So, it’s been a while since the last one but my brother and I finally got around to organising another cycling holiday (or ‘off on my jollies’ as my wife calls it). This one was to be the longest trip yet and was to incorporate the first coast to coast cycling route developed in the UK. We would almost be doing a coast to coast to coast in fact.
The first leg was to travel from home to Preston to catch a fast train up to Carlisle (fast as in not on a fucking Northern train). Panniers attached and everything checked we set off. I’m so used to riding without panniers (I ride to work most days) that the feeling of steering and added weight takes a few minutes to get used to. I can only describe it as feeling like suddenly having a massive arse.
It’s a nice, flat 10 miles or so to Preston train station and most of the route is on quiet paths, including an old tramline into the city centre. We arrive with plenty of time before the train is due as I received mixed messages about travelling on the train with bikes. Because it’s the UK and we can’t seem to devise an efficient, simple system each train franchise has their own rules for carrying bikes. Some let you just rock up and wheel them on if there is room in a carriage. Some require a reservation ticket. Others require you go on an adventure with a hobbit, a wizard, an elf and a dwarf to get rid of an ancient magical ring before you are allowed to take a bike on (maybe).
Anyway Virgin need you to have a reservation but also advise you to get there early and check with a member of staff about where you should stand to get your bike loaded and any other information you might need. So obviously when we arrive there is no-one at the help desk other than a sign advising you to find a member of staff on the platform. The platform was also staff-free so we take a few minutes to check our bikes and attach our reservation tickets to the bikes.
I also took the time to visit the toilet (to use it you understand, not to visit it as a tourist attraction). On entering said toilet there was a bloke coming out of the door swigging from a can of Strongbow Dark Fruits while cradling three more unopened cans. Bear in mind this was 10.30 in the a.m. (other sugary, sickly cider brands are available)
And not to go into too much detail but after washing my hands I went to use the hand drier which I then noticed had an out-of-order sign on it advising me to use the other hand drier. The other hand drier was also, yep, out-of-order. After the no-staff experience I had a strange sense of deja vu at this point.
Anyway after heading back to the platform a member of staff appeared. I asked him where we need to stand ready for the train and if there was anything else we needed to know. He just pointed to where we needed to wait and that was it. He did not look in the mood for a chat, in contrast somewhat to the bubbly, cheeky Virgin videos on their website about travelling with bikes.
The train arrives a few minutes later and John gets on while I pass him the bikes and panniers up. I then walk down the platform to the next coach (where we have reserved seats) thinking he will just follow me down. After a few minutes I wonder where he is and get off the train to walk back down the platform to where the bikes are. I begin to hear beeping noises indicating the train doors are about to close so I leap on, and there is John, standing there waiting for me. We walk through the quiet coach to get to our seats while I loudly explain how close I was to being abandoned on the platform while John just laughs.
We arrived at Carlisle an hour later and unpacked our bikes and reattached our panniers. Now, for some reason, perhaps it was just the platform we arrived on, but it was really fucking difficult to get out of Carlisle train station. I can only imagine this is because not many people get off at Carlisle and actually stay there but I didn’t see many signs which showed the Way Out. After two awkward lift journeys and a bit of a walk we made it outside, where our journey to Whitehaven (and the start of the coast to coast) would begin. I quickly consulted my GPS and tried to memorise where we needed to go to get away from the town centre and on to a National Cycle Route (NCN). So obviously within about 90 seconds we ended up lost in a car park with no exit on the other side. Another quick consultation with the GPS and we realised we had to drag our bikes up a few flights of concrete stairs to get back to a proper road. Well we did say it was going to be an adventure.
After our bit of cyclocross we ended up near the river which I know we had to cross to get on to the NCN which would take us west and towards the coast. A turn near the McVities factory and we started to head out away from the town centre and westwards. We were on our way!
We knew it was about 25 miles to the coast and we also knew it would be very flat compared to what awaited us over the next week. As we got further away from Carlisle the landscape became more rural until we were on a single track road heading through fields full of cows. It was amusing to see some of the cows dozily stand in the middle of the road while cars beeped at them to get past. Some of the cows ran out of the way as we cycled past. I wondered what actually went through the mind of a cow when we locked stares. And I pondered what would happen if one of these cows just suddenly snapped and started thundering after me, mooing aggressively as if to say ‘You mooooove out the fucking way’. Time alone on a bike can spring up some pretty odd thoughts.
We hit the coast (not literally) a couple of hours later as light rain started to fall. By this point we were both pretty hungry so stopped at the Codfather at a place called Allonby. No points for guessing what kind of food the Codfather sells! Cod! God! Father! Jokes!
Back on the bikes we headed down the coast, knowing that if we got lost on the way to Whitehaven (also on the coast) there would clearly be something wrong with us. As long as you could see the sea, and were not in the sea, you were heading in the right direction. We headed towards Maryport along the coastal path which was traffic free and also wind free. The weather was still changeable and with a view out to the Irish Sea you could actually see the showers heading towards you.
Through Maryport and on to Workington we decided (with my Garmin’s approval) to stay on the coastal path rather than head slightly inland to follow the NCN route as the path had been pretty good so far. This, in hindsight, was our first mistake. Just after the crossroads the path suddenly got muddier and narrower and we had to haul our bikes over a decidedly thin wooden bridge. On the other side we decided to carry on and see where the path would take us. The answer, which we very shortly found out, was to an even narrower bridge.
And after struggling over that we ended up on the beach. This really was a coastal path! And when I say beach I don’t mean nice smooth compacted sand which, well, you could cycle on. I mean a mixture of wet sand, rocks, pebbles and various debris which we had to haul our bikes over, while our wheels merrily gathered up as much of this shit as they could. We doggedly decided to carry on walking down the beach, passing a few people who looked at us as if we had just landed from Mars. We figured there must be a way out back to the road somewhere although the presence of the train line just next to the beach didn’t fill our hearts with joy. The bikes, already heavy with panniers, now became heavier with the taking on of sand. I began to wonder if my bike would end up falling in quicksand like Atreyu’s horse out of The Never Ending Story and I’d end up walking to Whitehaven to meet the Empress. Eventually we came to a floodgate and scrambled underneath to get off the beach. We must have looked like refugees by the time we got back to the main road. Tarmac had never felt so sweet to ride on.
As we got back on our bikes and John started abusing my Garmin device (asking if I had bought the Garmin Baghead model) we rejoined the NCN and started heading towards Whitehaven on a traffic-free path. Well I say traffic-free; there was one local bellend who came around a blind corner on a scrambler bike. A couple of miles later we cycled past a pair of local bellends who, after we had passed, decided to let off a firework in our general direction. In broad daylight. Apart from the triad of bellenders the path was brilliant and led us through some lovely forested areas far away from the beach.
A bellend-free view
When we reached the harbour in Whitehaven I decided to consult the Garmin to see how far away our accommodation was. It turned out the place we were staying at wasn’t actually in Whitehaven but was four miles east and up a series of steep hills. So our coast to coast was to start on the first day after all. At least it would take away from some of the climbing that we knew was coming tomorrow.
Place name of the day: Fingland – sounds like an early attempt at naming our country.
Daniel McChrystal 