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.