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.