Everyday Cycle Heros

The morning after

2007-09-01T23:11:00.001+01:00

I awake with a headache, perhaps like a hangover at the end of a party. The tent is a peculiar shape, the wind pushing the guy ropes to their limits. I put on layer upon layer before even venturing to the toilet. The wind blows me back, but I walk on, out to strange collection of buildings that form this tiny but famous place. The gothic hotel that has been closed for ten years is backed by a dark squally sea. The two oceans meeting, clashing and retreating, like the Scots and the English over the years. The sign is still missing; the photographer yet to arrive, but cyclists are already rolling in, and the first coach of the day has disgorged its passengers. The burger van is frying bacon, it’s carried on the wind and I long for hot coffee as I stand on the deserted cliff and breath deeply as the wind pushes my hair into my face.

As we dismantle the tent Hannah is almost blown away, Stuart practises being a human windsock, scarf on head, and Cameron chases a flyaway plastic bag along the clifftop. We have camped at what seems like the very end of the world to mark the end of our journey and the end of the summer. It ‘s the first day of September yet winter has come early to John O Groats.

“I heard you were coming on the grapevine,” says the photographer. “Sorry I wasn’t here last night. Trade was bad yesterday and the boss told me to pack up early.”
“Well if you can get the kids to smile, then you’re doing better than the guy at the other end,” I tell him, thinking back to the identical picture, seven weeks ago at Lands End. We had agreed to be photographed by the Sunday Express for a feature on adventurous families, and by the time the anxious photographer had finished his shoot, the kids were both whingeing and refusing to smile, and the official photographer was getting annoyed with the paparazzi clogging up his pitch.

But this time everyone grins; it is the end of the ‘end to end.’ We are all groated out and hungry for home, but not too tired to smile and shout ‘cheese.’ Back at that Lands End sign, what seemed like so long ago, I inwardly resolved to give this journey my best shot. And here we are.

Saturday 1st September

2007-09-01T20:59:00.001+01:00

. It's official. Three young Groater's are born, A long and challenging delivery of 49 days and 2000km. Mother, father and children are all doing well.

Stumped but not out

2007-08-31T23:03:00.000+01:00

It was another wild day and I felt grateful it was almost over. The wind was strong, gusting but thankfully behind us, the sky a patchwork of greys, the air laced with drizzle, road damp, the occasional car spraying a fine mist on us as they sped past to the edge of the world.
Our progress was slower, as it ever was, despite finally swapping the see-saw climbs of Sutherland for the rolling pastures of Caithness. But this was not a ride to savour, more a job to be completed, the last leg on our last legs, the final 30 kilometres. We needed a photo to match the one we had from Lands End.

Our arrival was magical; it was the perfect picture at the end of a miserable day, the finish of a long, long ride. The sun came out casting evening shadows down towards the harbour, a rainbow appeared in the squall driving white horses across Gills Bay, the day trippers dissappeared on the last bus home and we all felt the excitement of finally reaching the signpost at the other end. But it was after five o clock and the official photographer had gone home, taking the John O Groats sign with him, leaving only the stump. But it didn’t matter, we knew we’d made it. After 2000km and 49 days riding, we were finally eligible to join the club and I took a photo of the kids at the white wooden post-stump to prove it.

‘End to Enders. Please register your arrival/departure at the Groats Inn,’ said one sign, so we made our way to the Inn. The sign at the Groats Inn told another story; ‘End to Enders. Please check-in/check-out at The Last House in Scotland ’. But the Last House was closed, its’ last customers gone home. Back at the Groats Inn, a sign on the door warned us off, ‘No Children in the Bar.’ “Don’t worry,” said the barmen when I poked my head around the door to ask about registering, “that’s to frighten the tourists off. Groaters of all ages are welcome.”

We ordered a round of drinks to celebrate; orange squash, coke, and irn bru. “Is that it?” asked the barman. I looked at Kirstie, Matthew, Cameron and Hannah, all dressed up in their waterproofs, bedraggled, tired and smiling. “Give us two pints of lager, two packets of crisps and a pizza too.” It was party time.

“Can you stamp our record cards?” Kirstie asked the barmen. “If you sign my end to enders book,” he replied handing over a thick leafed bound book, pages filled with the handwritten testaments of hundreds of others who’ve tested themselves across the length of Britain, on foot, bike, stilts, motorbike and bio-diesel powered tractor, singing, drumming and humming their way through their own personal end to end challenge.

So what to write? How do you sum it up? Capture something of the essence of the journey, the sense of personal achievement, the pride I feel not so much at what Kirstie and I have done, for dozens of others complete the end to end ride every week, but more at what we have achieved together as a family and particularly what the boys have achieved, pedalling along on the tandems every mile of the way, in all weathers and mostly in the best of spirits. So, what to write? I was stumped.

“Can I write something in the book?” asked Matthew, after finishing his coke. He took the book and pen and scribbled away for a few minutes, then handed it back. There in his neatest handwriting he summed it up nicely: “It was a bit hard at times But……. we still had great fun!” Signed, Matthew, 6. I couldn’t have put it better or wished for more.

Back in the tent, we lay in our sleeping bags, chatting about the trip, trying to recall highlights and lowlights over the noise of the gale force winds battering nylon and straining on guy ropes. “Has anyone ever pogo-sticked from Lands End to John O Groats?” asked Matthew idly on his way to sleep. Now there’s an idea for another time.

Friday 31st August

2007-08-31T19:56:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Thurso to John O Groats to sign the Book of Old Groaters,,37.3km. Mission Accomplished. Now, how do we get back in time for school?

Thursday 30th August

2007-08-30T18:33:00.001+01:00

The only refuge we could find on the road to Thurso

Today's ride, Bettyhill to Thurso, another wet, wild day but at least the wind was on our back, 48.75km

Bettered by Bettyhill

2007-08-29T22:10:00.000+01:00

Today we took half a day off. So close to our destination yet still so far. This morning’s journey ended in Bettyhill at lunchtime, just a few kilometres further on from our startpoint, Tongue. We hadn’t intended to rest here, but the wind and rain and relentless hills were just too much. Even the bed in the luxury Youth Hostel last night hadn’t renewed our energy.

Viewpoint, Bettyhill (Weather permitting)

On the phone to my mother I had tried and failed to explain why we were doing this. “Why John O Groats? You’ve got to the top, why not just go home?” she pushed me. Even the kids are curious about why we can’t let it go. “If that’s the end and there’s nothing out there except the North Pole then it must be John O Groats now Mummy,” said Cameron this morning as I made him dismount and walk, something I haven’t done since Devon and Cornwall. But the simple truth is we now have to get there out of sheer bloodymindedness. If I have to crawl there, in the rain, dragging the buggy behind me, powered only by a winegum I will, and I’m pretty sure Stuart feels the same. After seven weeks, and nearly two thousand kilometres, we’re not about to be beaten back by a bit of Scottish weather.

“It’s not going to be like the Kinross experience is it Mum?” asks Matthew as we peel off our sodden coats, leaving a puddle of water in the bar. The ride out of Edinburgh has become labelled the Kinross experience and everything else is being compared to it. Perhaps everything always will.

Wednesday 29th August

2007-08-29T21:00:00.000+01:00

That's how it feels sometimes

Today's ride, Tongue to Bettyhill, just 24.1km in the wind, rain and midges. Holed up to waiting for a break in the weather for the final few days ride. Or should we just go home?

Tuesday 28th August

2007-08-28T21:25:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Lairg to Tongue, a ride through the wilds of Sutherland to the North coast of Scotland, 64.3km

Monday 27th August

2007-08-27T21:20:00.000+01:00

The collegiate church at Tain

Today's ride, Tain to Lairg via Ardgay and Shin Falls, 51.8km

Sunday 26th August

2007-08-26T20:35:00.001+01:00

Making hay, near Tain

Today's ride, Kessock to wild camp near Tain, 65.2km

Saturday 25th August

2007-08-25T19:23:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Daviot to Kessock via Inverness, 33.29km. John O Groats on the sign but further than it says by bike, of course.

Highlands and Lowlands

2007-08-24T23:45:00.000+01:00

“These are the guest quarters.” The lady pointed to three slatted box beds draped with rough looking tartan blankets. “Youse are lucky to have the tartans but if you’re not warm enough, you can get a wee warm-up round the fire.” We trailed behind her across the mud floor into another cold dark room where smoke from a peat fire struggled to escape the gloom through a small hole in the heather thatch. “I was going to make some soup but we’ve no barley or meat left so it’ll have to be porridge for breakfast,” she said stirring a sludgy mixture around the blackened cauldron hanging in the smoke above the fire. Do youse waynes like porridge?” She looked at the boys. Matthew and Cameron looked back bemused. “I saw you grinding the oats outside so I’m sure they’ll be enough oatmeal.”

Outside, escaping the gloom and enjoying a rare moment of highland sunshine, another villager sat in the shade of a Scots pine, tartan blanket over her knees, drawing off wool onto bobbins. “We don’t get many days like this,” she said. “It’s so miserable usually, stuck inside in the smoke and dark, huddled round the peat fire, eating gruel. Lot of people think it’s a great job, dressing up, telling folk about the old highland townships but it’s quite bleak really, like it was back then I suppose.”

Three hours in Newtonmore’s eighteenth century living history township was enough for me, as perhaps three hours doing what we’ve been doing might be for many others. Many people have expressed such a sentiment to us when they say something along the lines of “I admire what you’re doing but I don’t envy you in the least.”

It’s hard to explain the complex and contrasting experience that this journey has become. The intensity of living 24/7 as a family, the routines of the cycling, eating and camping; the perpetual stimulus of an ever changing backdrop of landscape, people, places; the peaks of achievement, of interest, fun and laughter; and the demoralising tantrums, set-backs, mishaps and arguments. It’s hard to explain how one morning you can want to give the whole thing up only to find that a few hours later you’re laughing out loud, huddled together in sleeping bags, camping out in the wild, trying to keep quiet, thrilled at saving a camp-fee and knocked out by the distance you’ve covered, experiences you’ve had and memories you’ve made in 42 days on the road.

“Are you gypsies?” asked a group of young boys on bikes who stopped us back in Carlisle. I didn’t know quite what to say to them. “Do we look like gypsies?” I asked. They nodded. Well, we probably did. “Do you have a home?” they asked, not wanting to let the matter drop. I nodded. “So you’re like temporary gypsies, then,” they concluded. It’s probably a fair description, although we haven’t yet acquired the audacity to free camp as publicly as some of the travellers we’ve met. But our status is temporary, even if it feels long-lived. Seven weeks is a long time to live like this, moving on everyday, but we know it will come to an end when the routines of school and work return and the luxuries of home, heating and hot-water are reinstated. And for that we are fortunate for never was it so for those who experienced the hardships of life in the Highland townships, who scratched a meagre living crofting in these wild places, whose homes were destroyed to make room for sheep in the Highland clearances, whose culture was stamped upon after the Jacobite uprising. The beauty and serenity of the highlands has many a sad story to tell, for those with the time to listen.

Friday 24th August

2007-08-24T19:28:00.000+01:00

Checking the altitude at Slochd Summit

Today's ride, Boat of Garten to Daviot, 33.57km. Well, it was uphill and against the wind.

Thursday 23rd August

2007-08-24T10:17:00.000+01:00

Here's how you make flour, Highland Folk Living Museum, Newtonmore

Today's ride, Newtonmore to Boat of Garten via Highland Folk Museum and Ruthven Barracks, 43.2km

McVegas

2007-08-23T23:20:00.001+01:00

“There’s good news and bad news,” said Stuart, popping back into the tent for a moment after unlocking the bikes. “What’s the good news?” asked Matthew. “The good news is there’s a midge party out there,” his Dad replied. “What’s the bad news?” asked Cameron. “The bad news is we’re the buffet,” Stuart said, wrapping a tea towel around his head for protection. “Extra sweeties for anyone who volunteers to be on tent duty.” Unusually we were on the bikes before nine.

My night time fears of steep gravel track and spinning wheels proved to be unfounded as we cruised down and pedalled up a shingle track with the sun on our backs. Around us the royal purple of the heather and thistles merged into the shady green of the treeless Cairngorms as we cycled up the Drumochter Pass, summitting at just under five hundred metres. The night before a sign had warned all cyclists to beware. No facilities, food or shelter for thirty kilometres.

At a lunch stop in the long grass, thankfully midge free, we enjoyed our stockpile of supplies as a couple cycled past on a tandem, a woman at the helm. They were Belgian cyclists Heikki and Sandi, doing a loop of the north of Scotland, and despite shattering part of his knee, Heikki was determined to finish their cycle back to Edinburgh. “I sit on the back so I’m higher up for taking photographs,” he explained pointing out their bike specially made to cater for the unusual dynamics of this touring partnership. “Hey are you the guys who went to New Zealand? I recognise that bike,” he cried suddenly, coming to have a closer look. “You are those guys! I was following you on your website. I can’t believe I’ve met you in real life.” They told us of their plans to take a year out and cycle Australia, if the knee holds up. As we bid them goodbye, an overweight cyclist puffed into view, his face covered in white cream, like a ghost on a bike. “These hills are awful aren’t they?” he wailed. “And I think it’s another five miles to Dalwhinnie. Oh God.” He puffed on as we gathered up the picnic bag and Heikki limped onto the stoker’s seat of his tandem.

At the entrance to the settlement of Dalwhinnie there was a huge sign. “Dalwhinnie- eat drink and relax.” But I watched in horror as Stuart flew past the café advertising ‘open all hours.’ I was desperate for caffeine and there appeared to be few other houses in this tiny place. We came to the end of the village. “Oh,” said Stuart. “When it said eat drink and relax I assumed there’d be a parade of cafes and bars to choose from. “ For once we went against our principles and cycled back up the hill. But as we entered the café bar we knew immediately it wasn’t a good choice for us; expensive and full of businessmen having lunch. So we made a quick exit and spread our picnic out under a tree while I found a garage to source some coffee. At the garage the puffing cyclist was still huffing around, complaining to the assistant about the terrain in her vicinity. I wondered if his face paint, now streaked with sweat, might melt into his hot drink.

It would have been a relaxing picnic under the shady tree, had we not lost Cameron. At first I wasn’t too worried; he was sure to be pottering nearby. But when I called him, there was no reply. Five minutes later and I was frantic. I’d been over to the river, through the restaurant twice, and back over to the garage, but there was no sign of our five year old and it wasn’t like him to wander off. Soon I had Stuart running around the perimeter of the hotel and its grounds, and the restaurant staff scouring the river bank, and double checking all the toilets. As I ran outside the restaurant for the third time, my heart banging, I noticed the town sign, ‘Dalwhinnie, twinned with Las Vegas.’ Someone here had a sense of humour. Then, “Kirstie, stop. He’s here,” called Stuart, pointing towards the bikes. There, under the shade of the buggy, lay Cameron, rolled up into a ball, fast asleep with his helmet still attached to his head, and his nose pushed into the grass. We gently woke him and gathered together our stuff and our family. While I figured it was probably the most exciting incident to happen in this Las Vegas for a while, I could tell from Stuart’s face he was feeling the same mixture of relief and guilt as I was. Cameron was only doing what we’d all like to do, given the chance, and a sleep under a tree would be good for us all. But had we been pushing the children too hard? In six weeks of riding we’d only had one rest day, and we were all more tired than we recognised, with no hope of another day off if we were to get to John O Groats on schedule.

“Right guys, we’ve been into town and we’ve got to go to the Waltzing Waters, it’s ‘the most spectacular display of water and light in the world’. We’ll have to visit in the morning,” said Stuart excitedly after he’d taken Matthew off for an evening exploration while the rest of us relaxed in the tent, after having had a brief conversatioon with puffing man who’d reached the campsite before us. His face was now just speckled with flecks of white, some of which had lodged themselves in his beard. It now looked like he’d merely been painting his flat for the day, rather than taking on a mammoth climb. Having stayed in Aladdins Palace Hotel which looked out on the famous fountain display in Las Vegas I was sceptical of Stuart’s claim that this small Scottish Village in the Highlands would provide the world’s leading water entertainment. But nevertheless we reached ‘Waltazing Waters’ as soon as it opened for the day.

As we entered the auditorium having handed over a large portion of the day’s budget, the smell of damp reminded me of our cellar. Inside the small auditorium four other people took their seats in front of a stage area empty but for a few sparse arrangements of white plastic flowers and pebbles. As the lights went down, the tinny speakers on the walls blasted out some classical music, and the fountains started. Swish, sway, spurt and splat, they threw their towers of water into the air, to a background of coloured lights and triumphant band music. Swirl, swash, splat, spit, the kids sat, entranced for about three minutes, before realising this was all they were going to get in the way of entertainment. For the next forty five minutes we were assaulted with a Celine Dion montage, a Disney arrangment, a collection of Beatles music and a selection of scottish songs, as well as bright green and red light and the swoosh spash of the fountains. I struggled to keep a straight face and not look Stuart in the eye, but when the recorded voice over started to read poetry that visitors had composed about the experience, I lost it. With my head in my knees I struggled to compose myself and control the laughter that was threatening to be louder than the poetry of ‘water lighter than Angels Wings.’ When the swishing of angels wings finally stopped, and we escaped into morning light, I looked around for the ghostly presence of puffing man but he had gone. Processing this unexpectedly Vegas Experience, we cycled on North towards Inverness.

Wednesday 22nd August

2007-08-22T18:46:00.001+01:00

Today's ride. Drumochter Pass to Newtonmore for our own Highland games, 40.96km

Tuesday 21st August

2007-08-22T14:51:00.000+01:00

Nightriders, Drumochter Pass

Today's ride, into Pitlochry then via the Pass of Killikrankie and Blair Atholl to a wild camp on Drumochter Pass, 39.4km

The Glorious Twelfth

2007-08-21T23:13:00.000+01:00

“Are you teachers?” It’s the second most popular question we get asked, after ”Are you doing it for charity?’’ What people really mean is ‘how come you can get seven weeks off work to do something like this?’ Well, it’s one of the advantages of self employment, the ability to stop trading, stop earning money and go spend it instead. But if we think we have it good, some people have it even better.

We met Gerard on our way up the Drumochter Pass. He was sheltering from the midges in his top of the range Range Rover, doing business on his mobile when we crawled past and interrupted his day. “I used to race,” he said as he stopped us to tell us about himself, “got a Scottish National medal you know. Still cycle to work sometimes now, 19 miles each way.” He didn’t look much of a cyclist now, dressed in green barbour waistcoat and knee length laced hunting boots, more portly country gentleman.

He was waiting to join a local keeper on the Dalncardoch Estate, for a day out with a German party, heading out for six hours grouse beating and shooting in the highland heather. He smiled and motioned to the yapping in his 4x4, “Like to get out and train my twelve dogs in the thick of the hunt, the young ones forget everything I’ve taught them and go wild when they get the scent of game in their noses.” A bit like our boys when they spot a playground.

“Hunting’s my passion now but not my business ,” he explained, “I have a young MD to run that for me, especially around the Glorious Twelfth.” The date had passed me by, as things do after four of five weeks on the road, one day blending into another, days and dates becoming meaningless markers in an alternative world in which everything is marked in miles and mealtimes. “Ay, ask anyone in Scotland about CJ Smiths and they’ll know me,” he continued, “….glazing and conservatories for over 30 years.” For all his talking Gerard was not your typical double glazing salesman, more a self-made lad come Laird and I envied his ability to take time out to pursue his passion while others earnt his money, a skill we have yet to acquire. Still, I was grateful for the large note he stuffed into our charity collection tin.

Monday 20th August

2007-08-20T21:35:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Perth to a wild woodland near Pitlochry, via Dunkeld, 45.29km. Highlands here we come.

Sunday 19th August

2007-08-19T19:34:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, from Kinross to Perth, a thankfully dry and easier 37km and the forecast is brighter for us all.

More Horrid than Henry

2007-08-18T23:08:00.001+01:00

I pushed against the wind, head down into the rain. Beneath me on my left, almost obscured by mist, the river. To my right the traffic, buzzing across the Forth Bridge, wipers busy clearing torrential rain from their windscreens. Up and up we climbed, over the bridge and down into the mist, the fierce wind leaving me gasping for breath, burning my cheeks, and my face already battered by rain. Behind me Matthew bent his head for shelter while Horrid Henry played on the MP3 through his headphones. I hoped it was drowning out the wind and rain, and lifting his spirits above mine. “Why am I putting him through this?” I wondered. “It’s all so pointless.”

The truth was we had made a chain of decisions that had put us up against it in appalling weather. Ironically enough, these choices had been made with the kids in mind. Saturday is pocket money day and treat day, and after our long hard ride into Edinburgh we promised the children some down time. We stayed with friends Gareth and Emma for the night and as we packed up the bikes in the pouring rain, Emma invited us to a children’s party their son was going to. Looking out of the window at weather that didn’t seem to be about to change, we agreed. But the party and the bad weather both went on into the afternoon, longer than we’d planned to stay. Mid afternoon we togged up in full rain gear, and bumped up and down the cobbled streets of the city. It was one cobble too much for my bike and the drive chain snapped at a busy junction. After holding up a line of impatient festival traffic, I eventually wheeled my bike into a car park, humiliated and angry with myself for breaking the chain. Then drenched after the fiddly repair job, we cycled down Princes Street on the busiest day of the year. The festival street performers looked as soggy as us as they did their stuff to crowds of shoppers, undeterred by the weather. People stared at us through their unbrellas, perhaps thinking we were one of the acts. We stopped to buy maps and have coffee while we debated our next move. We couldn’t stay in Edinburgh, an internet search had thrown up nothing in the city or on the outskirts, so we had booked a Travel Inn in Kinross. But it was a long way out of town and it was already four o clock. We would have to shift it if we wanted to get there at all.

Twenty two kilometres from Kinross, over the Forth Bridge, we stopped in the rain for a family meeting in a disused garage forecourt. It was still raining persistently and we were freezing cold, with soakign feet and black moods. But we had no other options, wild camping couldn’t be done in the busy urban area, there were no campsites and we had spent our budget on an overpriced room. It was the first time in the trip we had forward booked something and we were regretting our actions.

Six kilometres from Kinross and we stopped in a bus shelter at the side of the road. It was pitch black, all three of the kids were crying. We had been wading through massive tracks and pools of water in the dark, spraying clothes and buggies with cold water. “Only a few more kilometres boys, and then we can all get into warm beds,” we tried to cheer up them and ourselves. Was John O Groats really worth all this?

“Are you warm now?” I asked Matthew, as he snuggled into my arms. He didn’t reply, he was entranced by Match Of the Day. On my tummy, Hannah giggled and squirmed, dressed only in a nappy and a warm quilt after her hot bath. Next to me, Stuart lay on the bed with Cameron in his arms, sharing the MP3 earphones, laughing out loud at the exploits of Cameron’s new favourite story. The Kinross experience had been a challenge, but obviously not as horrid as Henry. Only an hour after reaching the hotel, all thoughts of our challenging journey had been forgotten, for now.

Saturday 18th August

2007-08-18T22:49:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Edinburgh to Kinross. Wet, wet, wet, but still 51.4km. But never again in such conditions.

Friday 17th August

2007-08-17T22:47:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, to Edinburgh, 74.7km

Turning points

2007-08-16T22:48:00.000+01:00

Hannah was bawling in the darkness. Both boys were crouching in the corner of the tent, holding their noses, clutching their sleeping bags for protection. “It stinks Dad, it really stinks,” said Matthew, “it’s making me sick. “ I sat helplessly in the middle of the tent cupping fresh vomit in my hands, praying there was no more to come for the cup was already full. “Where’s the torch?” snapped Kirstie thrusting a nappy at Hannah to catch any final emissions then fumbling about in her bar-bag for wipes. Of course they were outside in one of the trailers, as everything is when you are half naked in the tent and really need it. Traffic thundered past on the M74, a hundred yards or so away, hot sick seeped through my fingers dripping onto tracksuit and thermarest and I’d had enough. It was time to give up.

I felt we’d been doing so well, clocking up the k’s, getting back home, passing the half way point. When we left home for the second time, John O Groats still felt within grasp but somewhere north of Burton we lost our rhythm. The weather turned, our route got blocked by roadworks north of Carlisle and we suffered an infuriating series of four punctures in less than 20km. It took two days to make it across the border from Carlisle to Gretna and then we found ourselves following a cycle route next to the M74. I chose it for its directness, thought it would help us make up time, get back on track, but endless hours spent cycling to the drone of traffic gave me motorway madness. Then camping by it. Then hot sick and no baby wipes. There was no point any more.

Puncture number four

I took the boys out on a fibre glass swan pedallo the following day. We’d managed a miserable 15km in two hours and detoured to Moffat to get away from the motorway, to resupply and to find some light relief and meaning to life. The boys loved pedalling around Moffat’s boating pond, crashing into the sides but it did nothing to lift my spirits. Kirstie and I bickered over lunch about whether to carry on and decided to try and push through the depression and see how we felt when we reached Glasgow, two days up the M74. It was a stupid plan. We crawled up and up the Tweedsmuir hills out of Moffat, legs burning from the strain of continuous climbing…. 1km… 2km…. 3km. “I like this road,” said Cameron, breaking the silence as we climbed further, “it’s quieter.” 4km and we reached a turning; left and downhill for the M74 and Glasgow, right for a further another 6km of climbing and the the tourist road to Edinburgh. I stopped and waited for Kirstie. We never meant to go to Edinburgh. It was a longer, hillier route. It was festival time and impossible to find accommodation. It was out of our way and might mean giving up on John O Groats.

More pedalling in Moffat

Forty kilometres later, still full of energy, with the light fading, we pitched our tent stealthily in woodland near Drumelzier. It had been a hard ride, climbing for two hours to almost 500m, in cold windy showers, picnicking high up over the Devil’s Beef Tub, then chasing the River Tweed down, through forests and across open moor as it grew bigger and stronger, fed by burns brought to life by the days rain, and rushing towards Peebles. As we lay in absolute silence in the tent, tired but satisfied by the days exertions, I remembered how much I love the twists and turns of this way of travelling, the strange intensity of daily highs and lows which routinely outgun those of our regular lifestyle and the peculiar joy of the unpredictable nature of life.

Above the Devil's Beef Tub

Thursday 16th August

2007-08-16T20:38:00.000+01:00

Today's ride, Dinwoodie to Drumelzier via Moffat en route to Edinburgh. Trying to get back on some kind of track but away from the A74 if not the headwind. 56.64km. A wild day and a wild camp.

Fortunately, unfortunately

2007-08-15T22:33:00.000+01:00

Sometimes when cycling with the kids we have to come up with games and stories to keep us all moving. These range from the traditional I Spy to Matthew’s home made “Am I holding my nose when I say this?” game. Fortunately the fortunately/unfortunately game has also provided hours of fun. The following is, unfortunately, an account of our day.

“Fortunately Scotland is really close, Gretna’s only a few kilometres away.”
“Unfortunately heavy rain and high winds are forecast.”

“Fortunately there’s a McDonalds in Carlisle, we can get a happy meal and wait for the rain to pass.”
“Unfortunately lunch is finished…and the rain is just starting.”

“Fortunately in the next town there’s a free Roman workshop. We can spend some time with a Roman soldier, make Roman pots, and dress up in Roman clothes.”
“Unfortunately our pot has now dried, the Roman has gone home on the bus and it’s still raining.”

Romans are still in Britain

“Fortunately Gretna Green is only six kilometres away.”
“Unfortunately there are heavy roadworks on the direct route.”

“Fortunately Ed Roberts, a local, who toured from Lands End to John O groats for his honeymoon nine years ago turns up with route advice and twenty quid for our charity fund.”
“Unfortunately his new route involves an extra twenty kilometres.”

Old Groater Ed Roberts

“Fortunately we pass Ed’s house, and he runs out with a bottle of wine for us to take on our journey.”
“Unfortunately the rain gets heavier and we hear thunder in the near distance.”

“Fortunately we ignore Ed’s advice and bike along the A74, following a cycle path on the map.”
“Unfortunately the cycle path grinds to a halt half way down a narrow track at the side of the unbearably noisy road.”

“Fortunately we manage to turn the bikes around as the cars blast past.”
“Unfortunately we get a puncture.”

No through road: roadworks and puncture

“Fortunately as we stop to mend the puncture at the side of the road, a motorist stops.”
“Unfortunately he is lost and just wants directions.”

“Fortunately the security people at the deserted Iron Bridge Pub come to offer us a cup of tea.”
“Unfortunately they can’t offer a new route, only the 20 kilometer detour we were already aware of.”

“Fortunately after twenty kilometres the rain stops for long enough to buy chips.”
“Unfortunately it starts again as we eat our chips on the roadside.”

“Fortunately the curry sauce has a cling film lid.”
“Unfortunately we get two more punctures.”

“Fortunately theres a hotel opposite the chippie.”
“Unfortunately it’s still raining when we get up again.”

“But fortunately Scotland is really close….Gretna’s only a few kilometres away.”

We made it!

Wednesday 15th August

2007-08-15T20:44:00.000+01:00

Today's ride, Longtown to Dinwoodie near Johnstonbridge. Finally made Scotland after 3 more punctures only to face a tiresome headwind to make just 42km. John O Groat's seems very far away again.

Tuesday 14th August

2007-08-14T20:04:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, South Carlisle to Longtown: a short, wet day in which we were unable to leave England, despite our best efforts, just 28.5km

Charity case

2007-08-13T23:54:00.000+01:00

Perhaps we look like a charity case. I certainly feel a bit like a tramp at the end of most days, looking dischevelled in my dirty clothes, pulling my trailer stuffed with plastic bags, surrounded by my little street urchins.

One of my street urchins

It was way back in Cornwall that people started offering us money and it’s continued in fits and starts up the country. Some coppers here, a pound there, the odd fiver. We were warned about this by Dave, an old Groater who completed the challenge ride earlier this year. “There's an assumption if you're doing LEJOG then you must be trying to raise money. I did it because I love cycling but there were a few times I felt quite uncomfortable explaining that to people who obviously wanted to give me a fiver!!”

To begin with we tried Dave’s tack of refusing money, trying to explain the intrinsic pleasure of riding without a charitable motive, but I ended up feeling selfish and the people with their hands in their pockets seemed quite dissappointed not to be able to give. So we concluded it was probably better to accept donations and find a good cause to give them to. Matthew found an old Pudsey bear money box in his rucksack of toys, I found some gaffer tape to seal it in the tool kit, Kirstie made a notice and we started accepting donations for Children in Need from anyone keen enough to offer us money.

It took a while for the kids to get the idea. “Are we children in need?” asked Cameron after one sweet old lady put several pounds of her pension into the pot. “Thanks,” said Matthew cheekily after another fellow pushed a tenner into his money box, “That will buy lots of ice creams.” And then of course the whole BBC phone-line scandal broke, rocking confidence in our chosen charity. But none of this seems to stop the committed giver from establishing our charitable status and forcing loose change upon us. We’d prefer notes though, they’re much lighter!

Anyway, to avoid any confusion and put things on a more formal footing, we’ve made the whole thing official, registered with Children In Need and set-up an online sponsorship page to collect donations. So, if you’re reading this and feel moved to support us in supporting them, then follow this link and donate to your heart’s content. Who knows, we may even get to John O Groats and finish collecting before November’s Children in Need Appeal. Now that would be something.

Seventy is the new sixty

2007-08-13T22:00:00.000+01:00

Somewhere on this trip we went up a gear. Just a few weeks ago, forty kilometres was almost unthinkable. Some days we cycled just twenty five or so, then stopped to put up the tent, feeling we’d done quite well. But now, if I haven’t clocked up at least sixty kilometres on the milometer I feel like I’ve underachieved. It’s become addictive. And the fact that we have less than three weeks left to complete our mission, with getting on for another thousand kilometres to cycle fuels the addiction. So does the weather that’s forever threatening to break. At the beginning of the trip I thought I’d be happy to reach Edinburgh. But suddenly that would feel like failure.

Yet all around us there are people who make us feel like snails, and overshadow our best efforts. The other John O Groaters are the worst. Way back in Chepstow we met the Canelle family. Having cycled as a family for many years they were now doing a last fling trip with their two teenage sons. As our own boys trashed the café, theirs gracefully mounted their bikes and prepared to leave for Hereford. They were expecting to get there by the end of the afternoon. We were headed in the same direction but expected it would take us three days to get near the town. In the event, we gave up and went to Leominster instead. The mother of the Cannelle family seemed a little surprised to hear we had no idea where we were staying each night. But for me that’s one of the more fun aspects of the trip. Heavy planning is not my bag.

The Canelle family, Chepstow

In Church Stretton we met Julie and Colin, another couple of former John O Groaters, on bikes, out for a Sunday morning cycle. “We did Lands End to John O Groats last year,” they said, congratulating us on our progress so far.“I bet you did it quicker than us,” I joked. “Oh no, we did it really slowly,” they replied. “It took us seventeen days.”

Julie and Colin, out for a Sunday ride in Church Stretton

Today we broke the seventy kilometer barrier. It was a beautiful days riding, through the Lakes, past Derwentwater and Thirlmere, and through the busy Lakeland towns of Ambleside and Grasmere. But it was tiring and hilly and the Dunmail Raise gave way to countless smaller hills as we wound our way around to Carlisle. Evening arrived and the rain was pushing in when we arrived at a closed pub we had been aiming for. As we ate the last of our stale bread, and sat on the cold gravel, we discovered Carlisle was still seventeen kilometres away, which would take us to a total of seventy one kilometres. “Damn,” I thought, stretching knackered legs. Now seventy was the new sixty, and forty was a blast from the past. “Come on kids, just seventeen more for a new world record,” I said, with one eye on the milometer and the other on the road.

Monday 13th August

2007-08-13T21:13:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Ambleside to South Carlisle via Grasmere, Dunmail Raise, Thirlmere and lots of gates: a long, tiring and hilly 70.05km

Sunday 12th August

2007-08-12T19:55:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Burton in Kendal to Ambleside via Windermere, 41.05km

Home but only half way there

2007-08-11T18:23:00.000+01:00

We finally made it home. After four weeks, four punctures, a broken chain and 1040km. The place smelt awful; damp and mouldy. Having escaped the floods around Gloucester and Tewkesbury there was no escaping the damage from an overflowing cistern. So what I imagined as a day of rest, relaxation and recuperation became a day of clearing up. And after just a few hours cleaning mildew off walls, tables and chairs I was ready to get back on my bike.

We always knew it would be strange coming home half way through. We even considered avoiding the place, taking a different route so we wouldn’t need to stop off or call in, fearing we might fall into bed and never get up again. But in the event, while it’s been nice to see the old place, it’s just as nice to think we’ve another three weeks on the road before we have to come back and face the thousand jobs that always need doing in an old property like ours. Like getting the boiler to work so we can have that hot bath we’d been so looking forward to.

Anway, putting the lack of bath aside it was great to lie-in in our own beds, read the paper over breakfast, let the kids veg in front of videos, cook a meal with more than one pan, pop down the local tearoom and say hi to a few friends. And now it’s time to hit the road again. Nice as it is, we can’t afford to hang around if we’re to make John O Groats.

When we set off from Lands End, we figured reaching O Groats was possible in six to seven weeks if we could manage to ride 25 miles a day. I thought we’d know after a fortnight whether we could hack it, whether End to End was achievable in the time available. But while we’ve managed the distance and more, I still don’t know if we can top-out in time to get back in time for school. We’ve got three weeks and while it’s still looking feasible, the far North of Scotland still looks far, far away, beyond the challenges of distilleries, deep fried mars bars, the Scottish Highlands and swarms of hungry midges. The whole journey still has an air of challenge and uncertainty about it without which life would be so much more boring. And so with the bagpipes are calling, it's time to get back to what we hope will be the open road.

Friday 10th August

2007-08-10T22:01:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Preston to Burton in Kendal via Glasson Dock: 65.56km

The wobbles

2007-08-09T23:37:00.000+01:00

Careering along the narrow cycle track towards Southport, a couple of oncoming cyclists pulled politely onto the verge to let us pass, judging (probably wisely) the momentum of tandem and trailer to be not worth arguing with. Respecting their nervousness I slowed to a stop to ensure they didn't get caught in our slipstream , and to say thanks.

“I’m just learning to ride,” said Diane, “so still a bit wobbly.” She looked to be doing alright though, getting the hang of it on nice, flat traffic free track along the grassy dunes near Southport. “Haven’t ridden in nearly 40 years,” she continued, smiling more confidently now she had stopped, “since I was just a kid. Sounds amazing what you’re doing.”

But it’s not that amazing really. Most people could cycle twenty five miles a day if they wanted to. It’s not hard, you just need to want to. Age is no barrier, nor experience. You’re never too old to ride a bike or to learn to ride one. Craig, a cycle skills trainer I met recently, told me a wonderful story about a man of 77 who had never ridden a bike before but wanted to learn because his new partner loved cycling. “We spent an afternoon together,” Craig explained, “practising balance, starting, stopping. By the end, he cycled 100 yards on his own. He was so chuffed.” And rightly so. The world needs more cyclists and it’s great to see people like Diane getting back on their bikes, enjoying the sunshine, the fresh air, the exercise and the world around them.

“You could do something like this, a trip together” I said to Diane and her partner Derek, “if you wanted to.” I thought I detected a spark of interest, imagining them riding off somewhere further afield together. “Get yourself some panniers, take off somewhere for a week, a month or more.” Diane smiled, “I think I need more practice first, I had to take my basket off because it made me fall over.” A small but not insignificant matter that I hope she overcomes.

Thursday 9th August

2007-08-09T20:56:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Formby to Preston via Funland (Southport); 52.67km

Ferry cross the Mersey

2007-08-08T22:11:00.001+01:00

It’s a shock when it happens; the sudden loss of traction, feet spinning wildly, bike wobbling like jelly, the struggle to get feet out of toe clips before toppling over. I was 100 yards ahead at the time but there was no mistaking something was up behind me. “Stuart, Stuart. Stop. Stop. Stop,” Kirstie’s voice reached me quickly on the wind.

By the time I managed to turn and get back to them, Matthew was already off the bike retrieving an oily chain whipped clean off its sprockets into a small sand dune drifted across the prom. “Dad, the chain’s actually snapped,” he said incredulously, holding up the sand-clogged chain. The situation reflected the tension we were all feeling. Three long 60km days heading for Kirstie’s mums house and now half-hourly phone calls from her to establish our precise location and ETA. Dinner was nearly in the dog, wine was flowing and we were long overdue.

It was a beautiful place for a breakdown, having ridden up the woody disused rail-trails of the Wirral Country Park to West Kirkby, we were pushing against a coastal headwind along the breakwaters of Hoylake when the toolkit came out. Offshore, the windmills of Hoyle Bank windfarm made good use of the wind while onshore it blew oily baby wipes along the prom as I struggled to replace the chain-link sheared by the brute force of Kirstie and Matthew’s struggle with the elements.

I’d never noticed the beauty of the Wirral before; in my head it was all old docks, run down seaside resorts and aspiring residential areas. But I hadn’t ridden there before. And when you ride you see a place differently. And what started as a diversion to see Kirstie’s mum and avoid Warrington, Wigan and Widnes became a fine, if slightly longer and windier, route North towards John O Groats.

The following morning, chain replaced, dinner consumed, wine finished, we met Christine, Robbie and Jonathon outside the Mersey Ferry terminal at Seacombe. Sitting on deckchairs next to a clutch of bikes and trailers, tending a colourful box full of cycling helmets, they too were advocates for coastal rides around the Wirral.

Jonathon, Christine and Robbie of the Liverpool Bicycle Cooperative

“People don’t realise how flat and beautiful the cycling is over here, and how the place has changed,” said Christine. “We’re trying to promote it, renting out bikes for people coming across on the ferry.” But despite plenty of them coming across, school groups, family groups, tour groups, not many seemed to be taking up the option to hire. “It’s a bit slow today,” Christine admitted, “but we’re just here for six weeks to see how it goes. It’s a new thing for us. We’re a mobile cycle hire business, so if it doesn’t work out here, we’ll go somewhere else.”

Christine and the lads from the Liverpool Bicycle Cooperative kept an eye on our bikes while we took a break from touring Britain to take a tour of the Universe in the Mersey Spaceport. “We’ve had a lot of interest since you left,” she said when we returned, “a lot of people looking over your bikes, asking if they’re for hire.” There are some days when I think we’d gratefully rent them out but today wasn’t one.

With the wind gone, and the sun shining over the Liver Building, we took the Ferry across to Liverpool along with the throngs of other holidaymakers humming along to Ferry cross the Mersey piped over the ship’s tannoy.

Wednesday 8th August

2007-08-08T20:47:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Wallasey to Formby via Liverpool and Anthony Gormley's Another Place; 31.6km

Tuesday 7th August

2007-08-07T22:38:00.001+01:00

Is tiredness showing, after three 60km days, Wirral Country Park

Today's ride, Chester to Wallasey via Wirral Country Park, 61.05km

Monday 6th August

2007-08-06T21:24:00.001+01:00

Historic Chester, England's NorthWest at last

Today's ride, Wem to Chester via Whitchurch, 60.21km

Pedicab Phil

2007-08-05T23:00:00.000+01:00

As we enjoyed a relaxing ride along the beautiful riverside path through Shrewsbury, weaving in and out of locals and holidaymakers enjoying the Sunday sunshine, I almost crashed into a a bright blue T-shirt standing next to a large silvery-grey rickshaw.

Pedicab Phil was standing proudly to attention in the shade of an old oak tree, waiting for customers for his shiny, new cycle taxi. Now here was a job I could understand.

“How many people can you take?” I asked.
“Three,” he said, “maximum load, a third of a tonne.” I was impressed.

Two little girls came over to ask how much for a ride. “£1.50 each for a short ride along the river or for a bit more we can go into town.” The girls ran off back to mum.

“Are you a proper taxi?” I asked. It was a bit of a contentious question. “You know there’s over eight hundred of these in London and they don’t need a licence but here in Shrewsbury the council insist I’m licenced, like a Hackney carriage.”

We talked for a while, one horse to another, about hauling heavy loads and his fledgling human powered enterprise. “Business isn’t as good as I hoped,” he explained, “the cab cost three grand and what with licence fees and not so many customers…...” I felt for the guy and all his financial and physical investment.

“How much to John O’Groats then?” I asked as Matthew and Cameron got off the tandems and went over for a closer look. But he didn’t want to get into the long distance game.

Sunday 5th August

2007-08-05T20:49:00.001+01:00

Today's ride, Little Stretton to Wem via Shrewsbury, 61.5km

All we could hear was chugg, chugg, chugg...

2007-08-04T22:01:00.000+01:00

…chugg chugg as we climbed the steep hill that would put us in striking distance of our next City. We tried to guess which tractor was behind us. “Definitely a John Deere,” said Matthew confidently. “Could be a Massey Fergie though?” I saidtentatively. I had received a crash course in recognising tractors by their sound and colour the first week of our trip, on the Cornish roads, but for me it was still hit and miss while Matt got it right most of the time. The chugg chugg chugg continued for another kilometre as we pedalled onwards and upwards. Eventually, with our T shirts dripping with sweat, we pulled over at the top of the hill. Two massive John Deere’s pulling farm machinery chugged past, followed by a car, then another car, then another one. “One, two, three….”counted Stuart while the kids waved to the drivers in the convoy. “Seventy one, seventy two, seventy three…” the last one crawled by. Unusually, each had waved back enthusiastically at us as they passed. “Seventy three of them! Oh dear. I think they might be under the impression that we were holding them up and we stopped here to let them go ahead. They’re not going to be waving when they find themselves stuck behind the John Deere’s and still going at ten miles an hour for the rest of their trip into Ludlow.” I said, trying to be charitable, but unable to conceal a smile.

Fittingly, I had picked up a leaflet at breakfast in the our Youth Hostel about Ludlow, the city we were heading for. It is the UK’s first Cittaslow, or “Slow City”. The publicity describes going slow as the route to a new quality in life. It’s based on the ideals of the Slow Food Movement, but for us it was a legitimate reason to pedal like snails and hold up the traffic, something we had been doing for the last three weeks anyway. But as we headed into town and got our usual reception of tooting drivers, vans cutting us up and pedestrians jay walking in front of us, we weren’t sure that everyone else had been briefed about going slow.

We stopped for lunch by the castle and a family came over for a chat. They’d just returned from New Zealand after four years and were finding the UK difficult to handle. “So much traffic, so many people. Kiwi life is so much slower,” they said. It turned out they had just moved to the next village to us in Cumbria. We gave them our number. “Perhaps we should get together for a coffee after we get to John O Groats. No idea when that might be,” Stuart grinned. “We’re just pedalling slowly on.”

We got on the bikes and cycled away. “You should do it the other way round,” shouted a pedestrian reading our flag. “If you go from John O Groats to Lands End, it’s downhill all the way.”

Saturday 4th August

2007-08-04T21:14:00.001+01:00

Never too young to help, Little Stretton Campsite

Today's ride, Leominster to Little Stretton via Ludlow, 42km

Motivational madness

2007-08-03T22:00:00.000+01:00

After twenty consecutive days of cycling finding the motivation to ride is becoming an issue. And it’s not just a question of motivating myself but of getting the rest of the team on board, sometimes literally.

Early on I used mints; one for actually getting on the bike or into the buggy, then another after every 10km. It seemed a reasonable rate (although our dentist may disagree) and the scheme worked well until the relentless pestering of ‘when are we going to get the next mint’ and the distress of unsticking Hannah from her buggy at the end of the day made it unbearable to adminster.

Our best days are when there’s something interesting to stop at on the way, breaking up the ride, giving us something to look forward to before or chat about afterwards. The kids picked up some leaflets for Wookey Hole caves way back in Tiverton (and then Taunton, Bridgwater and Glastonbury) and the promise of a visit kept them riding for four days and occupied in the evenings with hours spent examining leaflets and debating which of the many attractions of ‘Wonkey Hole’ they would go on.

It’s quite a balancing act trying to keep us on a track towards John O Groats while picking a route that’s off busy main roads and has something of interest on the way. It’s as important to my sanity as it is to keeping the children engaged and pedalling. The cycling on its own isn’t enough.

On the map Symonds Yatt looked a like a great motivational diversion; a ride and picnic on the banks of the Wye, a river crossing on an ancient hand-ferry, ice-creams and drinks at an old Inn and some playtime in canoes on the river. All for just an extra 10km on the way to Hereford.
“Is the ferry running?” I asked a woman on the hilly cul-de-sac leading to Symonds Yat West. “Oh yes,” she replied, “It’s a lovely way to cross, quite reliable, kids love it.”

“Is this the right way to the ferry?” I asked a second woman after struggling up another 100m of unexpected climb. “Oh yes, go down the hill now and wait opposite the Saracens Hotel. When the barman sees you he’ll come across the river and get you.”

Ten minutes later at the bottom of the hill we bumped bikes and trailers down a dozen slippy steps to wait for the ferryman on the muddy bank. After a while a young man came down to the riverside, “Sorry, no ferry today,” he shouted across the river, then turned and disappeared back into the pub. Kirstie looked at me blackly, Hannah slipped on the mud and slid towards the Wye and the boys just looked at me as if to say, ‘What about our ice creams?’ Turns out the ferry cable snapped in the recent floods forcing retreat insteat of a treat.

Like the mints the Symonds Yat Escapade ended up yielding more grief than progress and I thought I’d learned my lesson when I planned today’s ride. I checked carefully on the internet that Leominster had two of the ultimate treats for children; a swimming pool and a McDonalds. I saved details of them on my phone and showed everyone the delights at the end of our 30km ride. I had total buy-in, full-on pedal power and we stormed along at record speed.

The swimming pool was still open when we arrived, with thirty minutes of public swimming left, thankfully just enough for a quick dip. Afterwards, over tea in the poolside café I looked up the address for McDonalds on my phone and asked the waitress how to get there. “There’s no Commercial Street in Leominster,” she said, “we’re just a little town near Wales.” The boys fell silent. “So where is the McDonalds then?” The waitress laughed kindly, “Nearest one’s back in Hereford.” Lips began to quiver. “There’s a fish and chip shop here though.” No-one looked impressed. I checked my phone again…. “but look here it says…” and then noticed the letters MA after Leominster. I’d looked up Leominster, Massachussets, USA.

I tried explaining my mistake but the boys didn’t get the joke while the staff didn’t seem to get the significance of a McD visit to the boys, identifying us as fast food junkies rather than toy impoverished long distance cyclists. “There’s a kebab shop you could try,” suggested the receptionist. “And a burger bar in town,” said the café manager. “Or what about that fast food pizza place,” said the waitress. I felt sick at the prospect. It was time to leave, but now no-one wanted to go anywhere.

“I could drive you to the one in Hereford,” offered the café manager in a final attempt to wipe the misery of the boys faces and out of her cafe. If it hadn’t meant going backwards I might have taken her up on it.

We eventually got out on the promise of a playground; an easy promise to make and deliver on. Oh and two handwritten IOU’s promising a Happy Meal with Ronald at the next available restaurant. Well, it’s a small price to pay for all that pedalling. And who knows there might not be one until Glasgow.

Friday 3rd August

2007-08-03T17:26:00.001+01:00

A moment's reflection in the Wye Valley

Today's ride, Mordiford to Leominster, 29.74km

Thursday 2nd August

2007-08-02T21:36:00.000+01:00

"What no ferry?" Scene of the Symonds Yat Ferry Debacle

Today's ride; Monmouth to South of Hereford via Symonds Yat, 41.74km

Wednesday 1st August

2007-08-01T20:34:00.001+01:00

Welcome to Wales, Chepstow Castle

Today's ride; Severn Bridge to Monmouth via Chepstow and Tintern Abbey, 35.64km

Drifter

2007-07-31T23:50:00.000+01:00

We are starting to feel like Mr and Mrs Noah, travelling towards the flooded lands, two by two. Tandems, children, trailers, toy puppies, the only thing not duplicated is the baby; we have no plans to do that on this trip. As we bomb through Bristol, with its historic harbour and welcome hotel facilities, we consult the map, wondering if the waterlogged Midlands have dried out enough to accommodate our travelling circus. Can we get through Gloucester without our tent sinking?. Will our buggies grind to a halt in a puddle of Tewksbury? While we stop under the Severn Bridge to picnic and discuss it, the kids make a collage on the sand from bits of sea glass and driftwood. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man pedalling along with what looks like a large portion of a tree slung across his basket and handlebars. I half expect him to take off and soar over the Severn, like the child from ET. He dissapears towards a row of houses while we lay out our maps on the wide cycle path.

“How do you get on with your trailer?” The man is back, with his basket now empty. “Everyone’s been telling me to get one for years” he says, grinning through a rack of corrogated teeth, “but I’d never get it through all these gates.” We swap horror stories of getting the bikes stuck in some of the worst of the barriers, designed to keep out motorbikes, but unintentionally bringing a halt to our HGV style bikes time and time again. Jim explains he negotiates the gates each evening, riding the sea front picking up driftwood to heat his living room, making himsef and his wife self sufficient for fuel. “In the winter we move into the living room, make a right good fire, and sleep there,” he tells me. “It’s our only way of keeping ourselves warm.”

On his daily round he collects each piece of wood individually, throws it across his handle bars, then takes it home to dry out. Much of the wood he stores away for winter, although he collects it all year around. But over the last week or two he’s gone into overdrive. The floods in Gloucester have washed down so much driftwood that he’s concerned there’ll be nothing left to pick up in the autumn. We chat about self sufficiency and being green, and he shakes his head. “Agh, while there’s just a few eccentrics like me combing the beach there’s enough wood to go around. But if everyone was doing it I’d be finished. Ive been doing this for years and it’s funny how it’s come around again. You know, I modelled myself on the old girls from Liverpool after the war, scrabbling around on bombsites, picking up and burning the wood to keep themselves from freezing. ” He shows us his bike, a single geared 1950’s classic with a red plastic crate that looks like its been borrowed from the milkman tied on the front with string. “What do you think of this then?” Jim asks. He poses for a picture, “I’ll cover up me teeth; not so photogenic eh?” then he mounts his bike to get on his way. “Enjoy yourselves. You’ve picked a good evening for it. ” he says, peering out at the calm waters towards Wales. “This mighty Severn can kick up real nasty,” he shouts, moving off towards the sea. “ We fold up the maps, and decide for now to head for Wales. The rest we can work out on the road.

Tuesday 31st July

2007-07-31T20:40:00.000+01:00

End of the day beyond the Severn Crossing

Today's ride; Bristol to Severn Bridge via Avon Gorge, 36km

I am the Anti-Carist

2007-07-30T23:48:00.000+01:00

“Why did that car just throw coffee at us?” asked Matthew as we headed out of Bridgewater. I wiped coffee off my face and jersey as we crunched over the now empty styrene coffee cup lobbed from the window of a Ford Fiesta boom-box whose occupants stuck fingers up at us out the window as they sped off down the road.

How do you explain that to a six year old? If I’d had the energy to sprint and catch the finger sticking youths, I think I’d have found a new use for my penknife, slicing tyres and scratching go faster stripes. But it wouldn’t have set a very good example so I tried to make light of it. “Maybe they thought we were thirsty?” But no-one really got the joke.

I pedalled on fuming to myself. Not just at stupid yobs who think it’s a laugh to chuck coffee at cyclists but at all the cars, lorries, campervans and caravans that have cut us up, stare-eyed us, beeped at us or joked ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ or ‘John O Groats, you’ve got a long way to go then’ as they passed us on the hills. I mean it’s not like we’re looking for trouble and for the most part we’ve had none but the longer I ride for the more Anti-Carist I become.

Struggling up to Priddy in the Mendip hills a car crawled slowly past, the driver slowing down while passengers gawped stalk eyed at us, fat noses smeared against prison windows. There comes a point with a loaded tandem and trailer at which the reverse pull of gravity defies all attempts at riding uphill. As I reached that critical point and got off to push up the impossible gradient, the car pulled into a layby just ahead. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘perhaps they’ll help.’ But no, they preferred to watch as we sweated and struggled up the hill. Almost without fail, pedestrians who have passed us in this kind of predicament have offered helped. On our way into Bristol, four drug-eyed teenagers even put their spliffs out to lend a hand, but motorists? No; they seem prefer to watch the show from the safety of their tin coccoon.

Traffic is not only choking me up but it’s choking this country. South of Bristol, we stopped briefly in the pretty village of Chew Magna, mysteriously (and incorrectly) associated in my mind with being Britain’s first Carbon Neutral community. The volume of cars speeding down single track lanes to get quickly to the village traffic jam soon put me right. Parked cars, vans and traffic queues made it hard to negotiate our way through the village. It’s sad to see once quiet rural environments strangled like this.

As a cyclist, it’s hard not to feel like a second class citizen. For sure we’re given cycle routes and facilities but they never match those given over to the car. In the Tesco car park in Taunton we struggled to find a place to park our tandems to do the weekly shop. Give them their due there was a signposted cycle path, and the place was accessible from a cycle track but there were only spaces for twenty ‘ordinary’ cycles while the car park must have had spaces for five hundred plus cars. Once we’d managed to park our bikes, they were obviously something of an inconvenience to those trying to get their trolleys back to their cars.

We’ve given over too much of our country to the car. Just look at the swathes of roads, eating into the countryside with each improvement and widening scheme, the acres and acres of car parks in towns, cities and shopping centres and all so we can be free to travel whereever we want whenever we want. Does no-one see the price of this freedom? We followed the cycle path on the M5 road bridge across the River Avon, cycling just yards from the deafening noise of thousands and thousands of vehicles going nowhere on important business, while we tried to pick our way along a cycle route littered with shards of broken indicators, glass, straps and debris from traffic accidents. That’s the price we pay for our freedom.

The people that do stop and talk to us ask almost us everyday, “Are you enjoying yourselves?” Well despite all this, we certainly are. Why would we bother if we didn’t? The freedom of the bike is an intoxicating thing. And I’ll enjoy it even more now I’ve got all that off my chest.

Monday 30th July

2007-07-30T23:16:00.000+01:00

Cycling through the urban splash of Bristol

Today's ride: Priddy to Bristol via Mendip Hills, 40.34km

Sunday 29th July

2007-07-29T22:36:00.000+01:00

Outside the awe inspiring Well's cathedral

Today's ride: Glastonbury to Priddy via Wells and Wookey Hole, 24.4km

Glastonbury Camping

2007-07-28T21:52:00.001+01:00

Glastonbury: Muddy and rainy of course. Hours of fun in the family tent.

Saturday 28th July

2007-07-28T21:45:00.001+01:00

How far to Glastonbury Dad?

Today's ride: Bridgewater to Glastonbury via Peat Moors Centre, 24km

Friday 27th July

2007-07-27T22:45:00.001+01:00

A muddy ride canalside, Taunton and Bridgwater Canal

Today's ride: Wellington to Bridgewater, 52km

An alternative Britain

2007-07-26T22:00:00.000+01:00

Twelve days in and we’ve almost reached Taunton, having clocked some 400km. But something doesn’t add up; my road atlas tells me Taunton is only 250km from Lands End. So we’ve been clocking up the miles but going in the wrong direction. I put it down to software failure. I programmed all our route options into our laptop before we left home only to discover on day two of the ride that the software had become irretrievably corrupted. So we resorted to our more traditional route planning techniques, poring for hours over a library of OS maps then deciding it was easiest to follow the Sustrans National Cycle Network (NCN), after all someone went to a lot of trouble to plan those routes just for cyclists.

We were doorstopped by Emily, a Sustrans ‘fundraiser’ on the Tarka Trail just outside Barnstaple. “Do you use the Sustrans network?” she asked with an engaging smile. I explained we were using it to get to John O Groats before realising I’d committed myself to becoming a financial supporter of Sustrans as well as a network user. Not that I mind; it’s a good cause and a great network. Just a shame it’s left to a charity to develop and promote sustainable transport instead of it being at the heart of government policy. At the very least, you’d think the government might fund them properly and save them begging for donations on cycle routes.

Anyway, Emily was very pleased to get me signed up as her first donor of the day and didn’t seem to mind waiting six weeks to contact us to get our bank details for the direct debit mandate. “John O Groats eh?” she said dreamily as she got me to sign her form, “Where’s that then?” She had as much idea of the way to go as we did.

I’ve developed a love hate relationship with NCN3, the Sustrans cycle route which runs from Lands End to Bristol. Riding sections of it on the Camel and Tarka Trails I can imagine another England, where bikes, trikes and tandems rule the road and young and old alike abandon their cars to pedal to school, work and the shops and save the planet. The numbers and diversity of people using these sections of the network is testament to the potential there is for getting people riding on safe, flat, traffic free trails.

But it’s not all so free and easy. Away from these panflat rail trails, while the route follows beautiful, quiet country lanes, it’s the cars that get the flatter routes and the bikes that get the hills. Don’t get me wrong, the scenery and routes are outstanding, but you get much more of a workout than the cars do. And then there’s the gates and barriers; strategically placed to stop cars, scooters and motorbikes using some of the traffic free sections of trail. Trouble is they stop us dead too. You can just about get a bike through the various combinations of offset gates, zig-zagging metal latticework and decorative concrete bollard gardens but there’s no accommodating a tandem and trailer. It’s infuriating, barring access to the very thing that we value the most; safe, quiet traffic free trails. There must be a more elegant solution.

While Britain’s highways are maintained by an army of paid contractors, the Sustrans network is looked after by volunteer Rangers. “I ride the route once a month, checking signage, looking for hazards like fallen trees, reporting problems and trying to keep the route in good order,” explained Ivor Annetts, a volunteer Ranger we met in the Riverbank Restauarant in Tiverton. He was taking coffee and struggling with his Guardian Kakoru when the restauant owner introduced us, hinting we should get some route advice from him. “I was very excited when I heard the route was coming this way,” explained Ivor, a reaction pretty typical amongst those of us who like to use our bikes to get around, “so when I saw a meeting about it advertised, I went along and volunteered to help…… on a flat stretch.” His wishes were granted three years ago when he became Ranger for NCN3 between Tiverton and Taunton, a section including fine, flat, traffic free trails along the great old industrial waterways of the Great Western and Bridgwater and Taunton Canals. These masterpieces of Victorian engineering were part of a bold privately financed vision to create waterway links between the Bristol and English channels, to avoid the need for treacherous journeys around Lands End and the Cornish Coast. It’s a vision which resonates with that of Sustrans, who continue to work tirelessly to create a safe cycle network around the treacherous traffic of 21st century Britain. Hopefully, with the right investment, perseverance and support form government, supporters and volunteers, Sustrans will have more success then the waterway companies who were forced to give up on their vision when the railways made the whole venture unsustainable.

As I talked with Ivor, he chuckled as revealed he was up for a Sustrans award, “I’m not sure what it’s for, either Ranger of the Year or Best Signed Route.” I throttled back my zig-zagged gate fury, grateful for the efforts of people like him and Emily whose efforts as volunteers are helping create a sustainable alternative to our congested roads. OK so it might be a rough, hilly, gated network that’s difficult at times for tandems and trailers, but it is a network that takes you through a different, quieter, greener, less congested Britain.

Thursday 26th July

2007-07-26T01:09:00.000+01:00

Today's ride: Tiverton to Wellington via Grand Western Canal, 21.6km

Wednesday 25th July

2007-07-25T20:23:00.000+01:00

A very wet ride across Exmoor

Today's ride: Somewhere on Exmoor to Tiverton via Dulverton, 51.3km

Tuesday 24th July

2007-07-24T20:22:00.000+01:00

Relaxing in Barnstaple at end of Tarka Trail

Today's ride: Bideford to Exmoor via Tarka Trail to Barnstaple, 41.88km

Monday 23rd July

2007-07-23T21:32:00.000+01:00

The Gnome Reserve

Today's ride: Tamar Lakes to Bideford via Gnome Reserve, 31.7km

Sunday 22nd July

2007-07-22T21:30:00.000+01:00

Fishing on the Bude Canal

Today's ride: Bude to Tamar Lakes, 17.79km

Time for a shower

2007-07-21T19:56:00.000+01:00

Boscastle is famous for the floods of 94. Today it appeared to be the only place in Britain that wasn’t flooded. ‘TWO MONTHS OF RAIN IN TWO DAYS’ said the headline in the Daily Express as we pushed on through the one pocket of sunshine in the UK. The radio reported people stranded on the M5 all night, with Gloucestershire and Worcester both flooded. “It’s bedlam up and down the country,” said the owner of an empty campsite on what should have been one of the busiest days of the year.” We dipped down into Boscastle, and wandered through the picturesque streets squeezed between hillsides leading down to ancient harbour. In the tourist office we watched a stream of cars being constantly washed away on a DVD loop, mirroring last night’s TV.

As we paused to refuel on our final Cornish pasties before making for Devon the sun went behind a cloud and the tourists began running for their cars. We togged up in waterproofs and prepared for a two hundred metre climb out of the tourist honeypot. A couple wandered over to chat and introduced themselves as long distance cycle tourers, Julia and Gary. Amongst other travels they had spent six and a half years circumnavigating the globe, although they only set out for a year initially. “Come and camp in our garden,” said Julia. “We live on the route. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night. You arrive. Just pitch up and have a shower. People offered us so much hospitality on our adventure that we’d like to give something back in return.” They sped off in their Land Rover hooting and waving as we mounted our bikes.

Five hours later, wet, bedraggled and exhausted we cycled up to the address they had given us in Bude. But no one was at home. It was late, the hotels and B and B’s would be full and we had passed the only campsite two miles up the road. We had no other option.“Let’s hope it’s the right address,” said Stuart, laying the tent out onto the small patch of grass, taking up every inch. We left the tent to grab something to eat, crossing our fingers that we wouldn’t later be evicted from the garden by an angry home owner that didn’t remotely resemble the people we had met earlier in the day. As we walked into town a friend rang to ask about our progress. “You’ve camped in someone’s garden but you aren’t completely sure it’s the right one?” she said incredulously. “You guys are unbelievable.”

When we returned to our tent there was a light on in the house. “ You made it! Come in for coffee and meet everyone. Do have a shower too,” said Gary. He showed us into the living room, past bookcases of travel guides, galleries of photos from Australasia, South America and Europe and lovingly maintained old touring bikes hung like picture frames on the walls. We had certainly come to the right house and talked biking and adventuring over coffee with Gary, Julia and other friends and family staying with them. And as we told our story and they all revealed a little of theirs we discovered ourselves to be in the company of not just circumnavigating cyclists but Olympic standard canoe paddlers and keen scuba divers.

“Will you be touring again after your round the world trip ,” I asked Julia as we made coffee. “Oh we’ve done loads since then and plan to do more,” she replied. “Gary suggested we tour Ireland next year. But I reckoned that might be a bit boring so I changed one letter. I think Iceland will be fun. I find the shower a great place for planning.” At the third mention of a shower I gave in. They were obviously finding us a little ripe. But as I entered the bathroom the first thing I noticed was the shower curtain, a complete map of the world; it wasn’t a hint about our cleanliness after all. As I shampoed my hair I listened to the kids playing in the tent, and traced our journey so far on the map of the UK and wondered about the possibilities for circumnavigating the rest of the shower curtain with a family of five.

Saturday 21st July

2007-07-21T19:00:00.000+01:00

Twilight at Bude Light

Today's ride: Camelford to Bude via Camel Trail, 32.4km

Friday 20th July

2007-07-20T21:28:00.000+01:00

Crossing Bodmin Moor

Today's ride: Bodmin to Camelford, 27.14km

The Big Push

2007-07-19T22:46:00.000+01:00

Someone told us the Camel Trail was like the M25 for bikes, jammed with families crawling along bumper to bumper. But by the time we reached Padstow the bike hire shops were closing and families were heading home for dinner. We had the trail to ourselves as the sun made for its bed beyond the Camel estuary.

It was eight in the evening, and we still had another eight miles of trail to ride to reach Bodmin. We stopped in Wadebridge to give the kids a run-around when during a high level sit-down protest about moving on, Cameron tumbled down a slide and cracked his knee on the metal steps. A large red bump was quickly treated with a packet of frozen mixed veg from the nearby Londis, strapped to his knee with a bungee to reduce pain and swelling. And so the rest of us pedalled on while Cameron rested his kneee and defrosted our dinner with his feet up on the stokers bars of his tandem.

All pedalling stopped when we reached the outskirts of Bodmin and discovered our third puncture in three days. And we’d failed to notice that the only campsite in the area was a three miles detour into town, then up a steep hill with a hundred metre climb. We began to push the bikes up the hill, exhausted, and were soon overtaken by a couple with a dog. I watched them struggle with their consciences for a few minutes before the man gave in first. “I can’t watch you struggle up that hill,” he told me, stationing himself behind my buggy and giving it a helpful shove. “It helps you know,” he motioned to his wife and her conscience gave way too, giving Cameron a helping hand pushing Stuart and the baggage trailer up the hill, leaving the dog to potter along behind.

Our helpers introduced themselves as Bob and Jayne from Norfolk. “We don’t do hills,” said Bob as we puffed along, “in fact we haven’t seen one of these for years.” Bob and Jayne were holidaying at the same campsite and pushed and chatted with us all the way up the hill. “We’ve got bikes with us you know,” said Jayne as we reached the top, “but I think after this they’ll be staying in the car.” But I think our description of our beautiful sunset ride along the Camel Trail may have persuaded them to give it a go.

Bob and Jayne’s kindness extended beyond the hill. As darkness fell and we busied ourselves setting-up camp and cooking dinner, they appeared once more in a second umprompted act of human kindness. “I reckon you guys deserve this,” they said handing over two ice cold Canadian beers. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” I mumbled, “Errr do you want to stay for dinner?“ They glanced quickly down at the empty packet of mixed veg by the stove. “No thanks, we’ve already eaten.”

Thursday 19th July

2007-07-19T21:26:00.000+01:00

Padstow Harbour, start of the Camel Trail

Today's ride: St Mawgan to Bodmin, 41.15km

Wednesday 18th July

2007-07-18T21:25:00.000+01:00

Evening ride, Coast road to Padstow

Today's ride: Truro to St Mawgan, 32.65km

Just like the Presleys from Bovey Tracey

2007-07-18T20:09:00.000+01:00

“You’re just like the Presley’s. They cycle everywhere from Bovey Tracey,” says Anne, our landlady for the night, as we begin the long walk from the pretty guest house with flowers climbing up the wall, to the ‘annexe’ a quarter of a mile away that looks like a DHSS hostel. Securing the room had required some negotiation with the lady in the bling encrusted spectacles dressed in a yellow two piece. She had been reluctant to give us permission to take over a family room for the night due to the fact there were ‘shopfitters’ upstairs. When we established that she didn’t mean shoplifters and reassured her I had no problem with shopfitters we agreed a deal. “They’re actually no trouble, ” she whispers. “They’ve been with me for six months. But don’t leave your bikes outside, too dangerous!” She deposits me in a gloomy hallway in front of a payphone and hands over a key. “I have to give my shopfitters breakfast first in the morning. So you can’t have breakfast until a quarter to nine. And you have to ring me first. When I answer the phone I need you to ask “Are you ready for us?” And I will say yes or no. Can you remember that?” Anne enquires without taking a breath. I tell her I’ll be sure to handle the situation appropriately. “Here, have a practise,” she says, handing me the receiver. When she is satisfied I have understood the procedure she nods approvingly and gives me the key. “The Presley’s are mad too,” she sighs as she bustles down the hall back to her flower clad house. The kids are hungry so we pile out into the streets of Truro in search of food, heading for the cathedral, led by the sound of the bells.

In the morning we regret spending our money on an evening meal as breakfast is a production. About fifty cereal boxes line the windowsill, and Anne, still dressed in yellow, comes in to take our order while welcoming three German Tourists. They don’t speak English, but that doesn’t put our host off, as she tries to introduce us, trying out a few different words for trailers. The Germans don’t understand the words ‘pod’ or ‘bucket seat.’ When she gets nowhere she askes them if they enjoyed their night on the town. “An y girls?” she asks, as they look at her blankly. “FEMALES,” she shouts, miming an hourglass figure. More blank looks and she gives up. “Full english,” she says, ignoring the German’s attempts to point out they just want toast. “Where are you off to today?” she turns her attention to us. We tell her Camborne, and she nods. “The Presley’s from Bovey Tracey went to Dorset by bike once,”she cries, commanding someone in the kitchen to get on with the breakfasts.

Ten minutes later and two full English breakfasts come to the next table in the hands of her employee, then a third follows, “For the cyclist” says the waitress, plonking a massive mound of bacon, sausages, eggs, hash browns and beans in front of the German who is still miming toast being spread with butter. A couple of minutes later and Anne appears at the Germans table and snatches the plate while the guest’s fork is in mid air. “I said for the cyclist. You’re not cycling to Camborne today are you?” The Germans catch on and announce they are off to Stonehenge. “You need a good breakfast,” she announces to Stuart.

His breakfast appears, piled onto his plate. The German whose breakfast was stolen looks over and make a noise into his serviette. “What is he saying about my beans?” says Anne, hands on yellow hips. “What are you saying about my beans? They’re good beans, from Sainsbury’s.” She whips away his plate and his toast and turns to us. “Good luck with your cycling. But don’t go on the main roads, will you? The Presley’s do and I worry so. It’s such a long road to Bovey Tracey.” “It’s even longer to John O Groats,” says Stuart. “Not after one of my breakfasts,” says Anne with a wink as she waddles out of the breakfast room with the German guest’s toast.

We set out through Truro town centre, keeping one eye out for the Presley’s of Bovey Tracey, the first cycle heroes of the trip.

Tramways

2007-07-17T23:40:00.000+01:00

Lost for the third time in a day, we were delighted to stumble across a cyclist’s oasis in the midst of disused Cornish mining trails. If we’d come six weeks earlier we wouldn’t have been so lucky. Owner Liz Hart took over the Tramway Café and Cycle Hire Centre at the end of June and has done a fine job regenerating the place. Mind you she knows the business, having spent twenty two years running the cycle shop in Scorrier.

As we sat on the balcony eating ice creams, Liz and centre manager Martin Beck attended to two cycle damsels in distress who had worn through a tyre on a ‘cycle pootle’ around Cornish Villages. While Rose from the café served the damsels jacket potatoes, Martin organised a van to whisk them away to find a new tyre, leaving apprenctice Sam to multi-task, manning the shop and tuning up the hire fleet.

As we left the last of the day trippers were returning their bikes for Sam to clean. As he worked off the muck with a brush, perhaps he was looking forward to finishing up and enjoying the freedom of his own ride home.

Tuesday 17th July

2007-07-17T21:24:00.000+01:00

Cornish Backroads

Today's ride: Redruth to Truro, 21.65km

Pedal Powered Pensioner

2007-07-16T23:35:00.000+01:00

Jean, from Camborne, has been cycling for a lifetime, well 57 years to be precise. She started as a teenager, at sweet 17 and at seventy four still uses her bicycle to get around town, equipped with two pannier shopping bags and just three gears. She’s had her current model for twenty two years and says it’s a bit tough on the hills. While she doesn’t mind doing hills, she doesn’t do punctures and was just dropping it off for repair at the local bike shop. “That’s my neighbour,” she said, pointing to a less fit man down the street, “he could definitely get out more on his bike.”

That’s the spirit Jean. I hope I’m still riding at seventy four.

Monday 16th July

2007-07-16T21:21:00.000+01:00

Let the pushing begin

Today's ride: Marazion to Redruth, 29.8km

Sunday 15th July

2007-07-15T21:18:00.000+01:00

St Michael's Mount

Today's Ride: From Lands End to Marazion, 26.63km

Ready, steady, ??

2007-07-11T22:07:00.001+01:00

It's just two days before we're due to leave and we're without a plan more detailed than wanting to ride from one end of the country to the other, from Lands End to John O Groats.

We've done the maths; it's about 1000 miles and we've got six weeks before the kids need to be back at school. That's twenty five miles per day. Every day. For six weeks. It doesn't sound an unachievable daily distance, but I do wonder if we've got the stamina to do it day in day out, come rain or come shine, for that length of time, with three children, two tandems, two trailers, and hauling all our camping, cooking and clothing gear.

Kirstie and I have talked it over and over and over, and still reckon there's a chance we could do it, if everything goes to plan.... which would be great if we actually had a plan. Still it all adds to the sense of adventure. I mean you can't really have an adventure if you know exactly what's going to happen, can you?

But the thing which fires me up most about the trip though is not the classic route, the cycling or the challenge but the boy's enthusiasm and excitement. They're really into the idea of Lands End to John O'Groats although I expect they have no idea what it actually means, except some kind of really big, long family adventure. And what could be better than that?

Virtually inspired

2007-06-08T17:45:00.000+01:00

Having rejected the glossy promises of family adventure tour operators in favour of touring at home, I got jittery about us getting bored just cycling in the UK. Somehow the journey alone wasn't enough; it needed something more, in case riding end to end with three kids didn't hold our interest. So I turned to the net for inspiration.

Friday afternoon and amongst the spam in my mailbox was the CTC's weekly newsnet, proudly announcing the launch of the CTC CycleHero climate change campaign. Take a look at it here.

It's a simple message; use your bike more and you can help save the planet. It's simple, practical, do-able, planet saving and something we can all relate to. And, according to the website, it's sexy too. In which case who wouldn't want to be a cycle hero? Or meet one?

So that's the six week holidays planned; we're going to cycle Lands End to John O Groats in search of everyday cycle heros. Ordinary people doing their bit to save the planet by bike. That should spice things up a bit.

Now then I wonder which way we should go?

We're all going on a summer holiday...

2007-06-01T23:00:00.000+01:00

As the summer holidays loom, tea time time talk has inevitably turned to 'Where shall we go?' and 'What shall we do?' Just the prospect of spending six weeks at home while the kids run riot is already driving me crazy so that's out of the question. We've got to go somewhere and got to do something, but what?

How about that wilderness trip of a lifetime canoeing down the Yukon? Or a fortnight on safari in Africa? What about biking in Cambodia and Vietnam? Or trekking in China or Nepal? The travel supplements, family adventure brochures and guide books are full of ideas and inspiration. But just thinking of flying five of us to an exotic destination for a hedonistic family adventure doesn't seem very responsible any more. So it's just as well we can't afford it financially as well as environmentally; makes my unfulfilled dreams a little easier to live with.

And so thoughts turned to holidaying at home, which has not been so immediately full of inspiration. After arguing a lot about the best place to go we agreed to compromise and make our destination a journey. So having established that we couldn't go somewhere and that going nowhere was not an option, it was obvious we had to go everywhere. And so emerged a somewhat absurd plan to take on a classic road trip, from one end of the country to the other; from Lands End to John O Groats.

Only thing was we couldn't possibly do it by car; never mind environmentally, just mentally, cooped up in a tin-box day after day, guzzling fuel, enduring the great British summer and accompaniment of traffic jams. No, there's only two green ways to do Lands End to John O Groats - by foot or by bike. And with just six weeks of holiday and three kids, one is clearly impossible and the other..... Well, let's just say we're planning to find out.