24 June. Some gravel, a ferry and lots of hills
Madame Crow said she would like to go cycling today after listening to that nice 'David the Weatherman' on the BBC after the news. So today I had to find a route to please Madame Crow and I failed miserably, but that is for later. For now let's start in the car park at Lanhydrock House, owned by the National Trust and guarded by Gandalf's posse where I had to use all my powers of persuasion to be allowed to park. Even the cars have to be socially isolated. I told them I wasn't going into the grounds but rules is rules and I hadn't booked my car parking space on the website when spaces are released every Friday. To be fair Madame Crow only told me last night she wanted to go for a ride. Anyway we got in as they found they had some unsold tickets.
At this point she was looking quite happy.....
And my plan was this (below) which
RidewithGPS said was just 2700 feet of uphill but we know that website lies about height gained in Cornwall - and probably everywhere else except I can't remember going anywhere else now as it has been so long.
It started quite well. The lanes are sloping downhill or only gently uphill, the sun is out and it is warm. 'Just like France' says Madame, which is high praise as that is her favourite place. Cornwall was laid out around us as we trundle happily on a lane that follows a high ridge. The hedgerow flower are bright and colourful, the fields are dotted with baled grass and the high moors in the distance are smoked with heather and gorse. So far, so good. I am not yet in trouble.
Then comes my problem. It isn't actually my problem. It is just that Madame Crow really, really doesn't like it when her wheels slide around on loose gravel or hit embedded rocks and I thought it would be fun to hit the Clay Trails - which are not made of clay. We slide and skid our way down to the Eden Project and then follow its torturous cycle route which criss crosses the access roads and on a busy day would take you away from traffic, but this a pandemic and there are only seven cars in the car park. Madame pouts and points out the smoothness and easier gradients of the roads, as opposed to the abrupt drops and steeps of the cycle path. 'But this is more fun' I try. Too late, she has already left me for the road.
I tell her to come back and point out our gravel and sand track now leaves the road and heads uphill through woods. Madame is not pleased. 'You can push my bike up this' she tells me, leaning it against a bramble thicket and walking off. I would like to show you the photos of this track but photography was not a priority. I may have been divorced had I tried.
The track widens and becomes a gravel road. I have seen these sort of roads on YouTube - in Arizona or Ohio. This is proper gravel and Madame engages hyper drive and leaves me standing. Things look better again.
It doesn't last.
There is more rough track now, muddy sections beneath a green tunnel of oak and then out into the bright daylight with sandy sections hidden behind blind bends. There is a silence from Madame that tells me what she thinks of this route choice. From time to time she asks 'Is there more of this?' but I can't remember now having planned this route on a wet night in February and stuck it in the GPS memory without further thought. The honest answer is 'No idea', but diplomatically I squeak that 'its nearly over'. Bit like our relationship at this point.
We arrive in Bugle. There is road now. Bugle is perhaps the strangest village in the already utterly odd Clay Country. Think of the former mining areas of Virginia or Kentucky, think of Appalachia and now move those images into the former clay mining areas of Cornwall. The village is Cornish but when large food processing factories spring up around it, most of those Cornish had left for Australia and Canada where mines still existed. The workforce was recruited from Portugal and lining the road into Bugle is line after line of static caravans, children playing, the sound of Portuguese in the air. This kind of thing happens out here. Planning permission seems to be an alien concept. Find some land and build a shack or move a caravan onto it. And a get a big dog. It is not unpleasant or threatening - just not what you expect.
The road speeds our progress and we twist our way through St Blazey on a network of riverside paths that I never knew existed. St Blazey for me has always been a ribbon development of light engineering, garages, semi derelict houses and wasteland that straggles along the A390. In todays bright sunlight and Mediterranean warmth it feels almost like somewhere you could Iive. Next is Tywardreath - or House on the Strand in Cornish. Madame tells me it is the title of Daphne de Maurier novel and I am pleased she is talking again.
Down a very steep hill and we arrive on the banks of the Fowey. To our right are the stacked villas and terraces of houses that look out across this most attractive estuary. To our left and upstream is a coaster filling with china clay. The river is deep enough here for ocean going vessels. We skid down the slipway and onto the ferry.
'Where's your mask' says the ferryman pointing at the black cloth wrapped around his head. 'This is public transport - you need a mask'.
I look round and gesture at the couple in an open top car who are without masks.
'They are in a car so it doesn't count. You are a passenger.'
I look round again and gesticulate at all the open space around us, the breeze running across the ferry.
'No mask. No ferry'. You can't argue with a Cornishman. Madame places a handkerchief over her mouth like a medieval toff having to run the gauntlet of a dirty street. I pull my jersey over my mouth. The ferryman nods, satisfied and we are allowed to embark.
Now come the hills. The heat is relentless at this point and the effort required for one particular 20% slope, that I really don't remember planning to ascend, is very draining. Madame tells me her battery power is now on pink - the highest level of support. It doesn't help me much. I am simply red.
Having ascended the steep hills beyond the Fowey we immediately drop back down to sea level to pass through Lerryn. Which is probably very pretty but I am past caring. Another 'up' follows. Madame is wilting faster than her battery. I assure her it is just eight more miles but it isn't - it's fifteen.
I know we have a nice flat road that follows the infant Fowey at the end of the route and I seem to remember it is treelined. It will be shady I assure Madame. I got that bit right. And it is sort of flat. It is just that the track that
RidewithGPS assures me is a road, is not a road. It is a gravel track hidden behind a gate. It doesn't actually say 'Private' on the gate but maybe they thought it was obvious. However I have no intention of re- ascending hills to find another way so the gate is pushed aside, the padlock fortunately not closed properly and we follow a grass covered gravel trail that I hope is a forestry track that will take us to a public road in mile or two.
The track eventually runs into a garden. I can see the owner pottering but he is some way from us and I tell Madame to cycle very quietly and see if we can get past. We do. Until we arrive at the house. Quite a large house. But then it would be with a driveway this long. Beyond it I can see a gate and the road I want. I can also see a couple striding towards us in a sort of 'what the hell are you doing in my garden' kind of way. I say the first thing that come into my head.
'Hi. We are a bit lost.'
For some reason they don't ask how we got lost in their garden. Maybe they know there is no credible explanation. After a long silence they point out the gate. We head towards it gratefully. Another mile or two and we are back at the car park.
It is locked. I know another gate. It is also locked but less high. I lift the bikes over it (with rather more effort than is implied in that sentence) and help Madame Crow slither her way over it to join them. This is the ride that never stops giving.
Madame says she does not wish to go for a cycle ride tomorrow.
Was early enough to get to and from Aldi before a set of TTLs on the A59 were properly set up
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