Five trains, five bikes, five friends, and five nights (under canvas) sounds like the perfect recipe for a five-star adventure while crossing the country.
It’s exciting times! The bags are packed and we are ready to roll
… to the station.
We are ‘letting the train take the strain’ (and if that rings a bell, you are probably of a similar age to me). I am more than happy about this, as it’s been a mad rush to get ready in time after a long week of work.
It’s close to midnight, the bags can’t hold any more stuff, and I can’t stay awake any longer. It must be time to go get that ‘one more sleep’ before we go. But not before I pack the final essential accessories.
After a good night's sleep, I rise early and head to the station.
I caught the correct train, which is always a bonus. Jo, Jill and Babs joined me at Winchester, and the bikes were neatly stored away before we reached Mitcheldever. The big wheels were in their allotted (yet ridiculously small) cupboards, albeit not hanging up as specified. The little wheels were tucked under the shelf labelled extra large baggage.
The lovely guard came through and was a little worried about having four bikes aboard, none of which were hanging up. Still, we assured her that we would fold ours as soon as it got busy, so she laughingly rubbed her eyewear as she turned away, saying, ‘I really need to get my glasses checked’ I guess she was turning a blind eye.
It never got busy enough to fold them, and we spent the trip catching up, then laughing and joking about our upcoming adventure.
The lovely guard waved at us, wishing us “safe travels”, when she left for her own return trip.
We reached Wolverhampton, disembarked and waited for our next train. Though a little delayed, we weren't concerned as we had no other connections to catch. We were just a little unsure of the arrangements for bikes on this one. We knew the big bikes had to go in their own compartment behind the driver's cab. But studying a similar train across the other side of the station did nothing to allay our concerns. Those doors looked so far off the ground!
We needn't have worried. The station manager helped Babs and Jill lift their bikes onto the train while pointing Jo and me towards the carriage designed for wheelchairs. This provided us with a perfect area to store the Bromptons, bags, and seating for all four of us. We wouldn't realise the sheer luxury of this trip until our return journey.
We were intrigued by the screen, which interspersed train information with the CCTV image of us all, spending more time than we should, trying to catch a photo of Jo waving. Even the ladies sitting below the screen got involved.
Jenny was by now in hot pursuit. She had to take a later train due to other commitments, but it did mean she could take advantage of first class. However, our text messages nearly cost her the complimentary tea that she was due as she was laughing so much.
Jill and Babs were asked to go back to their bikes a couple of stops early, as another two cyclists had just got on and used the hanging space, so they needed to stand holding their loaded steeds till we got to Lancaster. They were then helped off the train by the now-off-duty driver.
It turns out that our now-off-duty friend was also a cycle enthusiast. He marched us down the platform to the best location for a photo, took it for us, then said that we must visit the castle while we were there, so we did!
We headed back past the station, trying to follow the route on our Garmin devices. I wondered how many times my grandparents had visited this station, as it was my grandfather's hometown and where my mum spent a significant part of her childhood, too.
I am aware that I had travelled to this station when my mum's Aunt (granddad's sister) looked after me. It didn't look familiar, but then I was only three years old.
During my musing, we missed a turn, but were kindly guided in the right direction by a lady walking that way. “You don't want to go that way - that's a very big hill!” She said. “It is a big hill”, echoed her young daughter. “Where are they going?” the little one continued. “Hopefully not up that hill”, her mum replied. I had already fallen in love with the people here.
The cycle route brought us to the large Millennium Bridge, which had been purpose-built to take cycles and pedestrians across the River Lune, thus avoiding a bustling A road.
And much to my excitement, a millennium milepost stood out from the surrounding foliage. I added it to my collection - number 53, I believe.
We arrived at the campsite, and each of us went in to pay our fees to the owner, who was sitting in a massive wooden, throne-like chair next to an old-style telephone. In fact, the whole site was full of eccentric oddities and mismatched furniture, most of which was strangely lit up at night.
We quickly pitched our tents. And marvelled at Jill's homemade rose bunting, before heading out the couple of miles to Morecambe seafront. We had a date with Eric and some amazing fried potatoes.
The sun had already lost its warmth for the evening, and the sea hadn't yet finished its journey across the vast sand banks that made up Morcombe Bay. We found the official start point for our ride and took some photos in case the morning weather was bad.
We rode down the vast promenade, revelling in the knowledge that we were more than welcome to cycle on there. What a breath of fresh air!
We rode along to the lighthouse on Stone Jetty, which was once the end of the line for trains delivering passengers to the Irish and Scottish ferries. More recently, the pier was named Trafalgar Point to commemorate links with a naval submarine of the same name.
The prom was infested with birds, most of which were statues, thankfully.
We found the concrete stage built to commemorate Eric Morecambe, a local who took the name of the town as his stage name because he liked the area so much.
We tried to convince him to come along, or at the very least bless us with the sunshine that he so often sang about.
We then went in search of food. There was surprisingly little open considering it was the Friday of a bank holiday weekend. We headed to the only open chip shop we could find. This had the added bonus of live music and a bouncer who promised to keep an eye on the bikes.
The bouncer kept disappearing, but there were so few people around that we couldn’t work out why he was needed at all. Maybe we were early. The frozen singer finished her set. And disappeared long before we’d finished our food. The nightlife didn’t look like it would wake up any time soon.
By the time we had returned to camp, Jenny had arrived and was putting the finishing touches on her tent. Realising from our descriptions that this place didn’t have the buzzing nightlife it had once been renowned for, she quickly headed off to find some food before everything closed.
With the team together at last, I gave out my Roses and commemorative patch, only to find that Babs had got some for us all too. Brilliant minds…
Then it started to rain. We all moved into our own tents, sad that we couldn’t sit out and chat. The kettle went on to fill my hot water bottle, and I made the last (I hoped) journey of the evening to the toilet block, then settled down in my sleeping bag listening to the raindrops gently hitting the canvas.
A few hours later, woken by the strong wind pulling at my poles, the rain seemed closer somehow. I peered out from the sleeping compartment and was greeted by my very own water feature. It was so deep that my shoes were floating. I spent the next half hour bailing out the water. I returned to my sleeping bag as the light levels rose, giving my body a chance to fight off a developing headache.
Not long after that, we were packing our wet tents away between showers.
We picked our way back to Morecambe seafront heading for the start point, but as Jenny had missed it the previous night, we purposefully overshot the start, heading back to say Hi to Eric once more. We waved to a set of mountain bikers about to start their Roses ride as we passed.
“Can I take a photo for you?” Asked a passerby, obviously used to people posing at the statue. We gratefully said yes, as it would be nice to have at least one photo of us all together.
Five minutes later, a parkrun tourist and his two sons arrived and also offered to take our picture. We accepted and then returned the favour, taking their picture too.
Then Jenny surprised us all with some fantastic, home-printed T-shirts. We all donned our new wear, even though it had started to rain again, as we headed down to the sign marking the official start point.
We spotted a cyclist already there, having his photo taken by his wife before he began the same route. She was going to meet him every evening in their camper so that he didn’t need to carry his gear. It was proving a popular ride.
The wife offered to take our start photo too. (Sadly, she didn’t offer to carry our bags.) We proudly showed off our lovely T-shirts before having to cover them with rain gear.
We finally got underway, but not before snapping the first of the double rose signs. We would be seeing a lot of these over the next few days. We sat back and enjoyed the excellent, traffic-free route that took us right into the centre of Lancaster.
Our first task was to find a bike shop. Babs still could not get her front mech to change gear, and I couldn’t work out what was wrong with it either. The mechanic spent some time trying to fix it with what he had in the shop and took it for a thorough test ride before letting Babs take it away. She was given a set of part numbers and told that, although they were confident it would last the ride, the fix would need to be sorted properly when she got home.
We spent some time talking to the manager, who came from Eastleigh, halfway between Winchester and Southampton. It’s a small world!
“Shall I take a photo for you?”He offered. We accepted, of course.
We were finally back on the move, once more enjoying this excellent traffic-free route that took us under the Lancaster canal and the M6 motorway almost without noticing. We passed old buildings that reminded us of the original use of the route, and it took a long time to cross the Lune ourselves. (Photography always slows us down, but it’s beautiful, and what’s the rush?)
A sharp left and a bit of a climb took us to the beautiful Crook of the Lune. With stunning views and a cafe serving breakfast, it would have been rude not to stop.
Jo chatted to an ageing couple with a gorgeous old golden retriever. Having spotted our bikes, they reminisced about the times they rode up Welsh mountains pulling multiple dogs in trailers that put our little loads to shame.
Two ladies walking their dogs stopped to chat when they saw our loaded bikes. They had ridden the roses route a couple of years ago and loved it. They also owned Bromptons and had never considered riding them long distances. One shared that she had to ride standing up all the way into Bridlington on their final day - it was too painful to sit. I thought of her in the final hour of our ride, grateful that I wasn't in a similar state.
It was one o’clock by the time we set off again, and we still had a long way to go. We started up our first big climb of the route. And I was already off the bike, pushing. The views along the ridge were as breathtaking as the hill had been. We rode single file between families of sheep with attitude - they wouldn’t let us do much else.
We travelled through the village of Hornby. I was a little disappointed that everything was full-size and there were no cardboard houses or foam trees. In fact, there was no sign of anything to do with railways at all. However, it did have a very large, ornate church befitting a much larger town.
We crossed the Lune once more. This time, over the Loyne bridge, built in the late 1600s to replace a wooden-decked one built hundreds of years earlier. Before that, the river was crossed using a Ford. The swifts darted around catching their dinner, while we caught our breath and enjoyed the beautiful scenery around us.
Once through Gressingham, another pretty village with no clear connection to the modern item that bears its name, we found the border. I hadn’t realised that our time in Lancashire was going to be so brief.
Jenny, Babs and Jill bravely crossed into this unknown territory, waving at us from the other side.
We were climbing again. And by now, my morning egg roll had well and truly run out. We found a bench to sit on and eat some food. The Roses I had given everyone the night before came in very handy.
Jenny discovered that this bench had its own entry in Google Maps and set about trying to give it a rating.
Another steep climb later and we were in the interestingly named Clapham cum Newby. Newby, being my grandad's surname, I wondered if there were any family links. I would have to look that up later.
We weaved our way through the countryside along roads lined with dry stone.
“Oh no!” said Jill in a very understated manner as something had just dropped from her bike to the floor. We all pulled up and looked down to see her left pedal lying on the ground. It had somehow dislodged itself from its spindle, so it appeared to need a new bottom bracket. A pedal is not what you want to find on the floor in the middle of a long ride, and it's not something we were equipped to fix ourselves. And in true 1970s cringy TV style, as we all looked back up, the heavens opened and we were drenched in seconds.
We were just 6 miles from the campsite and about 9 miles from the nearest bike shop.
Jenny rang the bike shop in the hope that they could come and help. They confirmed that they would be shutting in 30 minutes but would reopen at 10 in the morning, even though it was a bank holiday weekend.
He suggested a taxi firm with a minibus that could accommodate Jill’s bike and very kindly provided us with the number. While Jenny finished that conversation, I rang the taxi. But, being the bank holiday, he was fully booked and currently driving back from Lancaster. He said he wouldn’t be free till at least six. He did suggest two other firms to try, which was very kind too. We tried the other firms, but one couldn’t help, and the other didn’t answer.
Jill suggested that we go ahead, and she would walk the rest of the way to the site. Garmin was still shouting about two big hills to come, and none of us were happy with the idea that she walked alone. So we all started walking towards Clapham in the rain.
Thankfully, Clapham had a pub that was open and willing to serve hot drinks. I rang the taxi again, asking if he was still available at 6, as Jill could wait for him here. He agreed. The drinks arrived and were practically inhaled when he rang me back, asking Jill to unload her bike and take the front wheel off. We’d just finished this when our knight in shining taxi arrived. Jill was whisked away and had reached the campsite before we’d got to the crest of the next hill.
We were now officially in the Yorkshire Dales, and the scenery was just stunning. These hills were challenging, but rideable - just!
A final push, and we were at our home for the evening. Jill had already signed us in, stored her bike and found us a pitch, for which we were very grateful. But the shop was already closed (an hour before advertised), so we would all be eating our emergency meals tonight.
We rushed to set up our tents in the rain, then set about trying to make food without getting too wet.
Though the facilities were quite modern, the site boasted a lot of history, as you would expect from somewhere named Knights Stainforth Hall.
The nearby house was listed in the Domesday Book and had apparently been owned by the Templar family, one of whom had been knighted for his efforts in a war; the name originated from there. It was funny to think that we were now this farmer's ‘produce’ and the only livestock working his fields. I just wished we could enjoy the promising scenery which was currently greyed out by the misty rain.
My dinner looked great, tasted foul and didn’t sit well all evening. With little signal and no chance to sit and chat, our choices were the long walk up the hill to the onsite pub or a shower and early night. Jenny chose the former as she needed to ring home. I chose the latter, hoping it would settle the stomach and ease achy muscles. I slept well!
We woke to wet tents again, but no leaks this time. As always, we made the most of the situation, laughing and joking as we made our various breakfasts.
The skies showed slight promise of better weather; at least we knew the sun was still there somewhere.
It was only then that I noticed the most beautiful husky-type dog sleeping under a tarp that had been fashioned over the little tent next door. When speaking to the chap later, we discovered that the dog had flat-out refused to go into the tent, and his owner borrowed a tarp from another camper to save him a late-night journey home. The other campers in the field were also cyclists, but we didn’t get the chance to chat to them as they were up early and gone in a flash.
We were soon packed up ourselves and while we were making the obligatory last trip to the toilet, Jill was being picked up early by her lovely Knight in shining taxi who was dropping her off at the bike shop where we would soon join her.
We stopped to check out the house based on the Gregorian calendar - 365 panes of glass, 52 windows, 12 chimneys and 4 doors, but didn’t stay long enough to count them.
We passed through Giggleswick, went over the River Ribble and soon arrived in Settle. We quickly found the bike shop, which, to our surprise, doubled as a bike cafe.
We went to find Jill to see if she needed to resort to her Plan B - catching up with us tomorrow by train, or worse, Plan C - sitting out the rest of the ride at her daughter's, then joining us for the train trip home. But she was ecstatic. They had fixed her bike within minutes of arrival. As they hadn’t even charged her for doing the work, we decided to give them some extra custom and each ordered breakfast.
A huge thank you goes to the chap at Austwick Taxis and the mechanics and chefs at Three Peaks Bike Shop who got us back on the road in such a short time.
Before we even set off, we were in conversation with a couple who were also about to head up the well-renowned High Hill Lane, Aka the Settle hill.
It started at the bike shop, and then there were the cobbles, the campervan, the close pass, and the climb itself. I didn’t get far before I was off and pushing my bike again. I may have got further when I was younger, fitter and wasn’t crazy enough to take a trip over the Pennines carrying a complete set of camping equipment. But on this day, at this time, I was set in for the long haul up that hill on foot. Jo walked along with me, the others slightly further up. We stopped regularly to marvel at the beautiful views and watch Settle slowly become like a model village in the distance.
There have been many occasions when I’ve tried to take a photo to capture the extent of a hill, and they rarely look anything more than a straight road. Either the cameras are getting better at it, or these hills are brutal! Settle is right in the centre of the above photo.
And we were only about one-third of the way up.
Just as the day before, pushing the bike was arduous work, but I couldn't ride up this steep hill.
I was so glad of Jo’s company. We chatted about all sorts as we plodded along. But by the time we neared the top, my arms were aching and my chest was wheezing. I gladly handed the bike to Jenny, who had run down to help, as I was feeling a little dizzy by now, too.
We all rested for a while, enjoying yet more stunning scenery, before moving on along the ridge.
We never did find the waterfall that had been suggested we look for.
Twenty minutes later, Babs had pulled up.
“Keep going, I’m going to video”, she said as she promptly lost control of her stationary bike and ended up nearly on top of it in fits of laughter.
Thankfully, ‘quick draw Jo’ was able to whip out her camera and grab the moment.
Another hill and we were off pushing again. Knowing the size of the hills today, Jo had carefully planned for us to ride about 20 miles, but these were exhausting! Thirteen miles in, we decided to stop for food at the next opportunity.
That opportunity came in the shape of The Devonshire Arms. We were directed to the beer garden, where we could sit with our bikes in the sunshine while having lunch. The people were so helpful and friendly, which made up for the lack of vegetarian options and a less-than-hot pot of tea.
Once rested, we set out again and straight into another climb. And at the top, another breathtaking view.
Our next stop was outside another pub. And this time not for food.
One of the joys of cycling is being able to pull up at a moment's notice and enjoy what is happening in front of you. And as such, it is impossible to ride past a playing accordion and a collection of fully clad Morris dancers.
We took advantage of the brief blue sky and pocket of sunshine, found a handy wall to prop our bikes against, and enjoyed the entertainment.
While I stood talking to a couple about the wonders of cycle travel and Bromptons in particular, Jill and Jenny were enjoying the music in their own way. They impressed the master of ceremonies so much that he came over and asked for volunteers.
Jo and Jenny jumped at the opportunity and, after a bit of instruction, became a part of the next set.
And as they finished, there were calls for a team photo. What a fantastic way to spend a Sunday afternoon, and I am sure many a practice evening too. And we would probably have just driven past or missed the whole thing while looking for a parking space if we hadn’t been cycling.
We reluctantly said our goodbyes and cycled the last few miles to our home for the night.
We arrived at Mason's campsite just in time to order a proper oat latte. That was bliss. We placed an order for breakfast and then headed to our allotted set of pitches.
Little did we know that we were pitching right in the middle of the kids' football area. The regulars were not too keen either. There was one other tent in the area, and that turned out to be our neighbours from the night before. They were doing the other ride that was marked by a ram's head on so many of today's signposts. Tomorrow our routes would differ, but today they had been the same. I didn’t ask if they had stopped to watch the Morris dancers, as she had to go and check on her charging e-bike.
It was so windy that, to prevent an impromptu kite festival, we worked in pairs to pitch the tents. Jo and I practised our one-man pitching, with the other waiting in the wings (or winds) to assist if necessary. The gusts were followed by a heavy shower and then a complete lull. This pattern continued through the evening. At one point, Jenny ran across the field to re-peg the blue tent, preventing it from blowing away. The owners were out for the day and came back oblivious to how near they were to finding a hotel for the night.
The next blast of wind and rain finished with a beautiful rainbow over the camp. It’s always worth checking both ends of a rainbow; you never know what you may find.
The others took advantage of this half-hour break in the rain to find the river and were stopped by a young family who had witnessed their earlier morris dancing.
I was too hungry to go, so I stayed to cook my tea. I regretted my decision when I saw the photos, but then I was glad I’d already finished when the next set of gusts blew in another lump of rain.
Again, the dinner was an emergency one, as the promised shop had very few choices if you weren’t planning to barbecue.
There was little chance of sitting out between the rain storms, so we had another early night. Well, some of us did. Jenny had found the drying room and spent her evening there in lieu of a pub.
It was a really cold night. The sky was beautiful with all the stars, and it was nice not to be fighting the rain when heading to the toilet. My dinner hadn’t agreed with me, so I made that journey several times. It took a while to realise that the birdsong I was listening to was recorded rather than heralding the new day.
But the new day came soon enough. And yes, it was raining again. We packed as much as we could inside the tent before taking down the outer cover.
However, everything still got very wet.
We collected our preordered pastries and ate them under whatever shelter we could find. Then, in another lull, we set off to Appletreewick.
This village was just down the road, but we were finding any excuse to stop today. Mainly because the ride started with a massive hill.
First, Jenny found some stocks to try out. Then Jill’s water bottle cage split clean in two and fell to the floor. It was placed on the rack of shame to travel the same way the pedal had taken a few days previously.
Then, as we were pushing up the big hill, Jo’s bike started making strange noises, which stopped every time we tried to investigate.
Finally, as we neared the top of climb number 1 of 7 (for the record - Garmin can’t count - there were a billion hills that day!), we paused to ask the driver of a broken-down pick-up truck if he wanted a push. He just laughed and said there was no way anyone could move that thing. I’m not sure he realised how strong our arms were now from all the pushing up hills!
We reached the ridge through a mix of cycling and hike-a-bike, depending on how steep the road was. Some walkers appeared from a path crossing ours. They were out walking the Ridgeway in their wet gear and big smiles. We wished each other safe travels and carried on.
Another peak - this time the highest point of the whole route.
If it hadn't been so cold and wet, we might have gone looking for the trig point or even found out about the Roman settlement just above us. Instead, we gathered in a lay-by, trying to ignore the dead rat in front of us and rallied for the next bit of the ride.
We rode on for a while until we saw a sign ahead with the now-familiar double roses. Thinking it may be something that marked the route's highest or even the midpoint, we planned to pull up. Instead, it warned us of the notorious drop into Pateley Bridge.
The two parts that everyone talks about on this route are Settle Hill and the drop into Pateley Bridge. Stories of burned-out brakes and blown tyres appear wherever the Way of the Roses is discussed. The sign gave us a stark reminder of why this was renowned. At least it had stopped raining.
We discussed tactics and decided that one at a time was the best option.
I went first, carefully heeding the second warning.
Six minutes later, I was near the bottom. I pulled into a lay-by behind a parked car to allow a steady stream of cars to flow past. My fingers ached from the pumping action on the brakes, my legs stiffened from bracing on the pedals, and my cheeks pounded with the adrenaline-heavy blood flowing through them. I grabbed my camera to wait for the others to either join me or flow past. Each had that same look of excitement and relief all mixed together.
Upon reviewing the data, my top speed was over 30 mph. Not a speed I’d want to be cycling at very often!
Pateley Bridge was beautiful, but it was built on the side of a hill. We decided to walk up on the pavement rather than try to fight against both the gradient and traffic on this busy, narrow, high street. Some interesting-looking shops served as a great distraction from the steepness of the hill we were pushing our bikes up. But we were on a roll (literally) and didn’t want to stop.
We reached the top, exhausted, and stopped to enjoy yet another beautiful view and some grapes. These had become the treat of the trip. We each had bags and tubs stuffed full of them that appeared whenever a snack was necessary. They came in very handy.
Our next planned break was at Bringham Rocks. However, between our lunch stop and us was 4 miles and another really steep climb. My poor night's sleep and lack of food had really caught up with me by now, and I was struggling to get up the hill. Jo walked beside me, making sure I took proper rests as we climbed. At one point, we were counting 30 steps, stopping to catch our breath before taking another. I felt rough both physically and mentally, with my mind telling me that I was letting the others down and holding them back.
By the time we reached the National Trust visitors' centre, I could barely talk, let alone make a decision on what to do first. I was sent to the loo, then to stand in the queue to order some lunch. The others took turns staying with me or looking after the bikes.
I was very glad of my cheese pasty, Twix and lemonade. It did the trick - I stopped thinking about calling a taxi to take me to the next campsite.
Our little wheels, big loads, and huge smiles, despite the rain, piqued the interest of many around us.
A couple were very intrigued by our quest. They offered to take a group photo, but first wanted us to eat, so they just hung around with their dog, chatting with various members of the group and learning more about what we were doing and how we were doing it. The husband, a former PE teacher, kept repeating how proud he was of us. Another chap of few words, kept returning too, dropping a complimentary comment to one of us, then disappearing off before repeating the process again twice more.
Jenny disappeared and reappeared at the top of a massive rock - oh, to have her energy and enthusiasm!
It was time to leave, so we weaved our way down the gravel path alongside the tourists spending the day here. They were making the most of the damp, grey day too.
We cycled along a ridge for a while, yet again marvelling at the stunning views and noting how we had seen so many different views during our journey so far. It was truly a cross-section of the country, on so many levels.
An hour later, we reached Fountains Abbey. The National Trust guys at the rocks had told us about this place. Make sure we take a detour to look at the lake and then another to find the Queen Mother's cherry tree - the oldest living one in England and the Queen Mother's favourite in all England, hence the name.
But it was cold and wet, and we were tired, and this was a nice smooth, straight downhill.
We continued on towards Ripon.
Though we did have to get off at the cattle grids - little wheels aren’t that keen on them, I’ve found.
In less than 5 miles, we were in the centre of Ripon. I’d like to say that it was the beautiful town square that attracted me to this place, or even the amazing knitted bollard toppers that stopped me in my tracks. But no. It was the glowing orange sign of Sainsbury’s, and the hope of fresh veg for dinner. We took turns to bike sit, as that was infinitely easier than trying to unpack the locks for them all.
Provisions bought and carefully stored in the little remaining room we had in our bags, we set off again, only to stop within minutes as we came face to face with Ripon Cathedral. This shouldn’t have been a surprise as we’d been heading towards its spires since Fountains Abbey.
As we entered Boroughbridge, we came across three standing stones in a row and several stories suggesting reasons for their presence. The one giving their name - the devil's arrows - suggested the devil was angry with the people of Aldborough, but being an incredibly bad shot, missed by several miles!
What was the real story? Who knows?
The town was small, but very welcoming, especially to cyclists. We even got our own welcome message. We were halfway!!
We crossed the River Ouse via the toll bridge, each of us cheerfully thanking the toll collector for our free passage. A quote from Mike Carter’s book, One Man and his bike, came to mind, where he referred to being passed by a friendly cycle club. “They were ok, they only had to say morning once. I had to say it thirty times.”
We had ridden over 40 miles today. I had stopped talking and was concentrating on pressing one pedal after the other. This was hard going in the damp, grey evening.
"Only two more miles", says Jo. "That's to the King Charles and back twice", she continued.
I was considering that this analogy was starting from Southampton rather than the end of her road. Thankfully, just as I was thinking I couldn’t pedal any further, Jo signalled right and we headed up to the pub beside Linton Lock overlooking the Ouse.
Once it had been confirmed which field we were using, we pitched quickly, taking advantage of a lull in the rain. It was a beautiful site, so quiet that we could hear real birds, which was very different from the last two evenings.
The pub we were alongside was already closed. There was no one around but us. Jenny cleverly took advantage of every available hanging spot in the toilet and shower block so that our wet clothing could start to dry out.
We also took advantage of the undercover seating area to finally cook and eat together. It was lovely to laugh and joke while we were cooking. And even nicer to get a decent meal from the food we had gathered in Ripon.
We had to apologise to a lady for the makeshift laundry, when she appeared from the campervan field to brush her teeth. She understood!
I woke very early and caught a glimpse of a strange orange glow in the sky. I obviously wasn’t the first up as I watched some early worm catching.
The area was particularly beautiful, especially in the golden morning sun.
We were slow to pack up, as we had to wait for the site owner to arrive so that we could settle the bill.
We weren’t keen to move quickly anyway, as the sun was very welcome and very warm, and everything was drying nicely. I took advantage of the warm showers before the others were even awake.
When Jo went in to pay, she chatted with the manager for a while, who had started there as a 16-year-old Saturday girl. She never left. I can understand why; I didn’t want to either.
It wasn’t until that evening that Jenny discovered, for the second time on this trip, that she had left something in the toilet. The first was at the Crook of the Lune, where she had left her wallet on the shelf. Thankfully, it was still there when she went back for it. This time it was a drying bra and there was no going back.
We were underway by half past ten, but had stopped again within 5 minutes, looking at a memorial to a group of Halifax bomber aircrew who died on the 9th June 1944, trying to land in poor conditions after successfully completing a bombing mission. We paid our respects, took a photo, and then continued with our cycle.
The roads were narrow and very quiet, to the point where I thought we were on a cycle track. Then we saw a 'Road Closed' sign ahead, and the lack of cars made more sense.
“Hmmmm! Do we give it a go?”
As is often the case, there was no indication about whether it was closed to cyclists, pedestrians, or just cars. Lacking a clear alternative, we decided to give it a try.
The chap in the first works van waved us through, telling us to get off our bikes when we reach the works.
We followed the instructions exactly as we were told.
Curious to know what the works were for, as they were so close to the train line. I asked the chap by the second van. "Tarmac" came his explicit explanation!
We continued to travel alongside the railway. I spotted this sign just before going over a rail bridge. I hadn’t realised how close we were to the Scottish borders.
Four miles out from York, and we were directed along a cycle track for real. This was marked by the first of several pieces of trail art.
The tracks were of good quality and had us speedily approaching the city. I stopped to take a photo of another piece of trail art, this time a tiny version of the Forth rail bridge.
I chased around the corner to catch up with the peloton, only to find them all standing by another Millennium milepost. I did know there was a second one somewhere. I just hadn’t realised that we would see it today. So I had another to add to my collection. (The 54th by my reckoning)
Distracted by more trail art, we missed the turn to a garden centre cafe that had been mentioned in the ride guidebook. We were told how amazing it was by a couple of dog walkers, but the group decision was to cycle on into the city and find some lunch there.
The cycle lanes took us straight into the centre, keeping us well away from motorised traffic. The track's name paid homage to two very influential individuals associated with the area. We spent the next 5 minutes conversing about sweet names.
The route took us directly to the front of York Minster. We arrived with the sound of an intricate melody played on the bells echoing around the square. I stood mesmerised till it finished.
The others had found an impressive brass 3D plan of the area, but it was an immaculate statue that caught my eye. It looked so familiar, yet it took more time than it should have to realise who it represented. I suddenly realised that all statues would have had people looking at them at some point in history, fully recognising the likeness they portrayed. My mind was blown!
We nearly missed this opportunity. There was no room in the posh cafe, but the waiter suggested that the table outside would be free in about 10 minutes. We spent that time locking up the bikes.
We didn't miss the rain either, sadly.
The food took so long that the rain caught up with us.
Our lovely scones were floating in tiny pools of rainwater on our plates.
Though there was a queue for the cafe, no one was keen to take our table when we left, even if we had kept the seats dry.
Once back on the road, only photo opportunities and clothing changes held us up. The rain travelled with us too.
We stopped at what was once Stamford Bridge station, and before that, the site of a battle that would swing history. It was won by Harold and his men, but rather than being able to celebrate their victory, the army was marched back down south to fight an army that had just invaded the south coast. Sadly for Harold and his men, this was a step too far, and the country was won by William the Conqueror. The rest is history!
We paused at a crossroads at the edge of Pocklington. I watched a set of girls greet each other outside a small coffee house. They were obviously out celebrating something for the evening. We checked the maps to see where we needed to go. As this was the last shopping opportunity before camp, we all needed food to cook. We headed up the high street and asked a local. We were first looking for conveniences then a convenience store. We were pointed back the way we came for one and to continue up the high street for the other. We cycled past the girls a third time on the way to the Co-op.
This, like every Co-op that we’d been to on the trip, had little to buy. We walked up and down gappy shelves trying to make a meal from what was available. Like M&S before it, this chain had been hit by computer hackers, putting out their ability to order the right food. The company were restocking their shops blind, meaning the local branches were overstocked with things that didn’t sell and had run out of things that did. This was frustrating for shoppers and workers alike, I am sure.
Once enough supplies were bought for our final night under canvas, we rode past the girls again, this time on our way out of town.
The scenery was once again stunning as we cycled on. We commented about how different every view had been throughout the trip. We were now in the wolds and had reached a section that had been described as similar to the Italian switchbacks. It was all downhill and stunning, I took lots of mind photos here, but none with a physical camera. But as with every down, there is an up nearby, and we started climbing again.
I managed to cycle a fair way up, but was back off pushing before the top. As I neared the final bend, I could hear lots of whooping, hollering and then cheering. Jo had reached the top, cycling all the way to the delight of the others, and an extra cyclist. She'd just made it up on her mountain bike while on an after-work ride. She’d helped cheer Jo to the top and offered to take our photo. They had to wait for me to arrive, catch my breath and find a smile before 'pressing the shutter'.
We skirted Huggate and headed straight to our home for the night, which initially looked like a big empty field. We couldn’t find a reception, but were advised by another camper to just pitch up and someone may be around in the morning.
We later borrowed his mallet to drive our pegs into the ground, as the ground was very firm.
We pitched quickly, now quite used to the routine of pitching in strong wind, but this time, there was no rain hampering us.
I went in search of the toilets and found a bank of compost loos. These take a little getting used to, but are so much better for the environment. There were showers on offer too, but as they were solar-powered and there hadn’t been much sun recently, Jenny said hers were pretty cold, so I gave it a miss.
The palace was positively glowing in the evening sunshine. We cooked together and enjoyed a glowing sunset as well as each other's company. Babs looked like the champion that she was while showing us her official Roses t-shirt. It looked stunning in the setting sun. She decided that it would be fitting attire for her final days cycling.
With the sun and the main course rapidly disappearing, Jenny offered to make custard for pudding. This has become a tradition and is usually accompanied by Eccles cakes or similar treats. But the nearest thing we could find in the Pocklington Co-op was Jam tarts. So, manifesting her inner dinner lady, pudding was served.
We sat chatting until exhaustion drove us to our beds. Overhead whizzed the jets of the next Royal Air Force elite - Britain's equivalent to Top Gun - flying from the nearby air base. My flight radar app plotted massive figure-of-eight test runs drawn out way over the North Sea and back again. Not for the first time this trip, I plugged myself into my audiobook and allowed the dulcet tones of Mike Carter to lull me to sleep.
I was so tired that I didn’t hear the end of the chapter or when the timer switched off. I no longer listened to the jets and didn’t wake up for the loo at any point in the night.
I also didn’t realise that I was sleeping head down all night until I woke in the morning with a headache and absolutely no feeling in either hand. This made getting out of my sleeping bag and then my sleeping compartment rather difficult. I discovered that zips are not designed to be opened with flippers.
We packed up swiftly and made a record-short journey to a tea shop. This excellent cafe, located at the back of the campsite, included a bike shop and mechanic who kindly double-checked Babs' tyre pressures for her.
We ordered food and drinks, which arrived swiftly. Jill was fascinated by the strange teapots that poured from the base when placed over a cup.
When they arrived, the tea cakes were lovely, as were the people using the cafe. An accordion-wielding musician sat in the corner playing our favourite tunes, many of which we sang along to.
(There may have been some dancing going on, too)
Jenny chatted to her between songs and found out why she was there. She and her husband used to play together for charity, and she continued playing after he passed away. However, people kept offering her money, so she decided to busk to raise funds for her chosen charity instead. Her husband had been an avid cyclist and was instrumental in making this a cycle-friendly cafe. We clubbed together and made a donation.
For the first and only time on the whole ride, we asked someone to take our photo.
An old chap and his friend had been watching us for a while. He struck up a conversation with Jo, saying that the Brompton was not loaded aerodynamically. A couple of ladies arrived by bike, and one of the ladies proudly introduced the other as Val, one of the longest-standing Breeze champions in the country. They left after long conversations about women’s cycling.
We finally dragged ourselves away, too. It was hard to leave, partly because it was one of the best bike cafes I’ve been to, and partly because we all knew it was the last day of cycling. We headed off down the narrow road with black clouds swirling above us, but dots of blue promise were there too. It was hard to know what to wear. I’d already changed my mind at least once.
A swallowed fly stopped me in my tracks. It took all my worth not to bring back the morning's breakfast. Babs worked very hard to distract me with conversation about pop songs and music history. The others tried so hard not to sing about finding a spider, though it may have slipped out at least once.
The area was now much flatter, with big views in the distance giving way to closer details, such as various pieces of cycle-related track art marking the route, interestingly shaped houses, and beautiful landscaped ponds for the enjoyment of locals and visitors alike.
We reached the outskirts of Driffield, and a cute set of ducklings managed to convince us to stop for ice cream. After all, it was the first real chunk of sun we had been able to enjoy since we started. What better excuse was there for a sweet treat?
Again, our bikes caused great interest, and we weren’t the only people taking the opportunity to photograph them. People always sounded impressed when we responded to their ‘Where are you going?’ question.
Back on the road, and we were very appreciative of this road sign, even if the works and the sentiment didn’t last long. After several level crossings and another stop to lose another layer, as the heat was getting to us, we were soon back out on the country roads.
We paused in the village of Harpham to look at St John’s Well. Its waters apparently increased fertility. I wondered why it had been surrounded by railings but decided that the two were probably not linked.
We were overtaken by a girl of about 12 who was out on her mountain bike. She rode ahead of us through the open countryside for what seemed like miles. She held the gate for us as we followed her through another level crossing. This one was closed to motor traffic and had a traffic light system to indicate it was safe to cross as a pedestrian, which was activated by pressing a button. She must have done this regularly, as it was not immediately apparent, and we were very glad she knew what she was doing, allowing us to follow her lead. She turned off at the next village with a cheery goodbye.
The thought crossed my mind: was she safe travelling alone so far? But, she was safely away from any digital-based dangers, she was keeping fit, and we hadn’t seen a motorised vehicle for hours, so probably better doing this than anything else.
We reached a crossroads at Burton Agnes, then began climbing. It wasn’t long or far, just enough to get us up onto the next ridgeway. However, a brown sign pointing towards an Elizabethan Manor House meant access to toilets and water, both of which would be very welcome at this point. We cycled through the gravel car park and took turns to venture into the gardens, where we were welcomed by the staff and pointed in the direction of the facilities.
On my way out, I spotted a bike with a very strange saddle. I then spotted the Etap Loch Ness jersey and assumed the two were linked. We chatted for a couple of minutes as I’d ridden that race many moons ago. Once we had discussed the elation of being piped to the summit to the sound of a set of bagpipes, the conversation quickly turned back to his saddle. It was called a moon for pretty obvious reasons, and he raved about it. I could see how it would prevent sores, but I really couldn’t see how it would be comfortable.
We headed back out to the top of the ridgeway and turned right. The views were once again stunning, and we got our first glimpse of the sea. We were actually looking towards Hull, which I was pleased about. This had been the childhood home of my Nan, and I’d never been this close to the place.
We continued along the ridge looking for a brown sign to a monolith. In the morning, we had considered the mile detour to see it, but it wasn’t on the route planned by Jo. We kept looking out for the brown sign but didn't realise till too late that the turn was unmarked and we had missed it.
We took the next left, which took us on a very steep descent, followed by a journey along a high-speed and busy A road with no pavement alternative. A few beeps and swears later, we were all standing looking at a substantial piece of stone, standing in a church yard, wondering if it was worth it.
I spoke with a local couple who were obviously very proud of their village, the church, and the monolith. They said it stands over 8 metres above ground and is likely the same height below. They even pointed out the fossilised dinosaur footprint on the back.
So, on their suggestion, I went inside the church to read the monoliths history. It is the largest standing stone in the country, dating back approximately 4600 years and having been there for a considerable period longer than the church itself. That made it feel more worth it.
We rode back on the road we should have taken in the first place, and I earned a personal best and 2nd best on the only bit of road we repeated ;)
I wasn’t too convinced about that footprint, but who am I to argue with scientists and locals?
Once back on the ridge, we followed the straight Roman road, and started descending past the Gypsey race - a river heading to the sea just like us and eventually could see Bridlington stretch out ahead of us. We had to cross a busy A road at Bessingbury Hill,
But once across, we were on a wide shared-use path that carried us towards our goal.
A right turn, a weave through some houses, and then we were onto the old town high street. We admired the beautiful priory as we cycled past. Then whooped as we saw the sea. But where was the finishing sign?
A lady walking her dog guessed what we were looking for and gave us directions just down the beach, so we unpacked our T-shirts and headed to the endpoint.
It just wouldn’t sink in that we were there and that we had gone from the west to the east coast under our own steam. A gentleman stopped and offered to take our photos and stood chatting to us for ages about our achievement. Then Jenny remembered the water. She grabbed her bottle and was off.
She returned and doused our tyres with the water from the North Sea. This had been done with the Irish Sea only a few days before. We had all made it!
I really didn’t want to cycle another cm. I was now hurting in places that really shouldn’t hurt. However, we had a booking for the night and a looming deadline to arrive by. We also needed food, and all the chip shops on the seafront were closed.
We got back on our bikes and started climbing towards Flamborough Head.
We were booked into a bunk house, which had three rooms, each with two beds.
On the advice of our host (and much to my despair), we needed to quickly head back out to find food.
We rode the couple of miles to Flamborough and found the only open chip shop in the area. I ordered my chips and then went in search of the promised supermarket for something to go with them. Of course, the shelves were hardly stocked, and there was nothing to add to my chips, except for some very welcome mayonnaise that Jenny had found.
Another local suggested the village green as the place to eat our celebratory meal; he did not recommend the beach at all, especially as the wind had really picked up.
I was a little dismayed to find out that the chips had been fried in beef dripping, which was not something my body was accustomed to these days. I hoped it wouldn’t cause a problem.
We headed back to base and took turns showering, then met together in Jo and Jenny’s room for a celebratory drink. We were all so tired from the day's cycling, and the rooms were very warm from the day's sun, that we didn’t last long. I’m pretty sure I nodded off at one point while the others were discussing different events of the week. We took a couple of photos to mark the occasion, then headed off to our respective rooms.
I shared my room with the Bromptons - they were exceptionally quiet all night.
Sleep came quickly, as did the morning. I found Jo in the kitchen area; she had been up for hours and was trying to update her notebook with the events of the week, but there had been so much going on that it was hard to remember what had happened when.
We all had our breakfast of a lovely pain au chocolat bought for us by Jenny. Then went to the usual routine of strapping our gear to the bikes. For utmost authenticity, it was raining!
We cycled the couple of miles back to Bridlington and then rode in circles looking for the train station. Who on Earth hides a train station? We eventually found it, with some help from a local. It was hiding behind the big Tesco that we’d been riding around. Thankfully, we’d given ourselves plenty of time.
We chatted to the driver and guard of the train on the next platform. He pulled a face when he saw our bikes, saying we’d have trouble getting on, but kindly messaged the guard of our train to tell him our plans.
The driver wished us well and went to start her train, which sounded just like an old London taxi cab firing up.
Our train arrived and we were ushered into the disabled carriage by our lovely guard. We waved goodbye to Jenny, who would be catching the next train in the other direction, back to York. She was meeting her Aunt for a coffee and would follow behind later.
“Bikes trump prams. Wheelchairs trump bikes”
Said our guard with an Australian twang as we thanked him for getting us aboard. This train was relatively new and didn’t have a marked section specifically for bikes. I wonder if this is the future of rail travel.
We had just enough room for all the bikes and managed to get a seat each, too, though I spent much of the journey walking around the carriage, finding it hard to settle. I would regret this later. Jo spent much of her time trying not to talk to the guard. She had been messaged the previous night by a friend who had spotted a photo of Jos' railcard on a Facebook post. It had been found in a small town near her home. Jo looked in the cards expected location, and yes, it was missing, but technically, she needed it with her for her ticket to be valid. She was hoping not to be asked for her tickets at all.
I got very excited when the announcer said that the next station would be Hull. I would also be visiting my Nan's birthplace, but only to the station platform. I eagerly watched the town roll into view and noted how run-down it all looked. But then remembered a similar view when rolling into Southampton. I guess you don’t see the best of a town through a train window. I will have to go back and visit it properly.
We arrived at Sheffield, our first change, quite refreshed and ready for the next leg of our slow journey home.
The less said about the rest of the journey, the better.
Nevertheless, this is a blog, so I will provide an outline.
The next train was jam-packed. The big bikes forced their way into the bike spaces, and we folded the Bromptons, taking up much of the space around the toilet. The guard had already shouted at the passengers to move into the carriage to give us space. It was hot and uncomfortable.
Jill managed to squeeze in beside her bike and got a moment's shut-eye.
And we were glad to get off at Birmingham. We had a bit of time before our train, and hoped all the people on the platform were for the train before.
They weren’t. It was mobbed. When the train arrived, it was already full. People had stacked their luggage in the bike stores, and we had to get the big bikes on, as they had a reservation for only that train.
Jill and Babs gallantly fought their way in. Babs had to unload hers so that she could hang it in the cupboards provided for cyclists. Then came the announcement
“This train is full. Step away from the door. If you have not already boarded, move away from the train. “
We stepped back. Waved to the others as they left,
Glad that they had been able to board and then waited for the next train.
That apparently meant a change of platform. A friendly guard gave us the tip of using the furthest lift to save us from having to go through numerous turnstiles.
We got the next train, but still not enough room to leave the bikes loaded. We managed to fold our bikes in the tiny space available and then stacked our gear and ourselves in the bike cupboard, along with a massive bag.
Jo sat for a while on the minging floor. And we travelled like that for a couple of hours. The others messaged to say their train was quieting down, so we were hopeful that ours would too.
It did eventually, and we were able to move our gear into the oversized baggage area. Cyclists were using the other cupboard. Jo took a rest next to the very oversized bag.
We finally arrived in Winchester and then had two more stops until Southampton. I was nearly jammed onboard by a couple of young lads with mountain bikes that jumped on after Jo got off. One had somehow got his bike caught in the racking. Thankfully, they managed to get free and got off at the airport, allowing me to at least unfold my bike to make my disembarkation a little easier.
I have to say that was the most traumatic train journey I’ve had so far, and was almost enough to put me off train travel for life. This is such a shame, as bike and train travel should be a match made in heaven.
But the train was the strain in the end.
I was so glad I’d taken the Brompton, there is no way we could have managed that journey without them.
I stepped out of the station into the searing heat of the day. Apparently, it had been like this all week.
Not a drop of rain!
I took advantage of the sunshine the next morning and had everything washed and hanging out to dry before lunchtime.
As always, I have to give huge thanks to my wonderful travel companions who put up with my health moans, walked alongside me when I couldn’t ride any more and kept me smiling all the way. I can honestly say that I couldn’t and wouldn’t have done this without you all.
Jo, your planning skills are excellent. Thank you for organising every detail so that everything flowed seamlessly.
Jo, Jenny, Babs, and Jill, your friendship, kindness, and generosity are truly appreciated. I am so glad to be a part of this fantastic group of people. Oh, and thank you for allowing me to use your photos as well.
It’s taken nearly a month to write this blog; thank you for your patience (I hope it didn’t take too long to read), but that was because there was just so much to tell.
What an adventure!
We made it!!!
What shall we do next?
Facts and figures
Lancaster station to the Campsite, then to the bay, and back.
Distance - 8.81 miles
Elevation gain - 190ft
Campsite - Sunnyside Caravan and Camping, £15 Bikepacker rate
Cycle day 1 - Morecambe Bay to Little Stainforth, Settle.
Distance - 34.8 miles
Elevation gain - 2500ft
Campsite - Knight Stainforth Caravan and Camping, £10
Bike shop - The Edge Cycleworks, Lancaster
Cycle day 2 - to Appletreewick.
Distance - 19.20 miles
Elevation - 1831ft
Campsite - Masons Campsite, £15.50
Bike shop - 3 Peaks Cycles, settle
Cycle day 3 - to Lynton on the Ouse.
Distance - 44.51 miles
Elevation gain - 2749ft
Campsite - Linton Lock, £7 Bikepacker rate
Cycle day 4 - to Tibthorpe.
Distance - 40.68 miles
Elevation gain - 1312ft
Campsite - Field house Farm, £10 Bikepacker rate
Cycle day 5 - to Bridlington.
Distance - 41.91miles
Elevation gain - 1493ft
Campsite - Beacon house bunks, £33
