The story so far: I arrived in Cornwall and camped near Land’s End and set off on a sunny morning at dawn heading back to Penzance and hopefully Bodmin and a rendezvous with my son Ashley
By Harry Mottram. Has this happened to you? You enter a maze of lanes hoping to take a short cut. At each signpost and junction, the town you are aiming for (in my case Hayle in Cornwall) the number of miles remains the same. I cycled through a sunny Penzance toward Marazion and then cut up through a National Cycle path (actually a lane) heading north. Every couple of miles a new signpost would say there was seven miles to go. Even on the edge of Hayle apparently there were seven miles left. Such are the vagaries of rural finger signposts.
The plan that day was to reach Redruth where my son Ashley had arrived on his bike by train – and we would then cycle together through Devon to our homes in Somerset where I would be able to sleep in my own bed in Axbridge at the end of day three. Eventually I managed to navigate the mixture of roads outside Hayle and entered in the town to be met by nose to tail traffic. In fact the jam of motor homes and caravans reached all the way through the coastal resort to the A30.
I had decided to come off the A30 after Penzance because of the noise and the crazy speeds of the holiday traffic. People (who never cycle) always warn me about riding on busy main roads and dual carriageways – even suggesting it should be illegal for cyclists. But think about it – wide roads, clear lines of sight, usually a pavement or cycle strip to one side and more importantly fewer hills. Minor roads are often more dangerous for cyclists with narrow twisting routes and usually no pavement, cycleway or even a verge to take refuge on. So it’s something of a toss up as to which road to take – depending on the time of day and where the road is.
I arrived in Camborne and stopped for a pastie before messaging Ashley to rendezvous – not in Redruth – but outside Tesco in the town. It was great to see him – as I would have some company – and for those who know him, Ashley is a highly resourceful and practical chap who can sort a puncture or broken chain in minutes. And with his GPS on his two phones someone who could navigate our way out of the criss-crossing roads of England’s most westerly county.
The plan was to use the old A30 which runs alongside much of the new one which is a dual carriageway for much of its length – and this was to send us in search of the lost roads of England – or at least the lost A30. At times the former trunk road is unchanged – it just has a fraction of the traffic on it. In other places it disappears, subsumed into the new road – and we would have to cycle around it on the back lanes before rejoining it. At one point a sign announced it was closed – a sign that we ignored. After about a mile we came to a road works – and yes the road ran out completely. A worker from the site came out to greet us.
“What sort of English is it that you don’t understand that says ‘road closed,’ he said in a broad Glaswegian accent. Ashley and I looked at each other sheepishly. From experience any road that is closed always has a footpath open for pedestrians as a way through. “We thought there might be a way past the roadworks,” said Ashley. The worker looked at us sternly. “We do,” he said. “Yesterday a young woman came down here in her car and asked to drive through – but look the whole road has gone while we put in the new bridge.” We looked at the mountains of subsoil, gravel and concrete blocking the way and raised our eyebrows. “So where are you two going,” he asked. “Scotland,” replied Ashley, “well dad is – John O’Groats.” The man looked at us and relented: “Scotland – well that’s different. There’s a path yonder – take it and you will go past our caravans and onto a lane to Zeal – from there follow the sign posts.”
On we peddled, Ashley setting the pace and climbing all the hills, with me lagging behind some 30 years difference in age and a level of lower energy. In one place the road became a lane and then a footpath but I noticed in between the dandelions and dock leaves were cats eyes – the tell tale sign that this was once the road that thousands drove along in the 1970s to their holidays in Newquay and beyond.
It was to be one of many diversions and changes of directions but eventually with evening setting in we stopped at a pub for a drink and to phone up local campsites just short of Bodmin. I had learnt not to book campsites as you can’t guarantee you’ll arrive, but found that every time I contacted a site – even when the website said it was full – they would always find a space for a small tent and a bicycle. It was a five mile cycle ride up the inevitable hill to the campsite but on a sunny evening we lay on the grass – Ashley drinking Guinness – and me on water since I was too exhausted to eat or drink as I had covered some 70 miles – most which were up hill.
The following day Ashley said he was not keen on following the A30 over Bodmin Moor due to the heavy traffic so we opted to head down the A38 to Liskeard where we had a full English breakfast. From there the A390 to Callington and Gunnislake was all hills but in general for a main road it was quiet for a Saturday morning. We crossed the River Tamar into Devon and climbed possibly the steepest hill in the county. I’m not sure how long it took me to push my bike up it but my body clock said it was time for lunch. It was mostly downhill from there to Tavistock where we stopped for sandwiches and coffee in a café by the church.
As the rain began to fall a wedding unfolded outside and having been the editor of Beautiful Brides Magazine in the past I couldn’t resist photographing the bride. She wore an a-line skirt with a fitted bodice, an off the shoulder gown with a straight neckline to accentuate her décolletage balancing modesty with style. The wedding party came running in with brollies held aloft – the men in tight fitting suits and the women in long floral dresses to the ankle while others wore sparkling Saturday night glad rags – mini-skirts and low-cut tops with six inch heels.
From Tavistock we cycled up the long hill that eventually comes out on Dartmoor – now thick with fog and a steady drizzle meaning the views were non-existent. It was an immense struggle but eventually we arrived at the viewpoint where there was a car park, an ice cream van and a queue for a choc ice. It could only be England on a summer’s day.
We cycled into Princetown and camped behind The Plume of Feathers pub. The campsite had room for 75 pitches but there was only one other camper apart from our two small tents. It summed up this year’s soggy summer that has seen many fly south to Europe for a holiday while others took to Bed and Breakfasts and hotels – or due to the Cost of Living Crisis stayed at home. The Plume of Feathers was however heaving with dog walkers, families and groups of men who looked like they had had a hard life. I’m drawing no conclusions, but Princetown is a prison town and as a result is surprisingly busy with shops, a supermarket and the prison museum. However, a cloud hangs over the town in the shape of radon – high levels of which have forced the prison to close temporarily. That’s 400 inmates who have been moved out in an era when prison over crowding is headline news. The prison is a big employer, and the closure has led to dismay locally – let us hope the radon levels can be addressed quickly and the facility can reopen. There is information on the prison at https://www.gov.uk/guidance/dartmoor-prison
The next day we set off in fog with visibility down to a few yards as we peddled across the sweeping undulations of Dartmoor – mindful of the signs warning of ‘Lying sheep in the road’ and of course the Hound of the Baskervilles – now updated to being the ‘Beast of the Moor’ – not to be confused with our own ‘Beast of the Mendips’ or the ‘Beast of Exmoor.’ Frankly there appear to be a lot of beasts roaming the hills of England – which means by my calculation there are more jaguars, pumas or leopards outside of our zoos than inside.
From Dartmoor to Exeter the roads go down and then up in ever increasing gradients, but at least the rain and fog finally lifted, and we had a most acceptable breakfast in the White Hart Hotel in Mortonhampstead where we chatted to two bikers from Canvey Island. How I wished I still had a motorcycle when they later passed us on a particularly steep hill – for a long time I reviewed motorcycles for the newspaper in Bristol – and for a moment I thought about giving up and catching the train in Exeter. It was the thought of the cash that kept accumulating in my Just Giving account for the Food Bank that made me think again. Inevitably there will be a moment when you doubt yourself especially as I seemed so short of breath on those hills. Ashley’s eternal optimism and positive thinking kept me going as we cycled down some of the most beautiful wooded valleys in the county and we soon arrived in Exeter.
It was a joy to be back in the city where I had worked as a reporter – and the high street didn’t disappoint with its crowds of shoppers, groups of young people and tourist parties taking selfies by the Cathedral. We headed for the Heart of Oak pub to meet my brother Toby who had promised us lunch but were slightly surprised by the establishment with its signs on the toilet doors banning more than one person at a time from entering a cubicle – confusing as I thought cottaging was a thing of the past. Toby arrived and we ordered lunch – only to be told it was free in recognition of my fundraising effort for the food bank by the chef. Wow – that was kind. The Heart of Oak pub is OK in my opinion and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees – and I promise not to breach their toilet cubicle rule with a special friend.
Toby joined us on the road out of the city on his e-bike and quickly left us behind. As mentioned previously I don’t approve of e-bikes in general but my draconian rule has exceptions – including elderly gentlemen who use them to commute (Toby), pregnant women, delivery riders, the frail and sickly plus those hefty cargo bikes people use to ferry their children and shopping around. We made good progress as after the hills of Cornwall and Devon the old A38 to Taunton – now renamed the B3181 – was mostly gentle undulations with light traffic since most vehicles run along the parallel M5. We also were then joined by Toby’s daughter Lucy and her husband Andy and daughter Ellie for a few miles to the Merry Harriers pub as they live at nearby Bradninch. It was a joyous family ride and one of the highlights of the journey that made it so worthwhile.
At Cullompton Ashley’s wife Jenny appeared in the car and we were able to unload some of our paniers into her car boot. It was such a relief to be able to cycle without so much baggage – like most sensible people who do LEJOG (Land’s End to John O’Groats) who stay in hotels each night or have a support vehicle ready to supply food and drink at each layby. From then we sped on through Wellington to Taunton and then on up the A38 now rather quiet on a Sunday evening to Bridgwater, Highbridge and Cross. Ashley virtually sprinted the last half mile to Axbridge while I struggled up Cross Lane into the town utterly exhausted. Short of breath and feeling pain in my arms – but so pleased to make home on day three. Oblivious to what lay ahead near Carlisle when I nearly died from a heart attack. Perhaps it was just as well. Ignorance is bliss sometimes.
Next time: a meeting with an old art college friend who claims he’s not on the pull, I pass the scene of my near death in May, and I clock up around 90 miles on day four as I pass Worcester.
Rapscallion Magazine is an online publication edited by Harry Mottram
Harry is a freelance journalist. Follow him on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube etc
Email:harryfmottram@gmail.com
Website:www.harrymottram.co.uk
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