Pendeen to Land's End

Many thanks to Liz and Mike for accommodating me at short notice, and being such excellent hosts.     It was a really relaxing stay. As I left their house, for the final ride of this journey, it was under a largely blue sky, with warm sunshine. The road took me the ten miles from Pendeen, through St Just, past Land's End airport, to Land's End itself. Regular flights go from the airport to the Isles of Scilly. I noticed the man in the control tower at the airport excitedly grabbing his iPad as I cycled past. We exchanged a wave as he took a photo. I can't imagine that happening at Heathrow! I stopped for a couple of hours in St Just, and enjoyed a traditional Cornish pasty, a large mug of coffee, and some flapjack. The penny attracted a lot of attention. An old lady jokingly asked if she could have a go. A man and his son came and admired the bike, though the boy, who I guess was no older than eight or nine, had no idea as to why the bike was called a penny farthing. And why would he, when pennies today are so small? I gave him one of my Victorian pennies, and his father explained what a farthing was. Before I knew it, I had been approached by organisers of tomorrow's Lafrowda procession through the town. Lafrowda is a two week community arts festival of theatre, dance, musical performances, quizzes, workshops, and processions, that has been running in St Just since 1996; the name 'lafrowda' being the ancient name for the church lands where the village of St Just in Penwith stands today. I sat for some time soaking up the sense of excitement. Everyone seemed to be talking about the festival, and there were stages being erected, official T shirts being distributed, and bunting waving in the breeze. As I left the town, I saw a monster tea cup and saucer being moved from one building to another.    

The closer I got to the End, so the more motorists were excitedly tooting and waving. A Swedish couple on a motorbike stopped to take a photo, and I raised my hat as I cycled past. Unfortunately, I was going down a hill at the time, and my hat subsequently blew off. By the time I had brought the bike to a standstill, I had a walk of several hundred yards to retrieve it. A van drove past, the horn honking repeatedly, and the boy I had given the Victorian penny to in St Just, stuck his head out of the passenger window. He gestured to show how he was holding the penny in his hand, a huge grin across his face.

Whilst I waited for Kathy and Chanti to arrive, I spent a coupe of hours in the First and Last Inn in Sennen, just under a mile from Land's End, enjoying a pint or two of cool Guinness. I don't know if it's true or not, but this pub is reputed to have once been the haunt of smugglers. There is a tunnel, known as 'Annie's Well,' covered with a plate of thick glass, which is said to extend all the way to the cliffs. There are a number of different stories, but as I understand it, a former landlady in the 1800's, Ann Treeve, was said to have been involved in extensive smuggling and wrecking, along with the local parson at the time. Eventually, I guess involved in some sort of dispute between smugglers, she gave evidence against Dionysius William, a farmer from Sennen. For such service to the crown, she was staked out by disgruntled locals on Sennen beach, and allowed to drown with an incoming tide. Whilst waiting at the inn, I was interviewed for BBC Radio Devon. BBC Spotlight were unable to attend the end of the ride, due to a shortage of staff.

Thirty four years ago, when I left for John O'Groats, Land's End was a fairly deserted place. As I recall, I had to phone a number in order for someone to bring the road sign and take a photograph. Today Land's End is, in my opinion, a garish holiday complex, with amusement arcades and a theme park, including a 4D film experience and 'Arthur's Quest.' There is also a 'Land's End Doughnut Co,' and a shopping village. The site was purchased by Peter de Savary in1987 for £7 million, outbidding the National Trust. The site was subsequently sold to Graham Ferguson Lacey in 1991, and then in 1996 to the current owners, Heritage Great Britain PLC. Beyond the complex, one can still get a feel for what Land's End once looked like, a remote headland, from which, on a clear day, are views across the Atlantic, pounding the cliffs below, to the Scillies.

And so to the end of this journey, what can I say? Rainer Maria Rilke said 'The only journey is the one within.' John Steinbeck, in 'Travels with Charley: In Search of America,' said 'A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is think you control it.' Walt Whitman, in 'Song of Myself,' said 'I tread a perpetual journey.' Anatole France, said 'If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads.' Steve Maraboli, in 'Unapologetically you: Reflections on life and the Human Experience,' said 'If you fuel your journey on the opinion of others, you are going to run out of gas.' Finally, Seneca, a Roman philosopher in the mid 1st Century, said 'Every new beginning comes from some  other beginnings end.' These are just a few of the hundreds of quotes I have come across about journeying.

A number of consistent themes, in regard to what makes for the best journeying through life, have come out of the interviews undertaken on this John O'Groat's to Land's End penny farthing ride. 'A Penny for your Thoughts,' has revealed the importance of the journey itself and not the destination; the need to challenge limiting societal formulas, narratives, or discourses about what is the 'right,' 'normal' or 'expected' path to follow; the need to let go of an attempt to control outcomes or try and manipulate where our paths in life might lead; a preference for living in the 'now,' vs living defined by a past to be regretted, or a future to be feared; the need for authentic connection with others, including owning our own vulnerability; that it is never to late to start out on any new venture; the need to take risks, overcome fears, and move beyond boundaries; and that life can change dramatically, as a consequence of loss or illness, and so the need to embrace life fully in each precious moment. Listening to the stories of all the contributors has certainly left me reflecting on my inner 'map; where that map came from, what directions on that map help or hinder my journey, and what I might choose to leave behind and what I may choose to take with me as I continue to journey through life. Like most people, I have many unanswered questions. However, as Rilke says, in one of my favourite quotes:

Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms, and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then, gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

In this blog, I mentioned when referring to my battle with the elements over Dartmoor, when my morale was low, and I was cycling through thick cloud, being blasted with rain and wind, how the thumbs up from a passing motorcyclist significantly raised my spirits. He probably had no idea of the impact of that simple gesture. We all have an influence on one another, often in ways we cannot ever fully know or appreciate. Just as the big wheel on the penny farthing cannot function without the little wheel, and just as the little wheel needs the big wheel, so every contribution that we make, however big or small, seen or unseen, heard or unheard, counts on our journeys through life.

I want to say a big thank you to all those people who have helped me along the way on this journey; to the numerous people who have stopped and chatted, offered encouragement, cheered, clapped, given me the thumbs up, or provided tea, coffee, cake, sandwiches, and bacon butties; to Jude from Beauly for her assistance in finding me accommodation, and her deliciously squidgy banana cake; to Ross and Emma, Alan and Lori, Joey and Verna, Twig and Carol, Benjo, Adele and James, Bev and Nick, Dave and Ann, Carla and Jeremy, Gill and Nigel, Juliet, Mark and Rowena, Nick and Debbie and family, and Liz and Mike, for offering me overnight stays and their hospitality; to Jean, the landlady of the first bed and breakfast I stayed in for her generosity of spirit, and not charging for accommodation; to the numerous people who have liberally shared their thoughts in exchange for a Victorian penny; to Matthew Trott for sending me spare spokes; to Jeremy for lending me the wheel from his Moulton; to Alan for accommodating the bike overnight in his shed; to Steve Browne, who first had the idea of introducing 'Cycling without Age' in Exeter, who has sent me numerous texts of encouragement along the way, and who together with his partner Carolin, helped me pack the penny farthing to be taken by courier to Wick; to Martin from Ride-On in Exeter for his support and encouragement; to all those people on Facebook who have been supportive, particularly Marc's comments; to John S for his helpful texts; to people who have left their thoughts on the Blog; and to you the reader for sharing this journey with me. Thanks too for all those people who have sponsored 'Ride-on' and 'Cycling without Age,' or stopped me on route and provided donations. Then there is a special big thank you to Kathy for her support in enabling me to have the time and space in which to make this journey, and her daily texts and encouraging words; and to Chanti - who is, she tells me, my number one fan - for setting up this blog, for the wonderful JOGLE T shirt, for promotion of the ride through the 'One' magazine - an article she produced in her job as a graphic designer - and for requesting the involvement of the BBC Spotlight programme and Radio Devon. I was deeply touched to see Kathy and Chanti waiting at Land's End for me with a banner. It's official, I am a 'wheel man!' Though I won't be shaving my legs.

Pendeen

I spent the first part of my morning in Pendeen accompanying Mike, my host, to the coast watch station in Cape Cornwall, where, along with numerous other volunteers, he spends a half-day shift, once a month, keeping an eye out over the Atlantic for vessels in distress. I understand there was a lifeboat rescue of a sailor a couple of years ago, who, as a consequence of overturning his yacht, hit his head. He had been unable to upright his vessel or make a distress call. Undoubtedly, such volunteers, manning such stations and reporting such incidents, provide a valuable service. Whilst at the coast watch station, I briefly looked at the wall charts recording recent wrecks. Many vessels, have floundered on the twin-peaked islet named 'The Brisons,' about a mile offshore, resulting in significant loss of life. 'Brison,' or 'brisant,' is French for 'reef breaker.' The number of wrecks along the whole of the Cornish coastline is staggering, though these have reduced significantly in recent decades with the introduction of new technologies. However, in 2011, the 9,000 tonne Karin Schepper's cargo ship, on route from Cork to Rotterdam, ran aground near Pendeen lighthouse, fortunately on one of the few patches of sand in the area, and on a rising tide. These factors prevented a disaster. The same ship ran aground in Scandinavia in 2009, the chief officer at the time was found to be in a state of intoxication, and asleep on watch. There was no lookout on the Bridge, and Bridge Navigational Watch Alarm System was switched off.

Leaving the coastguard station, I walked Mike and Liz's dog Charlie along the coast back to Pendeen, amazed at the size and scale of former mine workings in the area. Many of these mine shafts stretched far out to sea and deep underground. Life for miners was not romantic, as has sometimes been portrayed, but really tough, working in hazardous, hot, damp and dark conditions, breathing in air polluted with dust. Life expectancy was short, and disasters, such as that which occurred in the Levant mine in 1919, when the man engine and miner's cage collapsed, resulting in the loss of 31 lives, were an ever present reality. Other hazards included falling rocks, flooding, and all sorts of physical conditions, including silicosis - a terrible wasting disease caused by mica dust - tuberculosis, rheumatism, bronchitis, and deafness caused by explosives. Then there were the hazards associated with handling arsenic, wearing little in the way of protective clothing. Women and children were involved in mining work in the 18th and 19th centuries, labouring for a ten hour day, six days a week, often involving a walk of some miles to and from home. It is recorded that 7000 children were working in Cornish mines in 1839. Boys below the age of 12, and women referred to as 'Bal Maidens,' broke rocks to a manageable size for ore crushing machines. Geevor mine, near Pendeen, is well worth a visit, conveying a real sense of the history of mining in Cornwall, and the hardships endured by the employees. Now, much of the area, is slowly being reclaimed by nature, wild grasses, heather, and flowers reestablishing themselves around what remains of the chimneys, buildings, and disused shafts. I saw numerous butterflies flitting between plants, including Meadow Browns, Large Blues, and Speckled Woods. And a screeching buzzard was hunting unusually low over gorse and ferns. Far below the high cliffs, on a sparkling sea, a fisherman aboard a bright orange and blue fishing boat, was lifting lobster pots.

The rest of the day, I largely spent resting. Tomorrow, my 55th birthday, I shall make the staggeringly long ride of ten miles from Pendeen to Land's End.

Newquay to Pendeen

Whether it was on account of a north-easterly tail wind, or the fact that I'd slept well the previous night, or that I'm coming towards the end of this journey, or that I'd built up muscles climbing the Cornish Himalayas, or the fact that it wasn't raining, I don't know, but leaving Newquay, despite aches and pains, I seemed to have more energy, strength, and fitness than I have had since leaving John O'Groats. The A3075 from Newquay to Redruth wasn't a particularly safe or pleasant road. In places it was narrow and bendy. Perhaps this was another motivating factor for pedalling so fast. Whatever it was, I simply flew along, all the way from Newquay, through Redruth and Camborne, to Hayle, taking almost every hill that presented itself in my stride. I felt as if I was in my early twenties again, with boundless energy. I did find myself at times recalling how I cycled Land's End to John O'Groats, for the first time, thirty-four years ago, and how there seemed to be less traffic on the roads. I remember stopping on a Cornish beach, on a warm sunny day, and how it had been empty apart from me; and I remember cycling along Loch Ness and hardly seeing a car all day.

The afternoon brought me to one of my favourite, if not most favourite, stretches of road in Britain; the winding coastal road between St Ives and St Just, a road that seems in no hurry to take you anywhere. I have cycled end to end three times, and each time I have done it, this stretch of road has left me inspired, content, and glad to be alive. As I pedalled along, I tried to ascertain why. I am sure the weather makes a difference, for I have always cycled this stretch in warm sunshine, under a cerulean cloudless sky, the sea sparkling just beyond the cliffs, gulls gliding on the breeze. However, it's more than that. There's a timeless quality about the landscape, with small, ancient, irregularly shaped fields, in which cattle graze, bounded by stone walls adorned with red sedum; quaint cottages built from granite; slopes above the road covered in ferns and purple heather; and hedgerows with a multitude of flowers, such as yellow bird's foot trefoil, purple sea thrift, blue sheepsbit scabious, foxgloves, pink campion, white blackberry flowers, and cat's ear (much like a daisy). There were also yellow gorse flowers, and that sweet smell of coconut wafting in the air.

I stopped at the Tinner's Arms in Zennor to refill my water bottle, where I was subsequently surrounded by people wanting to take photographs of the bike and make donations to the charity. Once again, I was struck by people's generosity. A young boy called Tristan was intrigued as to how I got on and off the bike. I allowed him to climb up on to the saddle, and he was amazed at how high off the ground he was. I left Zennor to a round of applause and cheers. A mile or so out of Zennor, I was overtaken by two cyclists riding end to end, keen to have their photograph taken next to the penny. One of them was hobbling badly, having suffered a knee problem for many days.

The further I cycled towards St Just, past Gurnard's Head, and through Morvah, so the more I saw chimneys and buildings of disused mines, a stark reminder of the areas industrial past, and a once thriving tin industry. Last year I visited the Pendeen mining museum, and was struck by the lengthy procedure involved in extracting tin, copper, arsenic, and other metals. There was something very poignant about seeing the walls lined with photos of the men that worked down the mines in the recent past.

So now I am staying with friends in Pendeen, some ten miles or so from Land's End. I am, sadly, rapidly running out of road to cycle along, and this journey is nearing its completion. As my friend John put it, 'the end is nigh!' It has crossed my mind that I might turn around and head back to John O'Groats! On Friday evening, when Kathy and Chanti are able to be at Land's End, and hopefully BBC Spotlight too, I shall cross the finishing line. Actually, I'm not sure there is a finishing line as such, so I'd best stop cycling before launching myself off a cliff! But there is a signpost at Land's End, and it will be good to reach it after one thousand miles or so on the road.

Trekenner Launceston, to Newquay

Many thanks to Nick, Debbie and family for a delightful stay and a lot of fun. I hadn't expected to have a go on a zip wire ride on this trip, but really enjoyed it, especially the high speed and dramatic way in which it ends. It was good to sit around and chat in the evening in the garden. Lou, I wish you well with your plans to be the first person to ride a llama from end to end. How about calling the llama 'Penny?' And many thanks to Nick's mother for drying my shoes out on the aga, and for her contribution to 'Ride-on' and 'Cycling without Age.' It was so, so nice to put on dry, clean socks, and warm, dry shoes this morning.

I really enjoyed the start of today's trip, cycling through narrow Cornish lanes, and passing through villages with unusual names, like Trebulet, Cardinham, and Rosehannon. There were signs to other unusually named villages like Linkinthorne, and Lushathorn. And there was a delightful bungalow, with the unusual Cornish name of 'Casa Mia.' I've only ever seen Bodmin moor from the A30, and so it was good to get an altogether different perspective, one unspoilt, wilder, and seemingly much higher. For some miles, I found myself cycling towards a large looming hill, with disused buildings and chimneys from the tin mining industry, silhouetted against the morning light. After cycling, or rather walking, up and down a number of steep hills, I briefly stopped in Upton Cross to buy a drink. Here I got into conversation with the shopkeeper and a few customers. One of the customers informed me that this area of Cornwall is known as the 'Cornish Himalayas,' and I was soon to discover why. The climb from Upton Cross on to open moorland was long and arduous, and whilst the weather had looked promising at the start of the day, it began to rain. And so it continued up until 7.00pm, when I eventually finished cycling. Had I had more time, and it hadn't been raining, I might have stopped and visited 'King Doniert's Stone' as I passed it, the remains of an impressive ninth century decorated cross, believed to commemorate Dungarth, King of Cornwall, who died in about 875; or the 'Hurler's stone circle,' a group of three ancient stone circles. Legend has it that men who played Cornish hurling on the sabbath were turned into stone as a punishment. Likewise, men who played tunes on a Sunday were turned into the nearby 'Piper' stones.

I shall definitely invest in a GPS system indicating contour lines on my return, for most of the day consisted of a series of roller coasters; walking down one 20% descent, into a wooded, deep valley, cycling maybe a hundred yards, walking up a 20% ascent, and cycling maybe a few hundred yards, before descending once more. I lost count of the number of times I did this, though it must have been at least a dozen. It left me drained. And I was, once again, completely soaked. It might have been alright had I been able to cycle downhill, but back pedalling would be impossible on such steep inclines. And whilst I am determined to finish the ride, and accept whatever comes my way, I came to curse the sight of another steep hill.

Bodmin was horrendous. That's all I can say about it. I found myself on a series of busy roundabouts, confused. The signposts were poor, with one cycle track signposted for Bodmin ending up in a hedge. For a good twenty minutes or so, I walked this way and that, trying to find my way out of the maze. Eventually, I figured out that the A38 was the way into the town, but I ended up walking a mile, for the road was narrow and dangerous, with lorries and traffic hurtling past, spraying me with water. I purchased a late lunch from a Polish shop, the young shopkeeper incredulous that I had cycled from Scotland. I eventually ate my lunch at 4.00pm, sheltering as best I could under some trees, large drops of water dripping on me, on the food (the large bun, covered in a sugary coating was delicious), and on the map, as I made a decision about where to head next. I decided to get to St Columb Major. This appeared a large town on the map, and there was sure to be bed and breakfast available. After another few roller coasters, I arrived there, soaked, cold, aching and exhausted. The smell of fish and chips wafted in the air. After asking a few people, I found myself ringing the doorbell of the only bed and breakfast in St Columb Major, anticipating a warm shower, a nice pub meal and a pint of Guinness. "She's away in Norway," said the voice of an old man. "I like your bike!" A woman came out of her house, hobbled across the street and took a photo.

It was seven long miles to Newquay. I don't know quite how or why the mind and body react as they do sometimes, and this is not the first time this has happened to me, when my morale is low, and I am tired, hungry and cold. I set off with a renewed energy, resolute, determined not to be defeated. I recall as a younger man reading about the Land's End to John O'Groats cycling record attempts, and how at one point, the cyclist who broke the record, fell off his bike in exhaustion. He was lifted back on, and set off once more. And even after having broken the record (which is well under forty-eight hours), he continued, determined to break the one thousand mile cycling record. I pedalled the miles to Newquay as if I was in a race, averaging twelve miles an hour! And when I hit another 20% descent and ascent, I ran down one side and paced quickly up the other. I rang the bell of the first B&B I saw, and was soon after lying in a hot bath.

Moretonhampstead to Trekenner, Launceston

Many thanks to Mark and Rowena for accommodating me last night. It was good to catch up with them, and to be able to walk through the village to my father's house, and catch up with him too. If you are ever in Moretonhampstead, I would recommend the pizza cafe. The pizza and salad Mark and I shared the previous evening, was undoubtedly the best I have ever eaten. The cafe is run by an Italian man, who moved to Moretonhampstead a few years ago. The herbs he uses, he grows himself. It certainly excelled anything you'd be able to purchase from one of the large pizza chains.

As I set off this morning, it was bright blue skies, warm sunshine.... I wish! I think the expression is 'in your dreams.' It was drizzling, and I knew I was in for a long climb, up on to the road that leads across the moors to Tavistock and Princetown. I hadn't gone very far, when I noticed the wet ground bubbling. Or at least that's how it seemed. Closer inspection revealed hundreds of tiny frogs, no bigger than a centimetre at most, leaping in different directions. I think this one, in the palm of my hand, given its rough skin, may in fact be a baby toad.  

Soon after that, I saw ponies being moved from a small meadow, to the Dartmoor miniature pony centre; some no larger, so it seemed, than a child's rocking horse. A cockerel was crowing repeatedly on a farm.

The first hour or so of today's ride largely involved pushing the bike up steep inclines. As I ascended on to open moorland, I noticed how the fine drizzle had bejewelled spiders webs in hedgerows, or on bramble bushes, with tiny water droplets, as it had every blade of grass. There were numerous ferns lining the road, many of which were still unfurling from tight coils. Large black slugs slithered across the wet grass. There were numerous foxgloves, yellow toadflaxes, and purple vetch.

And rising from the grass and heather, and singing so beautifully, were skylarks. These delightful birds have been my companions all the way from John O'Groats. But as I climbed even higher, the light breeze in Moretonhampstead gave way to a  strong, gusty, southwesterly headwind. The drizzle turned to rain, and as I got even higher still, on to more exposed moorland, I was lost in dense cloud - visibility reduced to ten or twenty yards. I am grateful to the motorcyclist who passed me at this point, and who gave me the thumbs up. It's amazing how one single gesture like that can lift the spirits. At one point, the strength of a gust brought me to a complete standstill. That would be fine on an ordinary bike; one would simply put one's foot on the ground. On a penny, it's an entirely different matter. Stopping dead like that, motionless, can only result in a fall. You need motion in order to be able to climb down. Fortunately, I was able to give one Herculean last lift of my right leg, resulting in the tiniest amount of forward motion, and just sufficient to enable me to leap off.

So for the next four hours, I battled against the wind and rain. In the face of this onslaught, I decided I had three choices; to moan, groan and feel sorry for myself all the way to Tavistock; to turn around, defeated; or to take on the full might of the weather with a positive attitude. I chose the latter. The more the wind blew, and the more the rain lashed down, so the more determined I became. I hadn't just cycled nine hundred miles in order to give up now. I felt sorry for the occasional French, German and Dutch tourists that passed me in their cars. I imagine they must have read in a brochure somewhere about beautiful Dartmoor, and seen pictures of isolated tors, Dartmoor ponies, and wonderful views across the Devon countryside. And here they were, driving through cloud, being blasted with wind and rain. I stopped at the bus shelter in Postbridge, ate some snacks and had a drink. And then I battled on, through Two Bridges, and all the way to Tavistock, where I arrived cold and wet. Here I was to be greeted enthusiastically by the friend of Mel and Sue, two women supporting four riders doing Land's End to John O'Groats, that had stopped and taken a photo of me near Loch Fyne. She recognised me from photos they had shared.

The next part of the ride was pretty uneventful, though once again involved some very steep climbs and descents. Crossing the Tamar, over the Grey Stone Bridge, brought me into Cornwall, with a strong sense of this journey nearing its end. Arriving at Trekenner farm, I had a shower, alarmed to find how sore and wrinkled my feet had become sitting in wet shoes all day. It was painful to stand barefoot. I then enjoyed some local cider, and a supper of vegetable chilli with the family. I looked at the forecast before I went to bed. Yes, you've guessed it!

Tiverton to Moretonhampstead

No sooner had I set off this morning than it commenced raining, and so it continued for the next three to four hours. Today, although one of the shortest rides I have undertaken to date, also proved to be the most challenging.

Things started off well enough, averaging the dizzy speed of ten miles an hour all the way to Thorverton, passing over Bickleigh bridge - reputedly the inspiration for Simon and Garfunkel's 'Bridge over Troubled Water' - and down the beautiful Exe valley. It was early, and the roads were quiet. The air was still, and I heard the cawing of crows, the quacking of ducks outside a farm, the enchanting song of a thrush, the cooing of doves, and the constant dripping of rain. From time to time, a pigeon would flap its wings loudly, ascending sharply, before allowing itself to glide. Leaving Thorverton, I cycled past numerous cob walled cottages, their roofs thatched and mossy; and through lanes bordered with high hedgerows, adorned with pink blackberry flowers. I enjoyed the sweet taste of wild strawberries and cherries. There was the sweet scent from white and yellow honeysuckle, and at other times a strong smell of silage from farms. I passed through an avenue of trees, their foliage creating a dark tunnel. On one side, were a number of badger sets, rich red soil tumbling down the bank. Dozens of small snails crawled across the wet roads, and I zigzagged to avoid crushing their black and yellow striped shells. Outside a farm was a sign for 'strong white weaners' at £35.00 each. Approaching the village of Shobrooke, down a steep incline, there was a sign for ferret racing. I was impressed with the bus shelter in the village, with what appeared to be the community provision of cushioned seats. It was good to here an original comment from a passer-by, who asked me, looking at the front wheel of the penny, during a particularly heavy downpour, if I was expecting deep water.

Beyond Crediton, the ride took on an altogether different quality. The roads became increasingly  steep and narrow. Whilst most cars would pull over - and several drivers stopped and chatted - one woman, po-faced, in a large four-by-four, seemed to pay me no attention at all, forcing me into the hedge as she drove towards me. A man in a white van looked at me as if I had just arrived on a ship from outer space. Nearing Tedburn St Mary, I could hear the roar of the A30, sounding like the breathing of a huge monster, disturbing the quietness of the countryside. Beneath a bridge, as I passed over the dual carriageway, was a steady stream of lorries, motorbikes, cars, caravans and motorhomes. From here onwards the terrain was such that I had to walk for several miles, with steep descents and ascents - the worst being that either side of Clifford Bridge. This was extremely strenuous, the only way I could descend being to walk at a forty-five degree angle grasping the bike; and the only way I could ascend, being to take a hundred steps at a time, pushing the bike, before giving myself a minute or two to recover, my heart pounding in my ears. I was walking through pine forests, with a strong scent from pine needles, and through avenues of beech trees. Whilst it had stopped raining, the air was humid and warm. It felt as If I was in a sauna. Each time I stopped, I would observe lines of large ants climbing over pine needles, some carrying what seemed like small lumps of dead wood. Eventually, I reached Mardon Down, with a strong, cool, and refreshing breeze. There were views in the distance of Hay Tor, and back in the direction I had come from of Belvedere Tower, in Haldon woods. There was a long descent into Moretonhampstead, where I arrived tired, achey and cold.

  

Tiverton and 'A Penny for your Thoughts.'

I spent a most relaxing day in Tiverton, enjoying being reunited with Kathy and Chanti, a walk along the Grand Western canal, a coffee at the canal basin cafe, a haircut (yes, it does still grow), and in the afternoon and early evening, attending the Tiverton hot air balloon festival. One of the largest balloons weighed approximately two tons - given the weight of the basket, the passengers, gas burners, gas bottles, and of course the balloon itself. It's incredible how hot air alone can allow such weight to ascend. Many thanks to Juliet for her hospitality, and the amusing picture of the UK that was on her door when I arrived at her house, with a line drawn from John O'Groats to Tiverton, an illustration of a penny farthing, and motivational words. It made me chuckle. And a huge thanks to Chanti for the wonderful T shirt. I love it!

Whilst in Tiverton, I went in a car for the first time for over a month, and was horrified at how fast it felt. It made me aware of how, for the last three weeks, I have been travelling through life at a different, or perhaps more sane pace; one allowing for connection with nature, other people, and with my own thoughts. Chanti has arrnaged for BBC Spolight to be at Land's End next Friday evening, and so I can now go at an even more leisurely pace for the last 134 miles. My next journey will be to Moretonhampstead, with a view to pedalling (and no doubt walking) over Dartmoor.  

Given I have been alluding to it throughout this blog, I thought it would be helpful to say something about the inspiration for 'A Penny for your Thoughts.' Essentially, my interest is in the idea of life as a journey, and the 'maps' we use to guide us on that journey. However, as Alfred Korzybski, the Polish American writer and philosopher, once wrote 'the map is not the territory.' It's a familiar expression to me, the concept being central to the work I undertake as a systemic psychotherapist and trainer. What Korzybski was wanting to convey with this expression, is that we confuse maps with territories, or models of reality, with reality itself.

Underpinning the work I do, is a core belief that there is no external reality we can all agree upon - i.e. that we all see the world differently, filtering it through the lens of our own experience, or through our own individual 'map.' Thus no two people will ever perceive an event, or the world, in exactly the same way. I have in my work, and in thinking about my own personal 'maps,' been particularly influenced by Carter and McGoldrick's family life cycle model. This considers the impact of 'vertical' and 'horizontal' stressors, as well as a number of 'system' levels, affecting our sense of identity and our capacity to manage change.

Vertical stressors are influences from the past. These might include the lasting effects of world events, or our particular family's way of managing life cycle events, such as leaving home, or managing conflict and difference. It includes passed on beliefs and values. Vertical stressors will also include what John Bowlby, renowned for his work on attachment, referred to an 'internal working model.' Our attachment experiences shape our expectations of others and of ourselves in terms of our sense of self worth, closeness and distance, dependence and independence, togetherness and separateness, affection, trust and love. These early experiences powerfully shape our relationships in adult life. I like to think of this as an internal map. The interviews I have undertaken to date, powerfully demonstrate the lasting impact of early experiences, ranging from a deep sense of feeling secure and loved, to experiencing trauma and neglect. These experiences in turn have an impact on the beliefs, implicit or explicit 'rules,' and boundaries defining territory - for individuals, friendships, couple relationships and family life.

In terms of 'system' levels, we can consider how our 'map' is affected powerfully by the cultures we live in, and messages about what is 'right' and 'normal.' These messages are conveyed through  'dominant discourses,' taken for granted truths that escape critical scrutiny. And the language we use to describe the world, also defines that world. As Desmond Tutu put it 'Language is very powerful. Language does not just describe reality. Language creates the reality it describes.' Effectively, I am describing how realities are socially constructed, and linked to power. Whether for personal, political or economic reasons, some people have more power to 'dictate' reality; a reality we then measure ourselves against, and largely fall short of. This in turn can lead to feelings of shame, self-doubt, powerlessness, and fear. For example, in the West, there is a dominant discourse about 'success,' largely equated with materialism. But if materialism is the measure of 'success,' why have I seen so many wealthy people for therapy over the years? We can in addition think of our maps as being constructed by - or defined by - discourses or stories, linked to gender, race, religion, age, ability/disability, class, education, ethnicity, and sexuality. What has come across powerfully in the interviews I have undertaken to date, is the need to defy these powerful, restrictive discourses in order to live authentically. As one participant put it so well, quoting Henry David Thoreau, the American essayist, poet and philosopher, 'If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.' Perhaps, it is only when we relinquish the more restricting aspects of the 'maps' we have been given, that we can embrace the idea expressed by so many participants, that it's the journey and not the destination that is most important; and how too much focus on the future removes us from the present moment. As Thoreau, in a less well known saying put it, 'You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.'

Horizontal stressors are those things that inevitably happen to us as we move through life - experiences of birth, childhood, starting school, adolescence; leaving home, a marriage or partnership, middle-age, divorce, older age and death; and what life unexpectedly throws at us, such as redundancy, illness, unexpected natural events, and accidents. A consistent theme that has emerged from the interviews, is that we can be free to make choices, and don't have to be bound by the consequences of things that have shaped us. We can be who we think we are, rather than what has happened to us. A number of people have spoken about how 'negative' experiences and adversity have been transformed positively, allowing for greater authenticity and connection with others. They have also spoken about how in order to live spontaneosusly, and in the moment, one needs to give up a need to be in control.

As already stated, I am interested in where we get our 'maps' from; how they guide us on our journeys, affect our perception of the world, help or hinder us in relationships, and affect our experience of change. You'll often hear people referring to having 'lost their way in life,' how they have 'lost their bearings,' or how they have chosen the right or wrong 'path' in life. The idea of life as a journey is embedded in literature and in our culture. There are numerous stories and novels capturing the idea of people taking journeys in order to face challenges, move beyond boundaries, develop resources, and grow. Joseph Campbell, in 'The hero with a Thousand Faces,' referred to a monomyth, or a hero's journey, referring to tales that involve a hero going on an adventure, winning a victory in a decisive crisis, and returning home transformed or changed.Then there are numerous poems using the metaphor of life as a journey; such as Robert Frost's 'The Road not Taken,' Herman Hesse's 'On a Journey,' and Sylvia Chidi's 'The Journey of Life.'  On the cycle track from Bath to Bristol, I came across the sculpture below. Beside it was a quote from Ben Okri, 'The road was the worst hallucination of them all, leading towards home and away from it, with too many signs and no directions.'

I am also interested in what we choose to do with the unique 'map' we have been given. What if we were to accept that our 'maps,' with their boundaries, rules, ups and downs, and paths to chose between, are just maps, and that they do not define the territory? What if we were to choose to 'tear' them up metaphorically, or at least make choices about what most helps or restricts us from these 'maps' on our journeys? What if we were to stop trying to control or defend them? Then what? Would we be free? Or would we be left with uncertainty, an unsettling idea that perhaps our sense of identity, or self, is an illusion, or a construction? There would be no boundaries to our maps, no clear pathways, no signposts marking the way. What might we discover? What experiences might we have in common that help us? Might we find we are all connected, and that the idea of separateness is also an illusion?

I believe it was the Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who wrote in one of his novels that 'the inability to tolerate empty space limits the amount of space available.' What if this were rewritten as 'the inability to tolerate a map without boundaries, limits the amount of territory open for exploration?'

'A Penny for Your Thoughts' is a semi-structured interview based upon six questions:

What are your thoughts about life as a journey?
What have you learnt, growing up, or from wider society, that has helped or hindered you on your journey?
How has what you learnt impacted on you going down one path or another?
If you could have a conversation with your younger self, what would you say?
What has been a highlight of your journey?
If you can imagine being significantly older than you are, what would you be saying to yourself now?

Whilst I have been able to interview a significant number of people on my cycle ride from John O'Groats to Land's End, I am looking for further people to interview. If you would be interested, please feel free to contact me on johnwoolner2@hotmail,com. In exchange for sharing your thoughts, I will give you a Victorian penny, one with the great queen Vic on herself. How can you resist that? All interviews will be held in confidence. Whilst it is my intention to write up the themes that merge from these interviews when undertaking an MA in travel and nature writing at Bath Spa university this autumn, I would not quote from any individual without their prior knowledge and consent.

Cheddar to Tiverton

I had my best night's sleep since leaving John O'Groat's last night, so much so that it felt as if I'd been drugged. Thanks to Gill and Nigel for accommodating me, for a delicious supper, and to Gill for partaking in "A Penny for your Thoughts.' Apologies for drifting off to sleep during conversation at supper!

You would think that after a good night's sleep, the body would be all fired up and ready to go. The opposite proved to be the case. Riding a penny farthing requires a lot of upper body exertion, especially on hills. I pull on the handlebars in order to give my legs more power. Yesterday, I don't feel I ever got into any rhythm or pace. I felt tired, and my arms and legs felt weak and like lumps of lead. Having said that, the countryside was stunning, and for the first half of the ride, reasonably flat. I was on the Somerset levels, an area I have always so enjoyed riding in, and it was a warm, sunny, summer's day. In the distance, beyond the fields of grazing Friesian cows, could be seen Glastonbury Tor, topped with the 15th century, roofless, St Michael's tower.

There are long, straight water channels running across the levels, many of which are for drainage, These have been unable to cope with the amount of rainfall in recent years, and dredging work continues. It was lovely to see huge yellow waterlilies; swans gliding through the water; herons standing alert by the water's edge, or flying with their huge prehistoric looking wings; and numerous emperor dragonflies hovering or darting over reed beds. At times the road was lined with rows of willows, there leaves glistening in the strong breeze. My route took me though Shapwick Heath National Nature Reserve, and the Hawk and Owl Nature Reserve on Shapwick moor. The Shapwick reserve is a biological site of special scientific interest, aiming to conserve and enhance the  wildlife of the area. Across the site runs the ancient Sweet Track, the oldest timber trackway discovered in Northern Europe.

As I passed through the attractive village of Wedmore, I was stopped on numerous occasions, people curious about the penny farthing passing through the village. I think in the last two weeks I have had more photos taken of me than in my entire life. Leaving the village, walking up a steep incline, I was passed by a group of cyclists, throwing themselves at the hill with great determination. I caught sight of the red 'M' and a dot on the back of one the men's legs. An iron man! I bet he didn't notice the the 'Wheel Man' tattoo on the back of my leg!

The Somerset levels are steeped in history, and I only wish I had time to write about this in more depth. One of the most famous battles in the area, was the battle of Sedgemoor in 1685, which came about as a consequence of the Protestant Duke of Monmouth attempting to overthrow the Catholic king  of England, James II. I passed Burrow Mump in the small village of Burrowbridge, with its ruined church overlooking Southlake Moor. This hill, and archaeological evidence of a motte on the hill, led to some calling the hill King Alfred's Fort, though there is little evidence that King Alfred the Great made use of the hill as a fortification. I guess all sorts of claims are made in the names of legendary kings and queens. I have seen dozens of sites related to King Arthur on my travels. He must have had many round tables, or transported one with him. But it's the agricultural history of the levels which interests me. One cannot help but feel many traditions and ways of life have been lost forever. What does survive however, is a rich tradition of growing willow to make baskets; and traditional cider making, as evidenced by numerous cider apple orchards.

I'd been able to keep to minor roads all morning, passing through delightful villages, with equally delightful names; North Curry, Stoke St Gregory, Knapp and Creech St Michael. Arriving in Taunton however, my choice of road became more limited. I was now cycling during the heat of the day, a heat haze rising, tar melting on the roads. I found myself at times on the A38, with an incessant stream of traffic roaring past. Reaching the road sign for 'Devon' was a strange experience. I have so enjoyed cycling across the stretch of Scotland and England, and now it felt as if my journey was nearing its end. However, having done John O'Groat's to Land's End twice before, I know that there is still a way to go, and that Devon and Cornwall have the most difficult and hilly terrain. It was so refreshing to be able to eventually turn off the A38, on to the Grand Western Canal, with its quiet footpath and cycle track, and views across the Devon countryside. Seeing eight newly born cygnets, fluffy and downy, guarded by two proud parents, brought a smile to my face.

The sky was dotted with hot air balloons as I completed the last part of the journey. This weekend is the Tiverton hot air ballon festival, where I shall spend part of the day tomorrow. On Sunday I shall set off once more, though I still have to decide whether to go round or over Dartmoor; the short, sharp approach, or the long, enduring ride around Dartmoor's fringes. What would a 'Wheel man' do?

Cirenscester to Cheddar

I had a most relaxed day in Cirencester, and am very grateful to a friend, Jeremy, for showing me around the town, visiting his leatherwork studio, and taking me to the local art centre. I was most impressed to observe a local craftsman blowing and shaping glass. Not having seen this process before, I was surprised by how malleable heated glass is. Having collected a lump of molten glass on the end of a pole from a kiln, the craftsman then blew a small amount of air air through it, before twisting and turning the pole, and using a series of tools for measuring, shaping and cutting. It also required reheating the glass from time to time during the process. A big thanks to Jeremy and his wife Carla for their warm hospitality, sharing their thoughts so generously in exchange for two pennies, a bed and delicious meals, and giving me the space to rest. I am also very grateful to Jeremy for loaning me a wheel from a Moulton bicycle to use for the rear wheel for my penny. Unfortunately, I have had another broken spoke, and cannot repair the wheel until I get to Cheddar. I Jeremy and Carla well with their recently established leather business, making and selling inspiring and uniquely designed leather goods.

I had one of the best day's cycling on the trip so far to today, beginning with cycling across the beautiful  Cotswold countryside, the fields largely laid to grain crops - corn, wheat, barley and oats. One or two fields were carpeted with red poppies, The sun was shining in a largely cloudless sky, and it was the ideal temperature for cycling. As I passed through villages, workmen who were dry stone walling, laying cable, or pointing old stone cottages with lime mortar, stopped work, smiled and waved, or chatted. Children being dropped off to school either shouted excitedly, or stopped and stared in amazement; either that, or their parents would see the bike, and enthusiastically point it out to their children. A teacher stopped me on her way to school and took a photo. "I must show this to my class," she said. And a friend of two women I had met camping in Prestwick, who had just completed cycling Land's End to John O'Groats, also flagged me down and took a photo. She recognised me from her friends snaps.

I passed a large flock of goats, seemingly so white and clean, bleating loudly; saw a sparrow hawk hovering in a light breeze; once again saw and heard buzzards, circling on thermals; and flitting between the numerous flowers in the hedgerows, saw butterflies; including tortoiseshells, cabbage whites, and marsh browns. At the side of the road, just outside the village of Crudwell, gipsies camped on a verge beside the road, travelling in a traditional and ornately decorated caravan. A woman was poking a fire as I passed, and horses were feeding on the grass. A large sign said 'work wanted.'

My route eventually brought me to the edge of the Cotswolds, to a high vista point. Below, in the distance, I could see the Welsh mountains, and the two long suspension bridges crossing the Severn. Nearer, I could see the city of Bristol, sprawling out in various directions, and planes flying in and out of Bristol airport. I was able to find minor roads down to the busy Bath to Bristol cycle track, that follows the route of a disused railway. Passing through the city was relatively easy, partly because of my knowledge of the city, and partly due to the excellent network of cycle paths. I began to feel I was nearing home; even more so when the 'Strawberry Line' cycle track - so called because steam trains once transported amongst other goods, strawberries from Cheddar - passed through cider orchards, and trees laden with mistletoe. There is a long tunnel on the Strawberry Line, just outside Cheddar, which is unlit. It was an unnerving experience cycling through it, in complete darkness apart form the arched light at the end of the tunnel, especially when my front wheel hit something and nearly threw me off. Eventually, after passing the sparkling waters of the reservoir in Axbridge, I arrived into Cheddar, thirsty, hungry and tired.

Worcester to Cirencester

The first mile or two this morning, required cycling past queuing traffic. I was feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious, though the occasional toot of a horn, a thumbs up, or a child screaming out of a window 'awesome!' or 'I love our bike mate!' left me feeling more confident. Besides, I was soon on to a quieter road, cycling in parallel with the Malvern hills, a couple of miles to my right. In the morning sunlight, the countryside once again had a fresh, clean look about it. Apart from some sheets of rain brushing the tops of the Malvern's as I left, and one brief shower midmorning, I enjoyed largely blue skies and a warm wind all day.          

One of the loveliest sights in Worcester is the cathedral, on the bank of the river Severn. Built between 1084 and 1504, it has impressive architecture reflecting different periods of history, from Norman to perpendicular Gothic. The west side of its main tower appeared on £20.00 bank notes between 1999 and 2007, along with a portrait of Sir Edward Elgar. The cathedral, together with 'Glover's needle,' the tall spire of the  Saxon15th century, St Andrew's church, are prominent features of the city, and could be seen for miles after I left the city.      
 
I love maps, and am reluctant to purchase a GPS system. But the maps I am using, are far from satisfactory. They are the pages I cut out from the sort of map book that can be purchased at a garage. Anything else would prove to be too heavy. I keep the page I am using each day in a plastic wallet on the front bike bag, below the handlebars, in order that I can read directions as I go along. However, this wallet is not entirely waterproof. In persistent downpours, the rain leaks in. Several pages have been soaked and dried - in the sunlight, or on a breeze, or under the hand drier in a public convenience - repeatedly. At times, the lack of detail on the maps can be very frustrating. I try and keep to minor roads, but when I follow some of the minor roads marked on the map, I find myself going down a dead end. Yesterday was a good example. I saw a minor road cut out a good chunk of a busy A road, passing through a couple of small villages. Having cycled a few miles, I found the road simply circled back on itself, across the M5, to the very A road I had been attempting to avoid. And that used up three-quarters of an hour.

After a couple of miles of cycling down the A road I'd wanted to detour around, there were bollards blocking the way, together with a large red sign saying 'road closed.' I cursed, and was about to look for an alternative, in great frustration, when a woman in bright green fluorescent trousers and jacket told me I could get through as a cyclist, but that the road was closed to all other traffic. As she told me this, a smart looking Audi and a Porsche screeched to a halt, did hasty three point turns on the gravel, and then sped off back the road they had just come down, with a screech of tyres, a roar of engines, and a cloud of dust. I meanwhile thanked the woman, and cycled, or leisurely zigzagged down the A road, through Bishop's Cleeve, feeling very content to have the road to myself. It took me past dozens of workmen, in bright orange fluorescent jackets and white hard hats, resurfacing the road, a strong smell of tar filling the air. Several of the men stopped work and chatted with me. One shook my hand. "The very best of luck to you mate!" The road eventually brought me out in Tewkesbury, a delightful town with medieval streets and abbey. Here I found several women busily sweeping the pavement, in preparation for Britain in Bloom.

At other times, I find the maps work well, taking me on meandering routes where I barely see another vehicle. Yesterday I took a delightful minor road through old villages, the roofs of the old stone cottages, far from horizontal, resembling the curved tail end of a fish. It's remarkable that the buildings stay standing at all. I ate lunch - fresh bread, cheese and tomato - sitting on a silage bail, surrounded by fields full of sheep and cows, and wonderful views across the Worcestershire countryside. Cycling on, a woman climbing a gate, cried out enthusiastically as I passed. I stopped, and we chatted. She was keen to know where I had come from and where I was headed, and I informed her how I was cycling end to end, and told her all about he charity I am raising money for. As I was about to say goodbye, and demonstrate to the woman how one mounts a penny farthing, I noticed a huge cross on the other side of the road, covered in dirty, faded, red plastic flowers. Some of the flowers had fallen off. "Oh dear," I said, "it looks as if someone had an accident." She proceeded to tell me how a young gipsy man had smashed his car head on into a tree, with such impact that the tree had been removed. "Hundreds, maybe thousands came to the service," she said, "many barefoot. Then they came to this very spot to say their goodbyes. I've never seen so many people attend a funeral. And so they came every year, for years. But they haven't been back now for a long time. That cross was so bright and garish when it was first put there, it looked completely out of place. Now you hardly notice it."

When you cycle slowly, and I'm sure the same would apply to walking along our highways and byways, you become acutely aware of death. I have seen numerous dead badgers, foxes, deer, hedgehogs, birds, and the carcass of a sheep. Yesterday, I found myself looking at the feathers of a recently killed magpie, marvelling at the iridescent blues and greens of the wing and tail feathers. I also came across a dead buzzard, intrigued at the complexity and intricacy of its patterning. Nature of course, as well as being beautiful to the observer, relies upon one creature consuming another. I have seen dozens of crows on this journey, greedily pecking at roadkill. But there is such a contrast between the pace and brutality of death on our roads, compared to the natural pace and order of things in the countryside. Yesterday, tired of the sound of cars rushing past, I stopped for ten minutes, parked the bike up against a gate, and looked at the flowers in the hedgerows and on a large patch of grass. I felt as if I'd been transported from one time zone, and one pace of life, to another. There were numerous butterflies -  such as Marbled Whites, Lulworth Skippers, and Meadow Browns - flitting between flowers, such as meadowsweet (with it's perfumed scent), early purple orchids (with such delicate shaped leaves), blue periwinkles, rosebay willow-herb, bull thistles, elderflower and field scabious. Large honey bees, buzzed from one flower to another, collecting pollen. I saw chaffinches and wrens. And again, there was the sound of skylarks from neighbouring fields. Later, in Cirencester, I was to see a sign at the entrance to a park. 'Nature does not hurry yet everything is accomplished.' It was attributed to Lao Tzu.

My road into Cheltenham took me past the racecourse. I had no idea it was so big, or just how many entrance gates there are, stretching out over a couple of miles. I was keen to reach my destination, and so didn't tally. Maybe I was in too much of a hurry, for I set off a speed alert system. 'Your speed is 29 miles an hour,' it flashed. And then I realised there was a car immediately behind me. The road out of the city was a half hour push up a steep gradient, and I feared I wa

Ludlow to Worcester

It rained! No sooner had I left Ludlow, than it started. And so it continued all morning, accompanied by a strong wind, leaving me shivering. It's surprising how even in summer, when exposed to the elements, one can lose body heat. Whilst I climbed steep Worcestershire hills, any possible views were shrouded in sheets of rain and cloud. My back wheel had developed quite a buckle, so much so, that I was forced to stop. Two broken spokes! Fortunately I had had the foresight for such an eventuality, and had removed three spokes from the back wheel I had discarded in Carlisle. It must have looked an odd sight, a penny farthing on its back by the roadside, in pouring rain. By the time I reached Lower Broadheath, the birthplace of Sir Edward Elgar, just outside Worcester, I was cold, tired, and despondent. At least the rain had stopped, and the irregular shape of the Malvern hills were visible.

As I had two hours to spare before I was due to meet Dave Preece, I sat and watched barges negotiating the lock gates between the river Severn and the canal. Never having observed this before, I was surprised how quickly the water rises and falls as lock gates are opened and closed, bringing the barge to the right level. The sun came out, my eyes closed, and before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep. I was woken half an hour or so later by heavy drops of rain on my face.

Dave cycled his 54" penny farthing from Land's End to John O'Groats last April. It's one of the elegant looking Czech replicas, with lovely attention to detail. Unlike me, he experienced icy winds and snow in Scotland. He also came across people undertaking some bizarre ways of travelling end to end, including two men on BMX bicycles, and a man dressed as superman, who is attempting to set a record for the longest distance travelled by bike, dressed as the superhero. Now why didn't I think of that? Today I am heading for Cirencester, where I shall spend a couple of nights, allowing me a rest day. On Thursday, I shall press on for Bristol and the home stretch.

Wem to Ludlow

Many thanks to Adele for her hospitality, and for such a delicious breakfast; sausage, bacon, mushroom, egg, toast and tea. Lovely! And a huge thanks to James, John, Neil and Ian, for accompanying me as far Condover, five miles south of Shrewsbury this morning. I'm sorry I set such a pace and wore them out! The coffee and chocolate brownies were well deserved. Good luck to John who is cycling the length of the Camino de Santiago in August.                

The views across the Shropshire countryside, the fields largely given over to wheat, barley, potatoes, broad beans and maze, were delightful. In the strong breeze, the wheat was producing wonderful shifting, swirling patterns. It was another sunny day, and we had clear views of the Welsh mountains and the Shropshire hills of Wenlock Edge and Corve Dale. We passed through Upper Battlefield, and I was instantly reminded of lines I learnt at college over thirty years ago, from 'Rumour' at the start of Shakespeare's Henry IV part II:

I run before King Harry's victory
Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury
Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
Even with the rebels blood.

On 21st July, in 1403, there was on this site, a famous battle between the Percy family of Northumbria and the Lancastrian King Henry IV. This was to influence English and French history, and lay the  foundations of the War of Roses which dominated the later 15th century. As I recall from my college days, Henry IV was a usurper. Handing the crown to his son Henry on his deathbed, he warns him against other potential rebels. 'They have but their teeth and stings newly ta'en out,' he tells him. His son, of course, was to become the famous Henry V.

No sooner had James, John, Neil, Ian and myself parted company, than the skies opened and I was once again to get a drenching. For a while I sheltered under trees, but when I realised the rain had set in, I cycled on, eventually sheltering in the church porch of All Stretton for the next hour. As quick as the rain had started, so it stopped. The dark black clouds passed, the sun shone brightly, and steam rose from the roads. There was a pleasing sight of a flock of white racing pigeons, circling against the blue sky. Later in the day I was to see and hear buzzards, and another red kite, it's outstretched wings catching a thermal, making flying look effortless. Passing through Church Stretton, I found myself in the middle of a mountain bike race, riders covered in mud, their clothes soaked, racing past. I let them go. I wasn't in the mood for racing. The A49 from Little Stretton, the last of the three 'Stretton' villages, was treacherous; so much so, that I walked several miles, and then made something of a diversion, including cycling through the small village of Onibury, the minor road running through it, running parallel to the A49 for several miles. Here I found a most delightful and informal pub, 'The Apple Tree,' the former village stores and post office. I ordered a half pint of a really delicious stout, 'Black Knight,' produced by a local brewery. The penny once again caused quite a stir. I'm grateful to the landlord, who I imagined could be cast as Magwitch in Great Expectations, for his generous donation to 'Cycling without Age.'

I eventually arrived in Ludlow, where I was to meet my guests for the night, Nick and Bev, both GP's in Ludlow. They live in Whitton, five miles outside Ludlow, but were visiting Nick's mother Peggy, in her eighties, who had greeted me enthusiastically at her doorstep, supported by her zimmer frame. With eager, excited eyes, she proceeded to tell me about a relative of hers, Conrad Snook, who had won medals and a cup for riding a penny farthing.  Having consumed the pot of tea and a plate of strawberries, chocolate, macaroons, a scone and biscuits that had been awaiting me, I set off for Whitton in Nick and Bev's car, leaving the bike in Peggy's hallway. I jokingly told Peggy I didn't want her riding the bike in my absence.

Later that evening, I was to see photos of Conrad Snook, the cup and medals he won, and copies of an article from 'Cycling Times,' of 1882. He won the cup for riding 214.5 miles in 24 hours on the increasingly popular 'Facile' penny farthing, at that time setting a new record. His medals were for two mile and ten mile time trials.

Nick and Bev live in a delightful rambling house, parts of which dates back to Jacobean times. There are views from the tiered garden stretching as far as the Black Mountains. On my arrival, house martins were flying in and out of nests built under the eaves. Later that evening I saw bats, and then saw and heard owls.

Tomorrow I set off for Worcester, where I will stay with Dave Preece, who like me, a couple of month's ago, cycled from John O'Groats to Land's End on a penny. It will be interesting to share stories.

Eccleston to Wem

In the early hours of this morning, there were probably the most violent thunderstorms I have ever experienced. It felt apocalyptical, with bright flashes of lightning followed by explosion after explosion of thunder, rumbling on and on and on. And then there was torrential rain and hail, hammering down on the bivvy tent. By 6.00am, it seemed to be easing off, and now, fully awake, I got up. I had been staying in 'The Charity Farm,' a working farm, that offers camping, caravanning, fishing and horse riding. The owner had a voice that sounded just like Wallace from 'Wallace and Gromit.' Again, the previous evening, I had been struck by the warmth and generosity of people as we entered into conversation; the struggles people have faced, and the donations, drinks and food offered.

As I left the site, there was the cooing of pigeons, and the sound of a woodpecker repeatedly drilling into a tree close by. But after that, nature was to be the last thing on my mind. I was cycling through a largely urban area, with A roads and motorways crisscrossing the map. I was able to make use of quieter B roads for the first ten miles, but cycling through Warrington was unavoidable, along the cycle track beside the dual carriageway of the A49, lined with major stores, industrial units, and fast food outlets like McDonald's and Kentucky. Several motorists or cyclists stopped to take a photo, and share their own cycling adventures. And there was the usual honking of horns, and thumbs up. Then in the centre of the city, I had to negotiate traffic lights, roundabouts, and queues of cars, buses and lorries. I decided to stick to the A49 out of Warrington, as there seemed to be no alternative. And for the next four hours or so, I pedalled along, pretty oblivious to anything, a strong headwind, and the heat of the sun, curtailing my progress. Numerous motorbikes thundered past, seemingly using the road as a racetrack.

It wasn't until I reached the market town of Whitchurch in Shropshire, that I was really able to enjoy cycling again. There were views across stretches of countryside to the Welsh mountains, and the B road to Wem took me through quaint villages, a cricket match being played on one of the village greens. I'd been met in Whitchurch by James, on his carbon fibre racing bike. Not wanting to be too slow for him, I somehow found some last reserves of energy, and we steadied along at ten miles an hour. I was greatly relieved to reach his house. It was so refreshing to be able to take a shower, and enjoy a delicious meal cooked by his wife Adele, a former student of mine.

In the evening, we went to a party organised by one of James's and Adele's friends. Here, I was introduced to a world I'd previously had no knowledge of, that of the 'iron' man. There were a good half dozen or more iron men, ten or twenty years younger than me, talking of very little else but, well, being 'iron.' No, they weren't sharing stories of the most effective way to crease trousers, fold shirts, or of the latest steam generating irons. Nor did they discuss the pros and cons of various ironing boards. This is the competitive world of triathlons; competitive running, cycling and swimming. I was somewhat surprised to discover they shave their legs for that little bit of extra speed, and have iron man tattoos imprinted on their bodies. One iron man had just had a large 'M' dot tattoo imprinted on the rear of his calf, something the other iron men were hugely admiring of. The tattoo is only for men who have completed a challenging human endurance event. It's a large red 'M,' with a large red dot above. All of this gave me an idea. If I shave my legs, might I get that extra half a mille an hour on the penny? Could I start a movement for 'wheel men?' And should I have my own tattoo, being a 'wheel' man as I am?

Kirkby Lonsdale to Eccleston

There was a heavy dew when I left the campsite, and in the early morning sunlight, burning through the mist hanging over the tops of the dales, everything had a clean and fresh feel. A red hot air balloon hovered in the still air, the occasional sound of it's burners being heard for miles. But the balloon wasn't going anywhere, for even the wind turbines on a distant hill were motionless; and smoke I saw later that morning from a chimney, rose vertically. I was able to keep to minor roads all the way to Lancaster, hardly seeing any cars, following the beautiful Lune valley. The 'Lan' in Lancaster originates from the river Lune. The only problem with such minor roads is that they tend to be hilly, but that is more than compensated for by the views and traffic free roads. I stopped briefly by a gate to have a drink, and a herd of cows came rushing over, steam rising as they snorted. I saw a single brown hare in a field, its large ears twitching and alert. When it saw me it bounded away across the grass, using its powerful rear legs, and disappeared. When I took another brief break, a farmer saw the penny from some distance, and came over with his daughter on a quad bike, to where I was sitting, on a dry stone wall. Like most people on this ride, he asked questions like, 'is it easy to ride?' 'How is it balancing up there?' 'How do you get up?' 'And how do you get down?' 'How far you going?' And 'how far have you come?'            

As I cycled through the lanes, I was greeted with wafts of honeysuckle scent, and strong smells of wild garlic and camomile. I passed through delightful villages, the roofs of the old cottages covered with inch thick slates. Once again, the hedgerows were adorned with dog rose, foxgloves, bright red or purple poppies, wild flowers and grasses. The ride had everything I love best about the English countryside. I am grateful to Penny and her friends for stopping and chatting, and supplying me with some delicious and nourishing flapjack.

By chance, the route I had chosen was the national 69 cycle route, though when I arrived in the village of Halton, I found it impossible to follow the map. By chance, Nigel, a barrister and director of a steam train company appeared, and took a photo of the penny. He subsequently showed me the cycle route that follows the river all the way to Lancaster, winding its way through woods, fields, and beautiful countryside. I am grateful to Nigel for guiding me through the maze of roads in Lancaster, and getting me on my way.

The second half of the day had everything I hate most about cycling; finding my way through the multitude of streets, roads, dual carriageways, traffic lights, one-way systems, and roundabouts in Preston. It was unbearably hot, a heat haze rising from the road, my front wheel picking up wet tar and loose stones. As is usual in large urban areas, I had jeers and cries from young men in vans, or sitting drinking outside pubs. The heat wore me down, and left me tired. 'Sapped' would be an apt word. At one point, as I went to mount the bike, my foot slipped, and I fell heavily on my groin against the frame. How I screamed! It took a good two hours to get from one side of Preston to the other, and to be finally clear of busy A roads. Early evening, I found myself cycling through Eccleston, with its golden letterbox, but there was no sign of Bradley. I'd half expected a penny farthing race through Eccleston high street, but I guess he wasn't up for the challenge.

Carlisle to Kirkby Longsdale

I managed to largely keep to minor roads today, enjoying all aspects of the Cumbrian countryside, as I travelled down the eastern fringes of the Lake District. There were far reaching views across to the fells, the peak district, and the Yorkshire Dales. At times, I was forced to climb high, and was able get a good view of Haweswater, one of the lesser known lakes, where there have reportedly been sightings of golden eagles. The fields, bordered by limestone dry stone walls, many coated with a thick layer of moss, contained grazing sheep and cows, the lambs and calves feeding greedily off their mothers. In fields adorned with buttercups, there were horses with newly born foals, barely able to stand. Pied wagtails were sitting on telegraph wires, whilst swifts darted in all directions. In many of the fields, farmers were busy cutting grass, or bailing it up. And the fields in which grass had been cut and removed, were dotted with dozens of crows, presumably feasting on exposed insects or earthworms, their blackness such a contrast to the light yellow colour of the cut grass. I passed through picturesque villages, such as Askham and Bampton, the houses built of local stone; and I crossed hump backed bridges, beneath which were bubbling brooks, or larger streams or rivers, in which brown trout could be seen rising. Beneath one bridge I observed a mother duck proudly guiding and protecting her five little fluffy ducklings. And as I cycled through wooded areas, I saw red squirrels scrambling up old oak trees, or leaping between branches.

Arriving in Penrith, I was greeted by an old gentleman, who proceeded to give me a long account of the history of his health, with dates of appointments, names of doctors, and names of various conditions. "Or was it that date? I tell a lie, it was..." I was torn. I wanted to listen, but I was also keen to continue. I was relieved when he was joined by another old  gentleman, wearing a beret, from which protruded wisps of silvery grey hair. This man had a cheeky look about him, and when I changed the subject away from health, and suggested I was now halfway to Land's End, he shook his head, and grinned, revealing his single tooth. He appeared to be the kind of person who was always going to disqualify what had just been said. "Oh no," he laughed, his eyes bulging. He then, somewhat triumphantly, I thought, proceeded to give me the exact mileage from John O'Groats, and the exact mileage to Land's End. The long short of it was, according to him, was that I had at least another hundred miles to go to the halfwway mark.

Today wasn't hot, as I'd been expecting from the forecast. Much of time the sky was overcast, or there was hazy sunshine. By mid afternoon, there were spots of rain, and an hour later this turned into a torrential downpour with a cool blustery wind. The downpour lasted well into the evening. When the rain eventually stopped, I was cycling along country lanes, with views across the Yorkshire Dales, and in particular the hills of Langdale, such as 'The Calf,' 'Calf Top,' and 'Wild Boar Fell.'  There is a strange freshness or newness about the countryside after such heavy rain. Mist clung to the highest peaks, and there was the sound of bleating sheep, a distant cockerel, the cry of a pheasant, the chirping of birds. Cycling was difficult, and for much of the time I walked.The road was like a roller coaster; no sooner had I gone downhill, then the road went up again. I'm also convinced I have been losing spokes when going down steep inclines. I guess that is when the wheel is under the greatest pressure. So, from now on I shall walk down the steeper hills.

It was during the heavy rain, that I met an old farmer. He saw me go past his pick up truck, and looked astonished to see me. He proceeded to follow my bike, both indicators on his truck flashing, for about a mile, only stopping, when I stopped to greet a fellow cyclist, soaked to the skin, beneath a bridge of the M6, close to a huge disused railway viaduct. The three of us got into conversation, the farmer having a broad, and difficult to understand, accent. The cyclist was doing end to end too, but the opposite way round to me. We decided between us that the point on which we were standing was undoubtedly the half way point. I shook the farmer's hand, and his skin had the texture of old leather.

Right now, I am camped in a midge infested field. Immediately outside my tent is an enormous, fat llama, making terrible noises; belching, grunting, spitting and farting. Shooing it away only seems to make it want to stay. The birds are chirping, the sun is rising, and it's time to carry on. I am not looking forward to this part of the journey, through heavily populated and industrial areas, where it will be difficult to find minor roads. I shall work out a route as best I can.

Carlisle and 'A Penny for your Thoughts.'

I woke this morning full of self-doubt, achey and tired. Why am I doing this ride? What's the point? I could so easily quit. It makes no difference to anyone. People think I'm crazy! If I quit, it'll soon be forgotten by others, and I can quickly put the memory of it behind me. Yes, we have choices on our journey's through life, so what gives people the willingness to stay in there when things get tough; like John, the eccentric man from Dalmellington, who nursed his wife for ten years as she slowly deteriorated in health? But then this ride is nothing compared to that, or the hundreds of people I have listened to over the years, struggling with unforeseen changes in their lives; sudden and unexpected deaths of children, illnesses, separations, and losses. I am minded once again to be in the present moment, not think ahead, and not pay attention to what others think. Now is all there is. Is it just coincidence that the word for a 'gift' is a 'present?' So is not the present moment a gift? It's all about where we choose to focus attention. And as has come out repeatedly on this trip, through talking to people, it's the journey that matters, not the destination. Everything can change in an instant, and permanency is illusory. I recollect once again what Adrian Burgess, the climber said, about focussing on the next hand hold and foothold, and not giving the summit any thought. With that in mind, from the local post sorting office, I collected the four remaining spokes I still possessed, that Kathy had sent me, and made my way to 'Re-Bike,' a bicycle recycling scheme in the city.                            
 
"No chance mate," said the manager of the scheme brusquely, when I showed him the small penny farthing wheel. It was a sweltering day, and he brushed away a fly, "It's a solid tyre as well. We just don't have anything like that!" Behind him, in an arched railway workshop, half a dozen oily handed volunteers were busy fiddling with bicycles; fitting a crank, adjusting brakes, fitting chains, and removing wheels. Half of the workshop was piled to the ceiling with bikes for recycling, a tangled mess of bike frames, wheels, brake pulleys, cranks and pedals. I'd known it was a long shot finding a wheel or a tyre; and now, disappointed, guessed I'd have to return to my son's and try and somehow sow the rear tyre together. But just as I was turning to leave, my eye caught one single wheel, still attached to its faded lime green frame. "What about that one?" I asked. It was the sort of weather that induces lethargy. The manager reluctantly disentangled the bike, and removed the wheel. Much to my amazement, it was exactly the same sized wheel as the existing one; identical apart from a different sized axle, which I was able to fit from the old wheel, myself. As can be seen from the photos below, the old tyre was pretty much past it, alarmingly splitting around the circumference of the wheel. I'm lucky I made it as far as Carlisle.

A replacement farthing!  What amazing fortune!

I am grateful to my daughter Chanti, who sent me the following saying this morning. 'People give up so fast, because they tend to look at how far they still have to go, instead of how far they have come.'
Looking at the map of the United Kingdom, I can see that I have in fact come a very long way. I'd say that by tomorrow evening I'll be over the half way point.

It had been my plan today to interview people at the Penny Farthing Cafe this afternoon. Not only did I have great difficulty finding it, every time I passed a pub on route, out would pour half a dozen men, laughing, joking, admiring, or genuinely interested. "Go on, show us how you ride it!" was shouted repeatedly. And I did ride it, to a huge round of applause and cheers. Arriving at the cafe, I found the shutters down, and the cafe empty. It was just about to close. However, Lynn, the owner, stayed open, and made me a baked potato with a tasty chicken and mango filling, together with some salad. As I ate, I noticed on the wall a poster. 'Never quit!' it said. After my lunch, Lynn and I took a few photos of the bike leaning against the railings of the cafe. In the evening I was able to interview two students, and once again was struck by how much our lives are shaped by societal expectations that limit or hinder us.

I will say more about 'A Penny for your Thoughts' as an idea in a later blog. Right now I need to get ready for the next part of the journey. By evening I hope to be in Kirkby Lonsdale. I was grateful for the rest yesterday, and not to have been cycling on the hottest day of the year, and in some places in the UK, the hottest day on record. Overnight there were violent thunderstorms and heavy rain. Right now, the sky is leaden, and I'll be surprised if I don't get a soaking at some point. That could be wonderfully refreshing.

Castle Douglas to Carlisle

The morning started with a most difficult decision, to stay in bed or get up. And what made that decision difficult, was the fact that I was snuggled up in my sleeping bag, whilst rain was pounding on the bivvy tent, sounding just like exploding popcorn. I was camped under an old oak tree, and with every gust of wind there was an additional downpour from the leaves and branches above, as if someone were throwing buckets of water over the tent. What also made the decision difficult, was the small size of the tent, a Rab Ridge Raider (which impressively kept me perfectly dry). Getting in is a question of going in feet first, and then pulling all the luggage in afterwards. Getting out is the same, but in reverse. This means, exiting the tent on a rainy day like this morning, exposes all the luggage, clothes, and maps to the elements. Eventually, I made a dash for it, wrapping things as best I could and preparing to get on my way. It was six thirty! And from the reflection of in the mirror of the shower room, and the bags under my eyes, I could see that I was dehydrated.  

There is a gym next to the campsite, and as I was leaving, the door opened, and out popped a large, bald, tattooed man, in red shorts and a red sleeveless vest. He instantly reminded me of Big Daddy, the wrestler. If you're too young to remember Big Daddy, let me tell you, he was a huge man, with a mighty chest, arms, and legs. He would pick up his opponents, fling them over his shoulder, and then land on them with a belly flop. He was the wrestler everyone loved to hate. "Hey," said the man enthusiastically, in a broad Scottish accent, "my grandfather was the first man to ride a penny farthing through the Gatehouse of Fleet!" An image of a stalwart figure, dressed in black Victorian clothing, riding proudly through the town, to the admiration of onlookers, entered my mind. Big Daddy then went on to tell me how his family had been blacksmiths, and could be traced back five hundred years in their association with this trade. The Gatehouse of Fleet, is a small town in the civic parish of Girthon, Kirkcudbrightshire. Most of the industry of the town centred around cotton mills.

By lunchtime, the heavy cloud had lifted, the sun was hot, and the air was excessively humid. My shirt clung to me, and there was nothing I would have liked more than to be able to jump into a cool river. Every few miles I was forced to refill my water bottle. There were some beautiful views across the Solway Firth to the Cumbrian Fells, dark blue shaped mountains on the horizon. In the fields I saw newly born calves, still struggling to stand, and there was the smell of freshly cut grass. The hedgerows were largely adorned with pink dog rose, large white daisy flowers with yellow centres, and purple loosestrife. Swifts darted in and out of the eaves of the largely single storey houses in local villages.

All the teachers, and all the pupils of the local primary school were waiting to see me as I cycled up an incline into the village of Mouswald. I stopped and had a chat as they took photographs. I then said goodbye to the two pupils and the teacher, and cycled on. Yes, this has to be the smallest state run school I have ever encountered. Not much further down the road, I was to meet a most unlikely character, dressed for tennis. He seemed an unassuming, quiet sort of chap. Now maybe it was on account of the excessive heat, and a touch of sun stroke, but after a while conversing with him, and getting no reply, I told him I thought he was not playing ball, and was bone idle.

I was pleased half a mile further down the road to be flagged down by Edith. She and her husband Colin, had literally just returned from a five week holiday, but as has been characteristic of this trip, they kindly invited me in. Edith cooked up two bacon butties and made me a hot mug of coffee. Delicious! In Annan I was greeted by the local reporter, who proceeded to take numerous shots of me cycling down the main high street. "We heard you were coming," he said. A few miles outside Annan, just past the Devil's porridge museum, I met a farmer, John Beattie. He had been waiting by his gate for some time in the knowledge that a penny farthing was on its way. He was delighted to see me, and took numerous photos of the penny. He then proceeded to show me his collection of two cylinder David Brown tractors, all of which he displays at vintage rallies. "You've made my day," he told me repeatedly.

I have always loved porridge, so I was intrigued by the idea of a museum devoted to the history of my staple breakfast. However, the Devil's porridge museum tells the history of a munitions factory that has been described as the greatest on earth. Known as HM Factory Gretna, and founded during the First World War, it stretched for nine miles along the Solway Firth, and produced more cordite than all the other UK factories combined. In 1917, it produced 1,100 tons of cordite a week, an explosive powder made of nitrocellulose, nitroglycerin, and petrolatum, then dissolved in acetone, dried, and excluded in cords. Eastrigg and nearby Gretna both provided housing for up to thirty thousand workers. Amazing statistics, I thought, as I pedalled away. But is there really no other way to manage conflict than to produce tons upon tons of explosives?

Gretna Green is renowned for its runaway weddings. It is one of the world's most popular wedding destinations, hosting over 5000 weddings a year. I was greeted in Gretna by Chris, an Australian. Having taken a picture of the penny, he informed he was here to get married to the Scottish woman from Edinburgh, he has been living with for the last nine years in Australia. Chris works in a gold mine as a cartographer.

Shortly after leaving Gretna, I crossed the border.

I am on the homestretch now, I thought. However, the last few miles to Carlisle, on a road directly adjoining the motorway, seemed endless. I was hot and parched. As I approached the city, I stopped at some traffic lights. A black car with a loud exhaust, and music blaring, pulled up beside me. It was full of young lads. "Hey mate," shouted the driver, "your wheel's too big!" There was the sound of irritating raucous laughter. Eventually I neared my destination, the smells from the McVitie's factory wafting in the air, making me realise how hungry I felt.  I am looking forward to a day's rest, the hottest day of the year to date I understand.

Tomorrow I must sort out the back wheel, and true the front wheel. I lost a further four spokes yesterday, and I can only assume this is to do with the bumpy road surface, as I am not excessively tightening them. I am disappointed I have been unable to conduct more interviews, 'A Penny for your Thoughts.'  Maybe I am used to adopting a reflexive stance to life, whilst for others it is more threatening. Perhaps I am diving in too quickly, and need to allow the conversation to evolve. I'll visit the Penny Farthing cafe tomorrow and see if I can find people willing to converse.