Hadrians Cycleway The end of Day 1

Alston is the highest market town in England; it’s also remote, hidden away in the moors. Any direction you wish to approach it from confronts you with a heather clad windswept emptiness, which in winter can be extreme. Alston is a delightful place; its steep main street is still cobbled and is lined with buildings that in the main date back to the 17^th Century, it just oozes character.

It dates back to Roman times when there was a garrison not far from the present day town protecting their lead mining interests. It is thought that the town in its present form has existed for more than 4 centuries with lead mining playing the leading role in its existence. Life on these upland hills was unremittingly hard and many tombstones tell of premature deaths, poverty and a high infant mortality rate. It was certainly not for the faint hearted. Today, it’s a bustling little place with a reputation for great cheese and Cumberland Mustard and is without doubt one of my favourite English Towns.

It had been raining before I got there and the cobbles were shiny wet. Looking down the steep main street, if I was to ride as I normally did, it was obvious, even to the uninitiated, that it was a disaster waiting to happen. I’d have to be really, really careful, there could be no flamboyant throwing of caution to wind in an attempt to impress the locals today. There was no way that I was going to provide them with a side show, no matter how much I liked their town. In the event it looked worse than it actually was, and before I knew it, I was on my way to Hartside.

Hartside is a pass over the Pennines that was voted one of the 10 best drives in the world by the AA. It’s not a pass in the true sense of the word, such as the Baboon Pass in Lesotho, which is a narrow, steep, twisty track, complete with bowel loosening drops, even 4x4’s struggle to navigate it. (My brother-in-law recently wrestled a Landrover to the top, the account of which, plus everything you ever wanted to know about 4X4’s and off road adventure can be found at http://www.4xforum.com/) 

Hartside is a fairly steep road which has many a twist and turn and is loved by bikers, who appear to delight in killing themselves on its bends. It’s a long climb culminating in the world’s most expensive café.

I set off determined not to stop before I hit the top. As I steadily made my way up the pass, it suddenly struck me that I was actually enjoying all of this.

“If this is what bicycle touring is all about, then I’ll have a large slice.” I thought.

I could definitely see myself doing this day in and day out, which, given that I had recently opted out of normal everyday life, was probably just as well.

I rounded the next bend and was mildly astounded to discover that I’d made it. I was on top. Laid out in front of me in all its splendour was the Lake District, the home of some of my happiest memories and the place where, given the choice, I’d spend eternity.

Do I stop, or do I just keep going? Was the question. My backside felt as though it had been attacked with a chain saw, so in a moment of weakness I stopped. Not only did I stop, but I was tempted, after a speculative sniff of my armpits, into the world’s most expensive café.

When I got to the counter, I realised with a sigh, that this had not been a good idea. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally managed to attract the attention of an extremely bored and disinterested looking woman, who for reasons best known to herself, proceeded to give me a look, the likes of which I had not experienced since my disco days.

My disco days had coincided with the era of Grease, Saturday Night Fever and The Fonz, and for reasons that are completely incomprehensible; I somehow misguidedly believed I was as cool as Danny Zuko. Throughout those heady days I was totally consumed by girls, I was unrelenting in my pursuit of them, not that it did me any good, as it turned out.

My approach, as I recall, always involved asking the least attractive girl in the room if I could buy her a drink and being told to fuck off….. I would then drink far more than was good for me, attempt to ride home like Barry Sheene, and crash my motor bike. This crashing was not entirely restricted to riding home either; I did, on a quite a few occasions manage to crash on the way there as well. My poor parents, God bless them, must have despaired.

This delusion lasted until I joined the army, when in the space of 10 seconds it was made abundantly clear to me by a wild eyed corporal that I was not cool, but was, and I quote, ‘A fucking disgrace, to which he added, if you aren’t back here within 10 minutes with that pathetic fucking hair cut, and with a complete change of fucking attitude I’m going to…………….’ I’ve have left his remedial treatment out for the sake of decency.  So, with a squeak and a little spurt of urine, I scurried off, Danny Zuko forever gone.

I’m relieved to say that I did eventually get the act together, without the need for any exotic treatment either. This transformation pleased my long suffering parents immeasurably.

After the frustratingly protracted business of trying to get this woman, who would undoubtedly have attracted my youthful attention, to connect with the concept that I actually wanted to buy something, I came away with a miserable little square of some breakfast cereal coated in chocolate, for which I paid the princely sum of £4.50. It all goes to show that there’s no fool like an old fool, and on that rather despondent note, I think we should rapidly move on.

That was it! The challenge was over, I’d conquered the two big climbs, all that was left now was the run down to the Lakes.

The descent, towards the Lakes, from the world’s most expensive café is far steeper than the ascent. It drops though a series of exhilarating sweeping bends to the plane below. In my desire to put the extremely bored and disinterested looking woman as far behind as possible, I flamboyantly threw caution to the wind and took off down the hill like a low flying jet. It was absolutely brilliant. There was very little traffic and I was flying, at one point my Speedo hit 49 mph.

I had just lined myself up to take a very fast bend when, ‘splat,’ a bug came over the top my cycling glasses and exploded in my eye. My immediate thought was, “I’ve been shot.” Followed closely by, “this is going to really hurt,” as I went into a truly monstrous wobble which caused the trailer to start fish tailing. By this time I was well and truly committed to the corner and had no option but to just close the shot eye, clench the buttocks, shut down the brain and go for it.

As it happened, I somehow managed to nail it. I grabbed the brakes and with the smell of burning pads, stopped. I leapt off the bike, rubbing my eye in an attempt to remove whatever had hit me, only to dislodge my contact lens, which then proceeded to disappear behind my eye. No matter what I did I could not retrieve it, I did however manage to remove the remains of the bug. The lost contact lens was an irritation which I reconciled myself to living with, until I could find a mirror. The rest of the ride into The Lakes was mercifully uneventful.

The Lake District National Park is a truly wondrous place. It is home to over 80 glacial lakes, several reservoirs and mountain tarns, as well as England’s highest mountain and deepest water, Sca Fell Pike and Wast Water. It is an area of stunning beauty. It has been populated since the end of the Ice Age with each subsequent age leaving its mark. You can find Neolithic axe factories, Bronze Age stone circles, Iron Age hill forts, Roman roads and the Viking practice of dry stone walling, as well as what is arguably the most lasting mark, language. Everyday words such as beck which means stream, dale - valley, fell - hill or mountain and gill – ravine, are some of many Viking words that are still in use today.

I have spent years wandering its fells, and know the majority of them intimately. Yet their names, Blencathra, Hellvellan, Skidaw and Fairfield, to name but a few, still send a shiver of excitement coursing through me when I hear them.

William Wordsworth, John Ruskin, Beatrix Potter and Alfred Wainwright are just a few of the many well known people who have been seduced by its beauty. It’s the home of rock climbing, fell running and the place where Donald Campbell made his ill fated attempt at breaking his own water speed record.

It has produced, without any doubt, some of this country’s finest athletes, who outside fell running circles are barely known, which is how they wanted it. People like Joss Naylor, Kenny Stuart, Billy Bland, Alan Schofield and Leo Pollard, the toughest most resolute men you could ever hope to encounter.

By the time I reached Keswick, a Victorian Town on the banks of Derwent Water I was ready to collapse. I found the campsite and in cheerless drizzle, set about putting up my tent. The contact lens was refusing to budge so I was most relieved when my dear friend Penny arrived and removed it. We went to a nearby pub and after a couple of drinks, I retired to my sleeping bag only to spend the next hour or so listening to a man snore with such ferocity that if I had not been so tired, I would have been impressed.