Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Encounter True Idiocy, Realise That It Is In Parts Grim Up North!!
Monday morning came with ferocity. Monday mornings are always bad mornings in my book, but this one seemed to really want to take some liberties. We had been on the road a week, and the sound of the alarm going off at 7:30 was an unhappy reminder that we’d be travelling for another week to come before we got to Land’s End.
Sighing, wincing and groaning we got up and headed down to breakfast, where we were met by Yvonne telling us loudly that because we were ten minutes late we couldn’t have breakfast. This in front of the ten other guests who stared at us as we tried to understand what had just happened. It turned out that she was joking, and so we scurried over to our table before she could change her mind.
I told you – crazy.
If you stay at the Lyndhurst Guesthouse (and I recommend that you do – Yvonne is a sweetheart actually but we weren’t awake enough to realise what was going on – German humour and all that) then do like I did: have the apple and cinnamon porridge for breakfast. Made from scratch, it was the perfect fuel for the day and tasted delicious. Ray tucked into the usual breakfast, I watched him tucking into the usual breakfast, and Yvonne and Stewart tried to give me more food than I could get down.
We got changed in the room afterwards and stretched out on the bed to watch the Olympics highlights, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit deflated. Yesterday had been a rollercoaster of excitement and frustration what with crossing the border and fighting our way up Shap Fell, and today was a long slog down to Warrington (or there about) and we were leaving behind the hills and forests for the more industrialised towns and cities.
We paid our hosts and went to rescue the steeds from the garage where they had been tethered, and gave them a quick once over to make sure they hadn’t picked up anything the day before. They were in fine fettle, and the Manly Steed was chomping at the bit to get going.
The weather was overcast but the wind had dropped, and we set out once more, heading back into the centre of town where we picked up the A65 towards Endmoor. We got lost in the one way system, but finally got it sorted and were soon pedalling along passing a hospital and Oxenholme railway station as we went. We had decided on the A65 as it cuts out some potentially unpleasant dual carriageway, and we were having a pleasant time cycling through fields and farms, even passing a chap who had a sign on his back telling us he was walking the JOGLE. We didn’t stop, but waved as we flashed past.
Just after Endmoor we hooked a right onto the B6385 towards Milnthorpe, and were winding our way through pretty, narrow country lanes for a few miles with the smell of cow dung in our nostrils. As we went, something strange began to happen. Whenever we passed a field of sheep and Ray was leading, the flock would run away like crazy. Whenever I was leading, they would run towards us. I think Ray’s reputation was preceding him.
Well – or mine was. I am something of a Casanova, if I do say so myself.
As we went, the porridge was sending strong signals out and I felt GGRRREAAAT!! Soon I was powering along, and I felt that we would have a fantastic day. The rain started up as we turned left in the pretty village of Milnthorpe and got back on the A6, but that didn’t matter – I felt like I could outpace the rain clouds!!
This good feeling stopped quite abruptly at about the 10 mile mark for the day in Carnforth when my energy levels bonked and we had to grab some emergency rations in the local Tesco, and from there onwards the day was back to its usual grind. Still – it had been good for a while!!
The roads in towards Lancaster are good quality, and as we went I couldn’t help but notice that there was a lovely smell in the air. Growing on the side of the road were huge clusters of some sort of pink orchid which filled our nostrils with pleasant bouquets, a welcome relief after the not-so-quite delightful bouquet of mulching cow dung earlier in the morning.
Lancaster is one hell of a confusing place in the city-centre, and as we had decided to ditch the use of the sat-nav a few days previously we were navigating with pages torn out of a road atlas, which were completely unhelpful as we had left the page we needed behind with Hannah. Clever us, eh?
So we were to be travelling blind for about 25 miles through not one but two major towns, and not once did we think to pick up a small local map. Instead we turned on the Garmin, scrolled forward, and programmed it to take us to the A49 at the south of Preston.
We headed southwards through the city-centre of Lancaster trying to read the sat-nav and road signs at the same time, and just about managed to claw our way back onto the A6 without bellowing at too many Lancastrian septuagenarian pensioners to ask for directions. We pedalled onwards through somewhat inclement weather passing through some small towns and rolling farmland, with nothing confronting us that was too difficult to overcome.
Lunchtime was upon us, and so we stopped in a pub 11 miles from Preston, just north of Garstang. It was getting colder as we tethered the steeds, and I ordered a burger and mashed potatoes, a pint of coke and a coffee. Ray ordered a chicken kiev with chips, showing off his adventurous nature to the pretty barmaid. We had covered about 30 miles, and we were in no rush to leave so I took a load off my sensitive behind and relaxed into the padded seat. I took a moment to call work and ask them to find us accommodation around Warrington.
All good things have to come to an end, and so we went back outside after just over an hour in the warmth. Ray was looking forward to the next leg of the journey, and I wasn’t entirely sure why: it was raining on and off and the temperature felt like it had dropped a couple of degrees. Still, time on the road, it changes a man.
The 11 miles into Preston seemed to take forever. We pedalled, we sweated, we stopped at a petrol station to get some GoGo juice and chocolate, we got soaking wet and put on full waterproofs, we pedalled some more, and we still took an hour and a half to get there. No clue why, but hey – we eventually got there at about 16:00 and found Preston to be a sprawling town with no clear signposts running through it. We had planned to leave the A6 in the town as it turned into a nasty looking dual carriageway, and we followed the Garmin’s directions as it took us along some minor roads through the suburbs. We turned off the A6 onto the A675 at Victoria Road, but missed the right hand turn onto the B6258 which would have taken us along quiet roads to A49 via Bamber Bridge. Hindsight, as I have said before, is 20:20, and with a clear map you can see where it all went wrong.
We carried on for a few more miles, and I knew we were in the wrong place when we passed under the M6 and were into more open fields. We turned around, headed back for the A6 where we at least knew where we were.
What about the Garmin, I hear you cry?? It kept changing the route on us every half mile. It works, I’m sure, but I don’t trust the damn thing as far as it could throw me. The detour had added 45 minutes to our journey as we stopped to try and find a map (too late!!)
In the end, we pedalled along the A6 dual carriageway section in the middle of rush hour as people headed home, an experience I was not keen on, so we turned off on the B5257at the first sign to Bamber Bridge and got back on track. Eventually we reached the right road, turned right, and found our way more by luck than judgement to the top of the A49 Wigan Road.
By then, I was knackered, and we took a break in brilliant sunshine as the temperature rose and the rain stopped for a while. It had been incredibly and surprisingly stressful getting through the town, as we hadn’t wanted to be on the dual carriageway with it bringing back memories of near-misses on the A82 in Glasgow.
We got back on the bikes and started southwards on the A49, and The Manly Steed snorted its disapproval of the Garmin. The Garmin looked suitably ashamed, and vowed to regain its good standing with us in the future.
We passed under the M6 again (this time in the right place) and stopped again for a break in a pub car park a little later just north of Euxton. As we were sat enjoying some late afternoon sunshine and I was chewing my way through another Snickers bar, the familiar form of Dave came around the corner and pulled over to have a natter. He had had no problems at all getting through the town, and it was immensely reassuring to see another JOGLEr and I was surprised at how quickly having a third person to talk to relieved the tension from me.
As we chatted (Dave had stayed with relatives the night before just south of Kendal) I received a text from Harriet and Jerome back at the office with our accommodation for the night which was to be in Newton Le Willows, a couple of miles north of Warrington, and still nearly 20 miles away, so we got back on the bikes and headed on. It turned out that Dave was staying in Warrington so we decided to cycle our way there together, and battle through Wigan as a trio. I told Dave about Ray carrying two packets of popcorn all the way from Carlisle, and he seemed nonplussed as I ribbed Ray again for having something so useless. I thought it was hysterically funny.
As we were pedalling along, and I was trying to ignore the pain in tailbone / buttocks / anything ‘nether-region’ we witnessed an act of such perfect idiocy which will stay with me for the rest of my life. We were just outside Wigan, and an old VW Polo pulled alongside me (I was at the back at this stage), the notables inside rolled down the passenger window, and said passenger extended his arm and then further extended his middle finger in what is colloquially known as ‘giving someone the bird’. I was somewhat shocked, but the cheery tattooed Chav with the sideways baseball cap and nicoteine-stained teeth (who exuded an aura of what I shall forever think of as just: ‘SCUM’) was not done.
Oh no.
“F@#k off!!” he cried, exposing said nicotine stained teeth whilst the driver beeped his horn maniacally, and with that they roared ahead to pull alongside Dave, repeat the exercise beeps and all, before finishing with Ray and driving off into the distance.
The Manly Steed was having none of this. To be insulted is one thing, but to be insulted by Chav Scum whose only exercise is heading to the dole office and occasionally shooting up and then sharing needles is quite another thing entirely. We pedalled like crazy, and the Manly Steed had a steely glint in its wheels that spoke of suffering for the perpetrator of our insult, but in the end it came down to the fact that even with Will Power powering the bike, it was never going to catch the damnable Scum in their no doubt stolen conveyance.
We reached Wigan as rush hour was in full fling, and stopped for a break and had a ménage a trois bonking on the side of the road (I know – cheap laugh - I couldn’t resist it though!!) where we shared out the Stingers with Dave who had never come across them before, and who was an instant convert. After some steep climbs there were some fantastic long downhill stretches, and the weather seemed to be brightening up as well: the sun broke through the clouds and gently warmed us.
Once through Wigan, we continued along the A49, stopping for another break, and then we reached Newton le Willows after a long day in the saddle at about 19:30. As we cycled the last 400 yards to our accommodation (The Pied Bull pub) there was a sudden flash of sharp pain in my right knee, and I found myself unable to pedal. I freewheeled as best I could to the pub, and got off very relieved to finish for the day. The Manly Steed and its counterpart were tethered in a meeting room at the back of the pub, both of them still fuming no doubt about the incident with the chavs on the road. It had been a tough day with some sun but generally grey and overcast with frequent rain, and it seemed it was always too hot for waterproofs but too wet not to have them.
The Pied Bull is a reasonable pub with basic accommodation, but it fulfilled a purpose as they had beds, hot water, and alcohol on tap 50 yards from our room. We had a relaxed supper watching the antics of the two attractive bar staff as they aired their dirty laundry very publicly with the patrons before causing arguments between the manager and one unfortunate chap who apparently was a ‘stalker’ because he was always in there drinking.
We went to bed at 10:30 tired and glad the day was over, having washed our kit in the shower and hung it up to dry. The room smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke, and I was really worried about my ability to cycle with my knee causing me pain as it was. Some ice and Ibulieve gel helped it, but ice and Ibulieve will only get you so far.
I drifted off to sleep to the sound of the TV again, having spoken with family and Hannah just beforehand. It seemed like we had a long way to go, and I realised that it was, in parts, quite grim up North.
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