Back in the UK, swapping artisan boulangeries for Greggs the Bakers, the right of the road for the left (mostly) and balmy Continental weather for gale force winds, rain and a landslide.
It was a pleasant run up the coast to Cherbourg, despite catching a local racer and becoming embroiled in a “Duo Normand” two up time trial for about 30km. I had a day to kill before catching the ferry to Poole, and it turned out that there wasn’t too much happening on Cherbourg on a Sunday. One of the few attractions open was “La Cite de la Mer”, which features a tour around the decommissioned nuclear submarine Redoubtable. The day before I had been reading some of the personal accounts of the desperate hand to hand fighting following the D-Day landing. It was a striking contrast to stand in the missile compartment of Redoubtable and contrast these stories with late 20th century warfare, where the 16 ballistic missiles on one submarine could deliver a greater explosive payload than the total ordnance deployed in WWI and WWII combined.
The crossing to Poole next day was uneventful, but slightly slower than expected due to engine trouble on the ferry, and the afternoon found me pedalling north into the Downs on roads made unpleasant by fast, heavy traffic. My destination was Bristol, a mini Coventry CC reunion (2 former members) with my friend Gez, and the first curry I had eaten for several months (excellent).
Heading up the Avon gorge under Brunel’s superb suspension bridge I stumbled upon a Sustrans route leading over the Severn Bridge into Wales, which I ended up following the for the next couple of days. This turned out to be a fantastic route through south and mid Wales, following obscure (and frequently steep) single track roads on which one rarely saw a car. One of the highlights was the view across the Wye valley from the top of Gospel Pass.
I knew the fine weather that had followed me across the channel couldn’t last, and the cloud and rain rolled in as I cycled out of Langollen over the Horseshoe Pass and down to the Wirral. I wasn’t looking forward to this part of the trip, as the roads on my map looked like a nest of coiling snakes, and there was no easy way of getting through the Mersey conurbation. Birkenhead and Liverpool didn’t impress me as being very cycle-friendly, and I was stopped at the entrance to the Wallasey Tunnel by the police and turned back (apparently there are “byelaws” and the “fumes are so bad they would kill you”). I fell back on the Mersey ferry, which was actually a nice wee sail past some of the city’s landmarks (even if they do play Gerry and the Pacemakers on the tannoy system as you dock in Liverpool).
The journey north from Liverpool didn’t have much to recommend it (apologies to to Ormskirk and Preston) from a cycling point of view. My useless map basically told me that Scotland was to the north of England, and didn’t have enough detail to allow me to investigate alternative routes off the main roads.
My last campsite was just off the A6 south of Lancaster, and the pitch was under a huge electricity pylon whose cables buzzed ominously in the damp air. The next morning Radio 4 were predicting “more autumnal” weather with some rain and isolated thunderstorms. They didn’t have time to devote any more detail to the weather in “the north” because most of the weather forecast appeared to be centred on a small patch of grass in the south of England where some blokes were apparently playing cricket. I could see the autumnal zephyrs bending the side of my tent as I ate breakfast with the rain lashing down outside. Things didn’t improve as I headed for the border-lands through gusting gale force winds (I came across the aftermath of two car accidents before lunchtime) culminating in a landslide blocking the road just south of Tebay. Fortunately, although this stopped various fat SUVs and 4WDs in their tracks, it was no obstacle to the bike, and I was able to continue on my way with only slightly muddy feet.
By now I was just forging on in an attempt to get across the high moors around Shap and out of the wind and rain. Stopping only briefly for food, I churned north, fuelled by a dangerous mixture of cheap sugars, refined flour and hydrogenated vegetable fat.
The wind finally swung behind me a bit as I passed through rush-hour Carlisle and crossed the border at Gretna, back into my home patch of Annandale and Eskdale.
I’ve now had a relaxing few days at my parents’ in Lochmaben, eating too much, watching TV and enjoying the luxury of not having to pack everything within the confines of a one-man tent. Last day tomorrow, back up the road to (sunny, surely?) East Calder.