GrumpyGregry
Here for rides.
It felt strange, climbing from my bed at 04:30 am on a Thursday morning in August, but needs must when the Southern Railway’s cycle policy drives the horses. Suitably fed and watered I wandered the 100 metres over to the station and promptly tried to board the wrong portion of the train now standing at Platform 1. Suitably chastened by the intervention of the guard I found the front 4 coaches and climbed aboard and secured my bike in the rack and bang on time we departed Horsham for all points north. Being first on got me several glares from regular commuters trying to wedge their bikes into the paltry spaces on board the train but I was thankful that, on arrival at Clapham Junction around 06:25 we all departed the train en masse sparing my the painful and unpopular bike at the back extraction manoeuvre. A short lug down and up the stairs to platform 9, taking care to protect my loaded bike from injury by the sprinting commuters trying to make the Waterloo services, and cappuccino and a delicious almond croissant made for a delicious second breakfast consumption of which killed the time until the train to Exeter arrived.
On I hopped and popped the bike into the deserted bike space. Not a seat to be had as although a long distance service to the west country some of the intermediate stops were clearly popular with those, unlike me, who were not on holiday. I was given numerous strange looks by various passengers until I realised that my black gilet was covered in a layer of icing sugar from the croissant I’d eaten earlier giving me a strange Miss Haversham like appearance as I stood waiting for a seat.
Brushed down, and eventually seated when the commuters went about their business, I settled in for the remainder of the trip to Exeter St Davids. God Bless SW Trains and their advance fare of £11!
On arrival at Exeter my first priority was to locate the Bike Shed in order to buy a spare folding tyre ‘just in case’ as I had no desire to find myself stranded in the middle of nowhere en route to my destination on the North Cornwall Coast. I followed the cycle route signs for the city centre and these spat me out, after a stiff climb, atop a hill on one of the main shopping streets. A friendly local identified the street I needed and pointed out the futility of my climb up the hill as inevitably the Bike Shed stood some way below me.
Folding tyre duly bought, track pump borrowed to inflate my sagging tyres and off I went, using the maps I’d drawn on bikehike using the excellent directions provided me by Mick F of the CTC forum. The plan was to head due west using as much of the old A30 as is still extant as far as the Tamar at Launceston and then navigate the country lanes of Cornwall onwards to my destination.
What goes down inevitably goes up and the first serious climb of the day manifested itself as I tried to put Exeter behind me. It was 20 years since I’d last ridden any distance on a loaded bike, and, although I only had two small rear panniers, a bar bag, and a camelbak with waterproofs in it and thus was travelling fairly light I immediately was aware of the weight and the need to use lower gears than normal as I wound my way up out of town. The memory of several FNRttC’s and a recent DIY Hell of Ashdown reassured me that my legs were up to the days work despite the misgivings they seemed to have when faced with reality.
So fixated on my rotational meditations was I that I missed the first junction of the day and it was only when passing under the new A30 flyover that my memory reminded me that my way lay via Tedburn St Mary and not Moretonhampstead. Only a few yards lost, a dignified U-ey was performed and the right path regained.
The road seemed to ratchet itself upwards, each climb followed by a shorter descent before the climbing began in earnest again, but the sun was shining, the wind was gentle and the road was rising to meet me with almost zero traffic to deal with along the way. Past Tedburn St Mary and Dartmoor began to loom large on the left with my route taking me across the NE and N fringes of the National Park. Cheriton Bishop and we are still climbing, Crockenwell and on and up we go, running close to the new road through Widdon Down and still we climb onwards and upwards.
Through a maze of lanes to South Zeal and the descent onto Okehampton begins, into Sticklepath and a National Trust sign flashes by. I hit the brakes as I am feeling peckish and am a sucker for National Trust tea room. Finches Forge is the name of our resting spot and a Devon pasty and tea and crisps and an ice cream are all despatched to the rhythmic accompaniment of the water wheel there. Does life get any better than this, sitting in the sun on the first day of your hols without a care in the world. A quick exchange of text messages with the lovely Helen confirms she is now en route to Cornwall from her bolt hole in mid-Wales and all is going according to plan.
Suitable refreshed and encouraged by the prospect that my baby would be waiting for me in Cornwall, I remounted and rode onto Okehampton. The town itself was most remarkable for the road works in the middle causing a long queue of cars from the outskirts to the centre and, almost inevitably, for the climb needed to escape its burning clutches.
The miles between Okehampton and Launceston are very rural, a little lonely at times, but very, very beautiful nonetheless and the road delightfully quite on this balmy Thursday afternoon.
I crossed the Tamar by the home of the Cornish All Blacks to remarkably little fanfare and there I was, in Cornwall for the first time in my life. The euphoric grin was promptly wiped from my face by the Col de Launceston and I duly learnt life’s little lesson that your Cornishman likes his towns atop his hills not down in the valley like the men of Devon. Halfway up this climb a pain began in my right calf which was to accompany me, and grow in intensity, for the remainder of the ride. Ho hum.
I cursed the rapid descent from the top of the Col as all around me all I could see were hills, some of which I knew I had to climb, and upwards I duly wound my way, leaving Launceston on the lanes by way of St Stephens and Langore. Egloskerry drew near and confirmed my view of the similarity of rural place names in Cornwall and Wales; Eglwys Ceri anyone? Thus it was no surprise when the church hove into view with its attendant dedication to St Ceri!
From Egloskerry to Hallsworthy I climbed. Would this never end? Over each false summit I willed the A39 and the sea to appear but it was not to be, the ancient spirits of these hills demand a sacrifice in sweat and toil from all who would challenge them.
From Hallsworthy west I knew the road would drop and yet my legs were telling me I was spending much of the time climbing. For sure the road descends on average but it ratchets its way down in much the way that earlier hills had climbed. Gaining the A39 and I knew the Atlantic Highway meant I was nearly there. A few jelly babies were pressed into my mouth, the remaining water in the camelback drained, a quick phone call to Helen confirmed she was in Boscastle and so I climbed aboard for the last stretch. Through Marshgate and onto Tresparrett when suddenly, cresting a rise, the horizon dropped away and there, in it’s sunlit glory was the Atlantic Ocean. I wobbled unsteadily to a halt drinking in the view and agog at the beauty of it all.
A few minutes later I turned right uphill and found myself high above Boscastle outside the most adorable holiday cottage imaginable to be greated by the lovely Helen with a foaming pint in her hand for me. Bliss. Sheer Bliss.
A brilliant and enjoyable ride marred only by the pain in my leg which I put down to cramp brought on by inadequate water intake and the constant roller coaster climbing. Bikehike says 92km with 1253m of climbing, though 4000+ ft sounds more impressive. Given my perambulation around Exeter my computer said 101km on the day.
Many thanks to Mick F of the CTC Forum for his route guidance.
On I hopped and popped the bike into the deserted bike space. Not a seat to be had as although a long distance service to the west country some of the intermediate stops were clearly popular with those, unlike me, who were not on holiday. I was given numerous strange looks by various passengers until I realised that my black gilet was covered in a layer of icing sugar from the croissant I’d eaten earlier giving me a strange Miss Haversham like appearance as I stood waiting for a seat.
Brushed down, and eventually seated when the commuters went about their business, I settled in for the remainder of the trip to Exeter St Davids. God Bless SW Trains and their advance fare of £11!
On arrival at Exeter my first priority was to locate the Bike Shed in order to buy a spare folding tyre ‘just in case’ as I had no desire to find myself stranded in the middle of nowhere en route to my destination on the North Cornwall Coast. I followed the cycle route signs for the city centre and these spat me out, after a stiff climb, atop a hill on one of the main shopping streets. A friendly local identified the street I needed and pointed out the futility of my climb up the hill as inevitably the Bike Shed stood some way below me.
Folding tyre duly bought, track pump borrowed to inflate my sagging tyres and off I went, using the maps I’d drawn on bikehike using the excellent directions provided me by Mick F of the CTC forum. The plan was to head due west using as much of the old A30 as is still extant as far as the Tamar at Launceston and then navigate the country lanes of Cornwall onwards to my destination.
What goes down inevitably goes up and the first serious climb of the day manifested itself as I tried to put Exeter behind me. It was 20 years since I’d last ridden any distance on a loaded bike, and, although I only had two small rear panniers, a bar bag, and a camelbak with waterproofs in it and thus was travelling fairly light I immediately was aware of the weight and the need to use lower gears than normal as I wound my way up out of town. The memory of several FNRttC’s and a recent DIY Hell of Ashdown reassured me that my legs were up to the days work despite the misgivings they seemed to have when faced with reality.
So fixated on my rotational meditations was I that I missed the first junction of the day and it was only when passing under the new A30 flyover that my memory reminded me that my way lay via Tedburn St Mary and not Moretonhampstead. Only a few yards lost, a dignified U-ey was performed and the right path regained.
The road seemed to ratchet itself upwards, each climb followed by a shorter descent before the climbing began in earnest again, but the sun was shining, the wind was gentle and the road was rising to meet me with almost zero traffic to deal with along the way. Past Tedburn St Mary and Dartmoor began to loom large on the left with my route taking me across the NE and N fringes of the National Park. Cheriton Bishop and we are still climbing, Crockenwell and on and up we go, running close to the new road through Widdon Down and still we climb onwards and upwards.
Through a maze of lanes to South Zeal and the descent onto Okehampton begins, into Sticklepath and a National Trust sign flashes by. I hit the brakes as I am feeling peckish and am a sucker for National Trust tea room. Finches Forge is the name of our resting spot and a Devon pasty and tea and crisps and an ice cream are all despatched to the rhythmic accompaniment of the water wheel there. Does life get any better than this, sitting in the sun on the first day of your hols without a care in the world. A quick exchange of text messages with the lovely Helen confirms she is now en route to Cornwall from her bolt hole in mid-Wales and all is going according to plan.
Suitable refreshed and encouraged by the prospect that my baby would be waiting for me in Cornwall, I remounted and rode onto Okehampton. The town itself was most remarkable for the road works in the middle causing a long queue of cars from the outskirts to the centre and, almost inevitably, for the climb needed to escape its burning clutches.
The miles between Okehampton and Launceston are very rural, a little lonely at times, but very, very beautiful nonetheless and the road delightfully quite on this balmy Thursday afternoon.
I crossed the Tamar by the home of the Cornish All Blacks to remarkably little fanfare and there I was, in Cornwall for the first time in my life. The euphoric grin was promptly wiped from my face by the Col de Launceston and I duly learnt life’s little lesson that your Cornishman likes his towns atop his hills not down in the valley like the men of Devon. Halfway up this climb a pain began in my right calf which was to accompany me, and grow in intensity, for the remainder of the ride. Ho hum.
I cursed the rapid descent from the top of the Col as all around me all I could see were hills, some of which I knew I had to climb, and upwards I duly wound my way, leaving Launceston on the lanes by way of St Stephens and Langore. Egloskerry drew near and confirmed my view of the similarity of rural place names in Cornwall and Wales; Eglwys Ceri anyone? Thus it was no surprise when the church hove into view with its attendant dedication to St Ceri!
From Egloskerry to Hallsworthy I climbed. Would this never end? Over each false summit I willed the A39 and the sea to appear but it was not to be, the ancient spirits of these hills demand a sacrifice in sweat and toil from all who would challenge them.
From Hallsworthy west I knew the road would drop and yet my legs were telling me I was spending much of the time climbing. For sure the road descends on average but it ratchets its way down in much the way that earlier hills had climbed. Gaining the A39 and I knew the Atlantic Highway meant I was nearly there. A few jelly babies were pressed into my mouth, the remaining water in the camelback drained, a quick phone call to Helen confirmed she was in Boscastle and so I climbed aboard for the last stretch. Through Marshgate and onto Tresparrett when suddenly, cresting a rise, the horizon dropped away and there, in it’s sunlit glory was the Atlantic Ocean. I wobbled unsteadily to a halt drinking in the view and agog at the beauty of it all.
A few minutes later I turned right uphill and found myself high above Boscastle outside the most adorable holiday cottage imaginable to be greated by the lovely Helen with a foaming pint in her hand for me. Bliss. Sheer Bliss.
A brilliant and enjoyable ride marred only by the pain in my leg which I put down to cramp brought on by inadequate water intake and the constant roller coaster climbing. Bikehike says 92km with 1253m of climbing, though 4000+ ft sounds more impressive. Given my perambulation around Exeter my computer said 101km on the day.
Many thanks to Mick F of the CTC Forum for his route guidance.
