More Horrid than Henry

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

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

Friday 17th August

Today's ride, to Edinburgh, 74.7km

Turning points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home but only half way there

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

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

The wobbles

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

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

Ferry cross the Mersey

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

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

Tuesday 7th August

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

Historic Chester, England's NorthWest at last

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