possible to get a bike through where a larger vehicle would have to turn back. Here, though, we appeared to be scuppered as the entire carriageway was blocked by a wide trench bordered by Heras fencing. It was Chris who noticed a small footbridge over a stream so we took the luggage off the bikes and manhandled them over.
Once in Dumfries, we particularly liked the river Nith, and on its waterfront we found a basic Italian takeaway which served delicious pasta and tomato. We each had some, and some coffee, so suitably refreshed, we were ready to tackle the hills.
These were long, grinding climbs, in contrast to the repeated switchbacks of Devon and Cornwall a week or two ago, and Jan and I cycled up all of them, albeit very slowly. Our big problem was that when a downhill did appear, our progress was restricted by the strong headwind.
So we struggled all the way to Dalry, as it seems to be called. We stayed at The Porridge House, which is very comfortable. We were supplied with a pot of tea and the most excellent fruit cake, we ordered a 7.30 breakfast and a packed lunch, the shower was most refreshing and the pub only 50 yards away. It served some very tasty Deuchars bitter. Janet and Chris had lamb casserole, I had the steak and ale pie.
We had mentioned that today was our wedding anniversary and when we returned, our hosts offered us a wee dram of malt whisky. Chris and I enjoyed ours – Jan, of course, declined.
Today, the weather seemed to remember that it is April, and not July. We awoke to cloud and mist, although by the time we set off from Sedbergh, the mist had mostly lifted.
We knew today would be tough, with somewhere in the region of 70 miles to cover. We climbed the B road from Sedbergh and had to push the bike two or three times. We had a fine 11ses stop in Orton, but immediately on setting off I snapped one of the gear cables.
Although Rohloff and Thorn boast that it is possible to change gear whether or not you are pedalling, it is much easier to do so when you are not. With a solo bike, of course, this becomes second nature, but with a tandem, if the stoker is applying pressure to the pedal, then you meet resistance when trying to operate the twist-grip. I must communicate better when I’m intending to change down to a lower gear – changing up isn’t usually difficult because the whole point of changing up is that you want to apply more pressure.
After the cable had broken, I could still change gear after a fashion. The Very Nice Man at the Orton Post Office gave me the number of Aragon’s Bike Shop in Penrith, and after some struggling over very high fells, we descended into Shap and eventually found ourselves in Penrith, outside Aragon’s Bike Shop.
The Man set to work pretty promptly and after a call to Bridgewater to find out how a Rohloff gear works, he managed to unthread the broken cable and replace it with a new one. Annoyingly, it takes a Torque 20 tool to undo the bolts, which is pretty silly as Thorn/Rohloff do not supply such a thing as standard with the gears, and even if I had brought a spare cable with me, I would not have been able to do the job. As well as paying for the work to be done, I replaced the lost Cateye computer.
All of this, and our general sloth, held us up to the extent that Chris, who arrived in Carlisle at about 2pm, was kept hanging about until 5 before we arrived. With little further ado we set off for Annan, but rush-hour Carlisle is not my favourite place. We exchanged a few pleasantries with a Bromptoneer on the A7, but he had turned off before the horrendous roundabout at which the M6 becomes the A74.
We got around the A7/A74/M6 roundabout with few problems, but the A7 itself, and subsequently the A6071, were pretty fast, with poor surfaces. Shortly after leaving Longtown, Jan and I heard a noise to our right and looked up to see the white rump of a fallow deer disappearing amongst the trees.
We entered Scotland at around 7pm and suitable photographs were taken, but no wee drams were to be had. After that we struggled along the B721 for about 9 miles towards Annan. This was the first time in almost 600 miles that we had had the sun or the wind in our faces, and we were treated to a beautiful Solway sunset.
After showering and washing a few clothes, we went to the Star of India, which was very good and reasonably priced.
This morning was marred by the disappearance of the Cateye cycle computer. We searched everywhere we could think of and I have to conclude that I must have left it behind on the wall near Clitheroe Castle when we dismantled the bike yesterday, so today’s mileage remains unrecorded, as does our top speed.
Today was very hard work. We were late arriving in Clitheroe to pick up where we left off yesterday, and the 8 miles to Slaidburn took 2 hours. I found it hard to get going. The weather was unseasonably hot and everything was a great struggle.
We finally arrived at Slaidburn at about 12.10 and found the café. Jan was pleased with her selection of roast beef sandwiches and I chose beans on toast. We sat outside the café for about an hour, taking photographs and chatting to some motorcyclists who looked at us as though we were mad when I said we were heading for Sedbergh.
Suitably fortified, we set off for the wilderness. Whilst I was planning the route for this trip, this was the day that worried me the most. My chief concern that there would be a late April snowfall and that the road north out of Slaidburn would become impassable. My worries were totally unjustified by events as this was in some parts of England the hottest April day for 50 years, and in places the tar was melting on the road. I thought that the “ride” from Slaidburn to High Bentham, over the Cross of Greet, the highest point of our entire ride, would probably take about 3 hours.
It was a very interesting ride, with plenty to see. I am invariably surprised how many wading birds, which I see in large numbers in the Thames Estuary, are also quite at home in the hills. We frequently saw, and heard, curlews, and were treated to some fine aerobatics by a lapwing, which dived around and above our heads giving its plantive “peewit” cry. What impressed me most was the sound of its wingbeats – a surprisingly loud “whoomph whoomph whoomph”. Later, we saw some oystercatchers, but heard them before we saw them.
Perhaps the most interesting bird we saw was – well, I’m not sure what it was. It had a conspicuous white rump and I would have said a wheatear – except it had far more black plumage than any wheatear that I have ever seen.
Curiously, we saw no predatory birds at all today. On every other day we have seen buzzards, a few kestrels an an occasional sparrowhawk. Today, in countryside I thought would have been ideal buzzard territory, not a thing.
Cross fo Greet – 427m
We reached the highest point of the ride – the Cross of Greet – some time after 3pm, and had some sandwiches and some flapjack at 427 metres above sea level, in scorching sunshine. Thereafter, we hurtled down the hill towards High Bentham, arriving 10 minutes inside my 3-hour prediction. I hugely regret losing the Cateye as the speeds we reached on that descent felt far faster than any other speed I have achieved on a bicycle. I’m convinced we were well in excess of 50mph.
It is remarkable how a small success like this can put a spring into the pedal strokes. We headed west along the B-road and dived into the Punch Bowl in Low Bentham, which seemed to lay the claim to be the first and last pub in Yorkshire. A group of local chaps were sitting outside.
“Where’s t’kitchen sink?” came the cry. I looked at the heavily laden tandem. “It’s in there somewhere.” The niceties dealt with, we had an affable chat.
“Art tha a bit eccentric?” asked their spokesman, after I had explained the purpose of our journey. “No, completely mad!” After a little more of this good-natured banter we finished our drinks and went on our way.
We were now in the Lune Valley and everything was very green. The road had levelled out and our progress was quicker.
Kirby Lonsdale was overcrowded with motor cyclists and after that we climbed again – still rideable but hard work. Gradually we whittled away the miles to Sedbergh but perhaps the most frustrating were the last two or three, when the road gave the appearance of being level but we still had to push the pedals quite hard to make progress. We reached our B & B at about 7pm, showered and headed for the pub.
The day began with a surprise visit from Tubbycyclist, bearer of glad tidings and a Schwalbe Marathon Plus 26″ * 1.75″ tyre. Kevin, for that is his proper name, came in for a cup of tea and a chat. In the course of conversation it transpired that he was originally from Southend and attended the Sacred Heart School. I teach there for one hour a week. Well well well!
We were left to our own devices for a couple of hours but shortly after 2pm Jan and I set off for Clitheroe. For most of the first 5 miles we were reaping what we had sown yestrday, as the long grinding climb from Rawtenstall to Dunnockshaw was rewarded with a prolonged downward swoop all the way to Padiham. We climbed Padiham Heights, went down the other side into Sabden and then walked up the Nick of Pendle. At the top we enjoyed an ice cream: a local brew from Hudson’s of Chatburn.
We then zoomed down into Clitheroe, clocking our fastest speed of 45.2mph. We waited at Clitheroe Castle for Helen, and when she arrived, dismantled the bike and put it in the Jeep.
We all walked to the curry house in Crawshawbooth, a round trip of about 6 miles. We had a very good meal. The evening was enlivened by a phone call from Heather, who had been fortunate enough to place a £2 each-way bet at 40-1 on some nag or other which had then romped home in the Grand National
Comments Off on A rest day – Dunnockshaw to Clitheroe
Today we had a lie-in followed by a leisurely breakfast. Then Janet and I strolled into Walkden and did some essential shopping in the form of a couple of spare inner tubes and a pressure gauge for Presta valves.
After lunch, consisting of bacon butties, we loaded the bike and headed for the hills – again. With Enid’s help we worked out a very quiet route to Kearsley and then used NCN route 6 (no, I never learn) to Radcliffe, Ainsworth and Tottington.
We crossed the M66/A56 into Edenfield and then through Rawtenstall (I have been to Rawtenstall many times but have yet to witness the Annual Fair). From there it was a slow and steady plod along a familiar road – the A682 – to Crawshawbooth, Love Clough and Dunnockshaw before climbing part way up the Hameldon Hill to New Laithe Farm.
Nephew Robert proved to be the perfect host, supplying soup, bread and coffee. I pumped up the tyres of his mountain bike and I also gave the tandem a “once over”, washing off all the accumulated dust, proofiding the saddle and giving both chains a good dose of Purple Extreme.
There had been quite abit of discussion on the ACF forum about the various chain lubricants. For what it’s worth, I have had to adjust the chain of my solo bike so it has stretched quite a lot. Mostly that has been lubricated with White Lightning (no, not that sort) and the chain stretched noticeably during the first 1000 miles. Today we completed our first 1000 miles on the tandem, I have only used Purple extreme as a lubricant and there is no noticeable stretch in either chain. They have been under great pressure as well. In my mind, Purple Extreme knocks spots off any other chain lubricant I have used.
Breakfast at the Red Cow was actually pretty good, but on balance I think it is better to stay at specialist B & Bs rather than pubs. A pub’s priority ought to be selling good beer, and sometimes it seems that the accommodation takes second place.
It was another lovely morning as we headed towards Church Minshull, and toyed with the idea of the canal towpath. However, we had had enough of off-road for a while so even thought the A-roads were busy, at least we were able to keep up a good pace.
We had an awkward right-turn near Northwich and had been waiting for quite some time for a gap in the traffic, when suddenly a motorist gave way from the right, whilst another followed suit from the left. How refreshing that there are considerate people out there!
At one point we heard an unusual bird call, so stopped to look, and there was a nuthatch scurrying around in the branches of a nearby oak. There are nuthatches in Essex, apparently, although in England, I have only ever seen them in the north and west. There seem to be plenty in Wales.
Somewhere in the area of Lostock Gralam there was a massive chemical works, with pipes bridging the road to some reservoir or other which clearly had never been discovered by the map makers. “Beware of steam vapour for one mile”, said the road sign, so we did that, and were soon on quiet rural roads again.
We had just passed through Pickmere and turned into Frog Lane. We had scarcely gone a yard when BANG! With open jaws a lion sprang! Actually, it didn’t, but the fettling of which I had been so proud not two days ago was undone in an instant as the brand new Panaracer Pasela 26″*1.75″ tyre, being of a dangerous sort, exploded with a loud report [that’s enough Hilaire Belloc references. – Ed.]
I can think of no prettier place than Pickmere if you ever have to change a tyre. It’s a little irksome, to say the least, when that particular tyre cost the best part of £20 and had done only about 80 miles, but the irk was immediately lessened when a chap who had been busily hoovering out his BMW offers you a cup of tea. His name was Keith and he definitely provided a service of great value, disposing of the ruined tyre and tube for us. Thanks, Keith!
In quick succession we crossed the M6 and the M56, resisting the temptation to moon at the motorists below, and then joined the A6144 on its inexorable journey into the metropolis. We felt like a couple of hobbits crossing from the green and pleasant Minas Tirith that is rural Cheshire into the Mordor of Manchester. Crossing the Mersey just doesn’t have the romantic feel to it as crossing the Tamar had done all those miles ago.
In Davyhulme we happened upon a bike shop in which the only member of staff present was a youth. I asked him if he had any 26*1.75 Schwalbe Marathon Pluses and after rummaging around he came back with a pair of 700Cs. At least they were made by Schwalbe, which is something, I suppose. We carried on.
The next couple of miles were amongst the nastiest of my entire cycling life. We went right past the Dark Tower of the Trafford Centre and after a little respite we crossed the Manchester Ship Canal and rode alongside the Bridgewater Canal. The worst part was having to negotiate junction 13 of the M61 and the very unpleasant A575. We took to the pavement and, on crossing the East Lancs Road, picked our way through some peaceful residential roads to Enid’s and David’s house.
Once we had been fed (Covent Garden parsnip and apple soup and ham sandwiches) the quest was on for another tyre or two. I was getting paranoid at the rate we were getting through them and I didn’t want to be tyreless on some remote Scottish hillside in a howling blizzard. I tracked one down at the Green Machine cycle shop in Horwich, so Enid, lovely lady that she is, gave me a lift past the Reebok stadium to Lee Lane, where I purchased the said item. The Green Machine looks to me like another good bike shop.
So that’s all the riding for nearly 24 hours and we have only about 25 miles to do tomorrow. We will set off for Dunnockshaw after lunch.
