26/06/2015
This goes on a bit so I will treat you to some paragraphs.
I had spent the previous evening checking my emails and researching what to do next. Armathwaite is the second station on the Carlisle to Settle railway, and as I never find myself over this side of the country usually I decided that this would be an opportunity to ride it, but just as far as Kirkby Stephen, as any further would take me out of my way.
I had breakfast in the Fox and Pheasant, but I was having difficulty getting it down. My body was just saying no more. How annoying. I packed up the kit and took it and the bike outside into the car park, where I wielded a spanner and allen key to tighten the rack bolts up. Then I visited the shop for an ice cream and a bottle of lucozade, which left me feeling green. I should have listened to the messages.
At the station the access to the platform was level, but only if I was going the other way. Mine was more challenging, with two short flights of stairs and a very steep path. To take the panniers off or have an early morning work-out? Naturally I chose the work-out and I won.
The station had the look of a restored railway, everything spick and span with a stone waiting room, where walking in I was greeted by the croak of a frog. It was dim in the room, I could half see the frog but couldn't work out if it was real. It wasn't, the IR detector in it set off the croaking when I walked in. I bet kids found this very funny. Turning the other way there were a display of books and magazines to while the time away until the arrival of your train, most of them on the subject of trains, many on the saving of the Settle to Carlisle railway. The non rail enthusiasts had a selection of Take a Break and the like. A polite notice asked you to leave the books for the next passengers, and the fact that the system was obviously working gave me a warm glow.
It was two hours until the train arrived, and I pushed the bike onto the train pleased that I was not having to fight for a bike space with a pushchair user. My son is now 25, but when he was young pushchairs used to fold and be put in the overhead racks. Now I understand that wheelchairs users have been denied access to busses when a mum refused to fold her pushchair that was taking up the wheelchair space. Sad times. I looked for a free seat. It appeared that they were all occupied by either passengers or their rucksacks. I contemplated getting into the luggage rack, but others may not have shared my humour, so instead I asked one of the passengers, a Kiwi, if she would like me to put her rucksack in the rack, she didn't as she was using it, so she put it between her legs.
Two stops along the inevitable pushchair wielding mum got on with screaming child and huffed and puffed because someone had taken the bike space for her pushchair. The noise balanced out the two yorkshiremen having a conversation at a staggered angle across the carriage about their days driving Seddon Aktinson, and other trucks of that era. It was a conversation that I could appreciate having driven some of the Army's "finest" vehicles, but when they started talking about how there's no comparison with modern day trucks, I thought that it was about to descend into a Monty Python sketch.
I continued to sip at the nasty cup of tea and munch on a reasonable chunk of shortbread. Every time I looked out of the window the Kiwi must have thought that I was looking at her so she peered at me. I tried this a few times, but with the same result. I cast around for something to settle my gaze on and noticed a woman further up the carriage with a lovely bone structure, most of her face sadly masked with a massive pair of sunglasses. I caught a faint smile cross her lips as her head turned in my direction. Being one not to miss any opportunity for outrageous flirting I started to wonder about an excuse to be at her table, then I noticed another smile and a shuffle in the seat, and realised that she was probably just releasing wind. So much for the flirting opportunity.
Kirkby Stephen arrived and the train ejaculated passengers onto the platform: one half of the two yorkshiremen, his wife, the screaming child/pushchair/mother combination and bike/I. I had missed the best part of the journey, which was to come later, the Ribblehead Viaduct.
The path took us out of the station to the road and absolutely no indication as to where to go. Much aligning of the map was wasted as this new glovebox atlas didn't have train lines or contours on it. I knew that there used to be a trick of lining up the hour hand of your watch with the sun and then the minute hand would point at a boy scout, of whom you could ask directions, or he washes your bike for a shilling, gets a stone out of a horses hoof or some such thing, but no boy scout was to be spotted.
The cloud was so thick that I had no idea which way to go, so I turned right, which was in fact turned wrong. The hill down into Kirkby Stephen is fantastic and I was soon doing over 40. All good things must end though and I soon found myself heading out of town and wondering who had put the signs the wrong way around. I spun the bike around and accosted a man for directions. I just didn't have time to ask two women. Of a similar age to me, he asked about my trip and told me of his LEJOG when he was in his twenties. He was able to confirm that my u-turn now had me headed in the right direction, so back into town, money drawn from bank, at the same time realising that this trip is costing me a fortune, or at least considerably more than my waving my finger around in the air guess had me believe. I bought myself a bottle of fanta, as by now my stomach was feeling odd, and headed off up the hill.
What I can come down in excess of 40mph I have to push back up, stopping every 100 paces for a breather. By the time I had got back to the station turning an hour had passed from the last time I was there, and the skies were becoming ominous. Lejog man had mentioned the word downhill a lot so I was looking forward to the easy ride. For the first 3 miles the road undulated, in an Aberdeenshire way, just more so. I felt absolutely worn out and the rain was coming down. This time though I was dressed for the occasion with full waterproofs, but missing my Tilley hat, a lot. I stopped at the side of the road and threw up, and felt better for it.
The ride was long and dispiriting into headwinds that were more like those in Shetland. I can now see why there are so many more LEJOGS than JOGLES. Mile after mile I ground on, the feet soaking, the pedals spinning me along at very slow speeds. There were plenty of downills, but the wind was making them less of a pleasure than they should have been. I sailed past the sign for the Cross hill campsite. I then did what people who are too tired to make a rational decision do, I kept going onto the next one, which although the sign said tents, didn't seem to want to welcome a tent-bearing weary traveller, and pointed me back up the road to the campsite I had missed. It was only a mile and a half, but it might as well been 100. At that moment there was no way that I could make it. A lot of money spent on a top class touring bike does not a touring cyclist make.
I headed away back to the junction and noticed some benches and tables. I sat down for ten minutes just relaxing, then got out the flapjack chunks, the water and the lucozade. Every mouthful was just turning my stomach more, but I just plodded on. I got back on the bike, my butt making me silently howl inside with a burning pain and headed off back to the campsite. After a mile I came across the picnic spot I had stopped in before, dragged the bike up to a table and laid down on a bench. The midges were out in force, but at least the rain had stopped. I laid there for 20 minutes, then got up and rode the last half mile, not sure what I would do if there were no room. In the end I had the field to myself, the other field being full of the more common motorhomes and static caravans. I had only ridden 18 miles, but I felt like I had gone 10 rounds with Bruno Brookes' mother. The tent went up and I went in it, to sleep, perchance to dream. I got out of it at 11pm to visit the facilities and make a brew with the Jetboil, before going back to sleep.
27/06/2015
I have always prided myself on being able to sleep anywhere, no matter how much noise there is, but I have woken every 15-20 minutes every night of this holiday, whether I was in the tent, on the ferry or in a hotel bed. I will be glad when it passes.
I was in a real quandary whether to move on today or wait another day, using the day to rebuild some strength and get my stomach under control. In the end I paid for another night and went for a shower. Judging from the screaming from behind the shower door an unwilling toddler was being cleaned by his father. I would just manage with a wash for now. The council sign said all water on site should be boiled. More flapjack cubes followed a cup of coffee, then feeling altogether better than yesterday I got on the bike and headed into Sedbergh.
The narrow high street is mainly cafes and I chose one that seemed to have elderlies coming and going. At least I would look young and fit compared to this lot, unlike how I compared to the dozens of lycra clad cyclists zooming along in a race through the place.
The menu was split into sections by time of day, and it appeared that at this time of day I could have a fried egg roll or a bacon roll, but not egg and bacon on a plate. I ordered the bacon bap, but struggled with swallowing the bread, so just chewed the bacon to death, washing it down with a cup of tea. I bought a replacement hat, a baseball one this time for a tenner. It says Weird Fish on it, and by wearing it I am apparently escaping the ordinary. With glee in my heart at the thought of the special life ahead of me I strode down the high street under the hat. I dropped into a bistro cafe and had a latte and a piece of lemon cake, so far so ordinary. A table full of lycra-clads, this time more my age and shape, looked miserable, bemoaning their lack of enthusiasm for the event. The young square-jawed ones had long since scythed through the town. These senior gentlemen were more resigned to the passing of time And waistbands. They had the carbon fibre bikes, but it was not turning them into Tour de France hopefuls. I felt their pain. The hands of time had slapped the buttocks of misfortune.
Waiting for my change I went to pop my hat on, noticing the piece of cardboard stiffening still in the hat I realised that this might be what was stopping the special getting through. I removed it, but the difference must have been insignificant for my feebleness to pick up on.
Greengrocers still exist so I picked up some bananas and a bag of broken brazil nuts not sure why they were £3.25, when the whole ones are £3.45. Someone has saved me one bite, surely I should be paying more?
Back at the site I decided to write up my notes. Whilst covertly slinging a used teabag into thick bushes I noticed that I had been spotted by a man who had put his tent up on the opposite of the field unnoticed by me due to the farm building between our tents. He is a DoE leader and has a party of youngsters stopping here overnight. They are 17 year olds apparently, so it will hopefully not be too bad.
More maintenance was needed on the bike, to the rear rack again where it attaches to the rear dropouts. This time I went through the bolt collection, mostly wrong sizes, and managed to find some in the correct size and slightly longer. Along with shake-proof washers and nuts I hope to have solved the problem until I get to Sussex when I plan to get more Loctite and actually use it this time.
As I bask in the acre or so of space that I have for my tent, motorhomes arrive and leave, presumably rejected through lack of space. A hook up, a hook up, my kingdom for a hook up. I envy them their chemical toilets though, although using one one the back of a bike may seem impolite in company.
A youngster has been brought along from the motorhome side to play on the swings. There is also a climbing frame in the shape of a plane, but little to do for adults except relax. I asked the farm owner if there was a casino on site. He said there were two, and that I should just follow the flashing lights. Not spotted them yet.
Bright and sunny here today, but clouding over with rain tomorrow, followed by a week of heatwave, a word not used in Shetland. When it gets to 20 degrees C (70F) I start to fade, so interesting times ahead. The plan is to ride to Lancaster then have a think about what to do next. It is a city that I want to see for its history.
28/06/2015
The switch has been thrown and I have started to sleep better, 3 hours without waking at one point. Perhaps my body has forgotten the memory foam mattress waiting for me back in Shetland.
It was raining at 7am and I laid there thinking about what to do. Logic said stay another day. I knew that by the time I was packed up and a few hundred yards down the road I would be wet through, and once I arrived in Lancaster, assuming that I made it that far, I would then be trying to dry out. For once sense prevailed and I added another day to the number spent in Sedbergh. There was enough to eat for breakfast, but I would have to make my way into town to get lunch, dinner and breakfast sorted.
The road past the campsite is not busy so I decided that a walk might do me some good. It was only a mile and a half, but I would get into my waterproofs and wander along the road, sticking my thumb out at passing motorists. If I unzipped the neck of my jacket my fleece got wet, so I did the jacket up and suffered a tropical environment inside. Cars came and went. Out went my thumb, but the only thing that happened was my thumb got wet. No-one was offering me a lift. As I came around one bend I noticed the car stopped on the other side of the road with its nearside indicator flashing. As I got closer I was about to walk across the road to offer assistance when the car jerked forwards in a kangaroo-stylee, and I realised that someone was probably having their first driving lesson.
It wasn't long before I was in the High Street looking for a cafe and some information. The first came quickly, a bustling cafe where I was eventually able to order ham and eggs on toast and a steaming mug of tea. Apparently I had arrived after a large influx so there would be a wait. Not a problem as waiting time is also drying time, and puddles were forming under the sleeves of my jacket on the cafe floor. When the meal turned up I devoured it with gusto. The cafe had started to clear, but I knew that my table was needed for a reservation so I didn't hang around, just got up and paid the bill. I sought advice on a likely wifi connection and was told that they had one there and suggested that I sat back down and surfed away. I just wanted to download my email and let my other half that I was still in the land of the living.
Being Sunday there was little open on the street, and the sole choice for food was a shop full of Happy Shopper produce. Having no choice I picked up a few items including a couple of tins of sardines, a packet of Mash potato powder, some peanut butter, cream crackers, biscuits and a couple of packets of liquorice sweets. Walking absentmindedly down the street I reached into the shopping bag for a bag of liquorice and opened it up, dived my hand in and quickly realised something was wrong. I had opened the Smash - damn. I had no way of sealing the bag up so it went into the nearest bin, and I went to the bus shelter to sulk and await the opening of the tourist info office.
I sat there wet and miserable, wondering when this tour would actually get underway. Buying the Smash had been a disappointment, a, has my life really come to this, moment, but having it cruelly snatched away had made my plans for fish and mash for dinner turn into just fish. A long stream of people passed by dressed to the nines in little summer frocks, or at least the women were so dressed, obviously part of a wedding party, and their faces suggested that they were no happier than I on this dismal day.
As life crashed to another low ebb it could only bounce upwards, and that bounce came in the tourist information office, which turned out to be a bookshop that gave tourists information. I asked the old lady behind the counter about a taxi service and she advised against taxis as they were so expensive. I explained that I had already walked into town, failing to thumb a lift. Samantha then introduced herself from behind me. Blonde, about 21 years old with a thrusting chest barely held in position by a top too skimpy for the inclemency of the weather and a skirt that surely she would catch a cold in if she were to bend over in, I instantly found myself admiring her wonderful personality. She told me she was thoroughly disappointed in the poor time that I had spent in Sedbergh, and she wanted to take me somewhere warm so that we could discuss the finer points of Cumbrian tourism, and did I like hot baths, soapy suds, champagne and candles? Sorry, it's the effects of the rain. The reality was the woman who introduced herself was a retired teacher who offered me a lift back to the campsite. She wasn't even going my way. I took up the offer and got a lift back. She wouldn't take the fiver I offered for petrol, so I asked her to give it to her favourite charity, she took it for the shop as all the information staff are apparently volunteers. A good cause then.
The afternoon brightened up immensely and brought with it some more DoE kids, a bunch younger than yesterdays, and considerably more vocal. With none of them more than 10 feet away from any of the others the group's conversation was louder than it needed to be. I also noticed that if the number of kids was x, and y=x/2 then no more than y kids should be speaking simultaneously as at least y kids should be listening. Sadly this rule was not working as most of the time I observed where s is speaking kids that s>y and sometimes s=x. I sat there hoping to observe s=0, and finally did so at 22:30. My day then improved.
For some reason my radio started working and I was able to get a Radio 4 fix, even if it was only Feedback, but at least they discussed Chris Evans turning his breakfast show, to which I am subject daily to by the bus driver on my travels to work, into an advertising arm of Top Gear ad nauseum. It's enough to get me into the car again, almost.
So the plan for tomorrow, once again is to forge forth to Lancaster, about 35 miles away according to the caravan site owner. My brother in law tells me that trains from there go to Wolverhampton. I think more of this trip is going to be spent on the train miles-wise than riding Fermat.
