The story so far: following my recovery from a near fatal road accident I’ve been given the all clear by medics and decided to cycle from Land’s End to John O’Groats starting on Thursday, 8th August, 2024.
By Harry Mottram. Looking back, I should never have undertaken the cycle ride since it was to end in an agonising heart attack in the middle of the night near Carlilse. However, as I set off by bicycle along the Strawberry Line from Axbridge to Yatton railway station I was oblivious to what the future held. My main concern was catching the 6.13am train from Yatton to Penzance station and cycling from there to Treen Farm Campsite near Porthcurno.
I chose the early train as getting a bike on a train – can be a struggle if the train is packed since Saxon Warrior V (my bike’s name) complete with its paniers, tent and a ton of clobber I found I didn’t need is very heavy and has a mind of its own. The train arrived and I settled down to read, write my journal and enjoy the views of the Somerset Levels, the Devon coast of Dawlish and the coastal valleys and estuaries of Cornwall. A very large gentleman boarded with an equally large e-bike at Taunton and we briefly chatted about bikes and the joys of cycling to which we had very contrasting views.
“Of course you’re cheating by taking the train to Penzance, you should have cycled to Land’s End first,” he commented, as I noted the irony of his huge e-bike, “I commute by bike in Exeter, I love it, cycling to work every day.”
As you may know I am not a fan of e-bikes for the sake of e-bikes, but I make exceptions for the elderly, the frail, the pregnant and cargo bike riders – but well fed people who barely pedal and treat them as mopeds I feel need to be made to ride unicycles instead. He looked rather disapprovingly at my old style sit up and beg Raleigh with its limited gears and comfortable saddle. “How long will it take you,” he asked, “because a mate did it in five days last year.”
“I have to squeeze it into a couple of weeks due to work deadlines,” I said, “and the ride is from Land’s End to John O’Groats and not from Axbridge.” That told him.
Passengers came and went on the four-hour train ride and with a deserted carriage I went to the toilet since there was a long cycle ride ahead of me that afternoon. My mistake. I had covered my bag with my jacket but later when I arrived at the campsite I noticed my spare power pack and bag of £20 in change were gone. Of course, my bag was zipped up when I had the call of nature and when I returned it was unzipped. What a fool.
As the train moved into Cornwall instead of the odd commuter the carriage became filled with shoppers taking a couple of stops to the next town along with parties of pensioners on a day trip to Bodmin or Redruth. One lady sitting opposite me listed all the drinks (along with their prices) she would be having that weekend at her local social club. I can drink, or I can tot up prices, but I can’t do both at the same time but listening to her I almost felt tipsy.
At last we arrived in Penzance and were met by a wall of holidaying humanity. The hill out of Newlyn is unfeasibly steep causing me to stop every few yards for a rest as I pushed the bike inch by inch away from the evocative sea salt smell of today’s catch from the fishing boats. The promised rain arrived, and I peddled on through the Cornish mists stopping to walk around a stone circle charmingly and certainly incorrectly called the Merry Maidens. They were thought by medieval Christians to be girls who were turned to stone for the crime of dancing on a Sunday.
Dating from around 2000 BCE and constructed by late Neolithic people for some form of ritual related to the seasons – the ‘Merry Maidens’ are one of around 1,000 such sites across Britain including Avebury. In reality the stones had been moved and ‘restored’ by well meaning if misguided antiquarians in the 19th century, who even moved stones from another circle nearby to make up the numbers. Despite these unwanted changes to the circle there was still a certain air of mystery to the site as I wandered round – now soaked by the unrelenting drizzle. I wondered how those far off residents of Cornwall coped with the rain and wind as they didn’t have so-called waterproof anoraks that were really not waterproof to wear.
The campsite had those essentials for all campers: hot showers, toilets and a shop that sold pasties. Refreshed by a gin and tonic I had taken with me I walked along the slightly wonky cliff path in a rather wonky manner to the Minack Theatre about a mile or two away where I watched a production of The French Lieutenant’s Woman staged by Brighton’s Little Theatre Company. The theatre is the human equivalent of a colony of puffins as thousands of people cluster on an impossibly steep outdoor auditorium carved out of a near vertical cliff overlooking the crashing waves below. With an audience of mainly elderly for the matinee it’s surprising more people don’t topple down the stone steps to their death. I mentioned this to the woman sitting next to me and she quickly reminded me of the actor who died on the stage below in 2010 during a production of Romeo and Juliet. The play is a tragedy but like all good thespians the death of a member of the house of Capulet didn’t stop the show from restarting – there’s a lengthy account of the event by journalist Stuart Appleby online.
I discussed the play back at the campsite with an Irish student who was walking the South West Coastal Path – he had so far completed the section from Falmouth of around 75 miles – and like me had a one man tent. We both agreed the play and its ending were confusing in comparison to the film version with Jeremy Irons and Meryl Streep of John Fowles’ novel and not as complex as the book. We didn’t quite see eye to eye on Raynor Winn’s The Salt Path, which is an account of her hike around the coastal path with her ailing husband when they became homeless. I enjoyed it since it visited so many coastal towns I knew and liked their gripping harem-scarem existence while wild camping, shop lifting and living off benefits. Sensible types disapprove of such adventures, but it makes for better copy than a well organised and funded dull hiking holiday.
The next morning was thankfully dry and sunny. So, at dawn I broke camp and cycled the five miles to a deserted Land’s End at dawn. Below was the restless Atlantic pounding against the rocks while in the distance Longships Lighthouse was surrounded by a sea of white surf. Could I see the Scilly Isles? I think so – a tiny curve of blue that merged with the sky suggested I was not fooled – and even if I was fooled, I convinced myself I could see it including the Tresco Abbey Gardens.
Land’s End is a large and sprawling retail, hospitality and holiday centre with just about most things a tourist would need except for a small supermarket. Normally the carparks are full, the walkways are crowded and the very edge of England is lined with people taking selfies of the sign post that points to John O’Groats 874 miles away. At dawn there was just me and one seagull – a herring gull – who looked rather disappointed I wasn’t eating an ice cream or casually throwing it chips.
And so finally the ride has started. With a tale wind behind me I headed out past the Commonwealth war graves cemetery at Sennen Church and the First and Last Pub, little knowing what lay ahead on that silent morning when the only sound on the A30 to Penzance were the skylarks high above and the occasional cry of buzzards circling the pigeons in the cornfields with an eye on breakfast.
Next time: I meet my son Ashley in Redruth and we cycle to Liskeard, Tavistock and over Dartmoor in the rain and fog before heading to Axbridge at the end of day three.
Rapscallion Magazine is an online publication edited by Harry Mottram
Harry is a freelance journalist. Follow him on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube etc
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