Reg has warned me that this will be a
really difficult day, harder than yesterday; and tomorrow will be
very hilly too, but not as bad as today.
“Will there be many arrow hills?”
I ask apprehensively.
“I don't know, but there will be
long hills.”
Reg's old college
friend Howard, who lives near Truro, is riding with us for a couple
of hours today. He's coming to meet us at our farmhouse B&B. He
takes one look at the virtually perpendicular half-a-mile driveway to
the farm and sends me a text (that's because my phone is usually on,
and Reg's is always off – unless he's using it as a sat nav).
TEXT: “I'm
here. I'll meet you at the bottom of the driveway.”
Unfortunately, my
phone is on silent. After waiting a while, Howard decides to brave
the journey to the farmhouse. Sorry, Howard. At least you have a
lovely light bike with no luggage.
We are really
pleased to see Howard. I comment on the alien-looking device on top
of his helmet.
“I know lots of cyclists are using
helmet cameras,” I comment.
Probably a really good idea on Cornwall's narrow roads, judging by
the number of times we've already been cut up by SUV's (4x4's) in a
hurry.
Finally we are off.
There are hills I can ride up, hills I can make it half-way and then
have to walk, and one or two hills where I just have to walk up.
The men go at my pace, waiting for me at the top of the hills.
Occasionally, because the road is so narrow, I have to get off my
bike on a hill when I'm climbing quite nicely, because a car is
passing, and even if the cars stops, it's too narrow for me to ride
past.
Again we ride
through stunning countryside, bedecked with pink campions, late
bluebells, white cow parsley and yellow buttercups. We pass through
villages but generally there is no shop and certainly no cafe. Reg
knows that what enables me to keep going is my morning coffee stop.
Howard needs to wend his way homeward shortly, so we stop to say our
good byes. We ask a man walking his dog if there's anywhere we can
buy coffee; he tells us you can get a Nescafe from the village shop.
So it won't be cappuccino, or green tea for Reg, but it will be a
cuppa.
The man in the shop
is lovely and offers me fresh milk with my coffee rather than the
powdered stuff from the machine. Also we're able to buy sandwiches,
snacks, and fruit. As it happens we don't see another shop all day
so thank goodness we stopped here! We had hoped for pub grub at
lunchtime, again to save us venturing out again when we arrive at
Camelford tonight, but when we get to 2.15 and still no pub, we find
a grassy patch by the roadside, collapse gratefully, and eat our
lunch. (Ironically, a little further on when we start on the Camel
Trail, there is a pub with all-day food.)
It's a picturesque
little spot, in a tiny, sleepy village called Retire. As we relax on
the grass, a friendly farmer walks by followed by a bevy of baa-ing
sheep, which are being encouraged along at the rear by a young man in
a sort of mini tractor. Both the farmer and the young man have that
cheerful aura about them, which makes you think that farming is in
their blood.
“How far are you going?” the
farmer
shouts, without stopping.
“John
O'Groats!” I
shout back.
“Not
today I hope!” he
quips.
Soon after we leave our lunch spot, we come to the Camel Trail, a
long stretch of cycle/walkway converted from an old railway line. We
cycle along this for a short while & arrive at the pub I
mentioned. We'd love a cold drink and need to refill our water
bottles so wend our way with our bikes up the side of the track for a
short break before continuing our journey.
At this point I am absolutely exhausted from all our hill-climbing
today, and I'm guessing that Reg is fairly tired too. It's a relief
to be cycling on the flat for a good few miles. The river Camel is
gurgling below us, and it's cool in the shade of the trees. The path
inclines slightly but not noticably along the route. The vegetation
is lush and beautiful, but by this time I'm just forcing myself to
keep going, just keep going. So this is what it's like for those
people who do these endurance sports.... ha ha..
Reg has warned me that after the Camel Trail we have a long, long
very-steep-at-times climb up to & over Bodmin Moor.
It's early evening as we make our way up to and over the moor.
There's no traffic up here, and no people, except a young woman on a
horse.
“It's
a killer, this hill, isn't it?” says
the horse rider conspiratorially.
The moor really does have it's own wild beauty. There are sheep with
their well-grown lambs; they stand together in the middle of the road
looking at you, then skit and scramble away at the last minute;
horses, rib-skinny and not well looked after, and Shetland cattle
with long curled horns, which are apparently very docile creatures.
We arrive at our B&B at 7.30 pm. After checking in and dropping
off our bags, we have to cycle a few minutes to the nearest pub
(downhill there, uphill coming back). I'm almost too tired to eat,
but the landlady makes us laugh.
“What would
you like to drink?”
“Orange
and passion fruit J2O with ice
please,” I reply.
“I've got a
lovely refreshing fruit drink if you'd rather try that? I'm sure
you'd like it.”
Look, don't mess with me, I've just cycled a very hilly 40 miles.
“I'll have
the J2O please.”
I've never had a landlady try to discourage me from having a J2O
before. She is a lovely lady though and her pub is packed with
families. She tells us to get our order in quick before one big
family orders. When she hears we are cycling to John O'Groats she
gives us a “Cornish IPA” beer mat which has written across it in
big letters, “PROPER JOB”.
“Have
someone take a photo of you holding that up when you get to the other
end,” she
smiles.
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