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.