At the End of the World

In some ways this day was the hardest. Partly that was because of the wind,
but partly it was because as soon as we got off the Thames ferry in Gravesend we thought we were home. We thought it was just a quick hop, skip and a jump and we'd be finished. In fact it was still another 60 miles. But it was good to be back, in the rolling hills and woodlands, among the oast houses and orchards. We stopped in Headcorn for lunch before pushing on for the coast and Dungeness. When we got to within sight of the power station the landscape changed and, as in Caithness right at the beginning, it felt like we'd reached the end of the world. Which gave the ride a pleasing symmetry: from world's end to world's end. And at the end there was a cluster of people waiting for us and cheering, with bunting, champagne and cake. At the end of our long 900 mile odyssey, they were there to welcome us home. Thanks to everyone who helped and supported us on our way, who's put us up or ridden with us, sponsored us and encouraged us. It was fabulous.

And This Was How It Happened

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All week we could feel the excitement mounting. In every village and every town we passed through there were flags and pictures, posters and notices for street parties and barbecues. And now the day itself was here, the day of the Royal Wedding. We started off with Luke, my nephew, who's not only a keen cyclist, but has the ability to be the next Lance or Eddy, unlike us washed up wannabes. He demonstrated this by riding out with us in the morning. He gamely accompanied us, leading us through bunting-bedecked villages and on to the rolling hills of the Essex borders. He accompanied us, but wasn't really with us; as soon as he spotted a hill he was like a cheetah after antelope, leaving us struggling in his dust. By the time he turned and headed back home our legs were spent and we had to find a café to recover. We stopped in Thaxted, a pretty little medieval village near Saffron Walden. Inside the café the Royal Wedding was playing on three screens. A group of families at the back were being served burgers and chips whilst they watched. They cheered whenever William or Kate appeared. Some of their children waved plastic flags and dressed as princesses. Outside other children rode up and down on BMXs. Across the road medieval oak-framed houses fluttered with union jacks. The road, and all roads that morning, were empty. The sun was sultry, and we sat at a table outside and talked to another cyclist who was travelling the other way, to Cambridge. And this was how it happened, this Royal Wedding, in the heart of the English countryside.

Wind

In the afternoon we entered the flat fenlands of eastern England. The wind whipped across the fields and made our progress by turns torturous, by turns divine. When it was behind us we barely needed to pedal. Like Anthony Hopkins in ' The Fastest Indian' we only had to concentrate on keeping our machines under control in a straight line. But when it was against us we were more like Scott of the Antartic, fighting for every inch of ground gained. The wind played with our minds, and you'd find yourself repeating random snatches of songs, or conversations, or jokes, just to keep yourself sane. Me, I sketched out lists and complaints, against the confused state of the National Cycle Network, against the lacklustre cafes we'd visited between Thurso and here, and against the slow death of the British village. The day's destination arrived not a moment too soon. We made ourselves at home and, when my sister Julie got back from work, spent the evening eating and drinking, talking and laughing, and almost forgot that there were still two days and 150 miles to go.

The Beast of Bilsdale Moor: Photographic Evidence

The photo I loaded yesterday was of the top of the hill. As a result some doubters out there have suggested that the Beast doesn't actually exist, that the light must have been bad, and that we must have mistaken a common or garden domestic hill for the Beast. Fortunately there is some photographic evidence that will scotch these rumours. The attached photo is of the head of the Beast. Note how the road just seems to end. It's at that point that it goes down at a 90 degree angle to the plain below. Behold the Beast!

Finding the Salient Feature

We hit the Humber around noon. In front of us the sullen brown water churned despondently. We looked over to the monumental Humber Bridge and wondered why it was ever made. Sure, it was good for us and our current needs, but it seemed a little over the top as a solution to the problem of connecting one sparsely populated rural county with another. Apparently the Bridge is so wide that the two towers aren't quite parallel due to the curvature of the earth. When it was built it was the largest suspension bridge in the world, and is still the longest that allows bikes. All this to connect Grimsby and Hull. Or Hessle and Barton-upon-Humber. The countryside either side of the Bridge is perfect for fast, purposeful cycling. The rolling Wolds are criss crossed with wide, well maintained roads but little traffic. Olivier, however, still had a problem with Lincolnshire. 'It lacks. . .' he said, when we'd stopped for a bisuit break by yet another enormous field, 'any salient features.' He had a point, but was proved wrong when we got to Lincoln itself. In a sparsely populated county, in a small medieval town, they had managed to created a traffic jam the size of Manchester. The traffic entwined and engulfed the city, clogging the narrow streets and gridlocking junctions. There wasn't even room for bikes to snake past. There were simmering, stationary streams of cars pouring into the city as well as pouring out. It was an awe-inspiring sight. I had a Doodleart poster in the 70s that had imagined a very similar scene, with a future city of flyovers filled with stationary cars. It had been entitled, in that slightly preachy, heavy-handed 70s way, 'Progress?' Well, Lincoln at rush hour might not be Progress, but as a salient feature, it was world class.

Olivier and his Knees

The Beast of Bilsdale Moor

'So are there many hills on that road?' I asked Richard, when I phoned him from Stockton. We were in a bike shop, getting Olivier's wheel replaced. I was phoning my mum to say we'd be there by mid-afternoon. Richard, her husband, had answered the phone. 'Um, one or two. . . ' he replied. What he really meant was, 'abandon hope! You're about to enter a world of pain! The world will turn vertical, a place where farmers only keep their sheep fixed to the hillside with velcro, and shepherds use climbing ropes and crampons.' Sure enough, an hour later we were coughing up blood, wheezing and sweating, leaning forward on our front wheels just to keep them on the road. We should have known it would be like this: the clues had all been there on the map. The tell tale chevrons, the snaking track of the road and, worst of all, the sunburst of a viewpoint close by. Wherever you see that sunburst you know there's a massive great hill in the offing. By the end 'the Beast' defeated us, and we walked the last part. Once over the Cleveland Hills the road was glorious, swooping and turning as it descended into Helmsley. The Beast had been tamed - or, perhaps more accurately, had tired of toying with such poor, defenceless prey - and left us to meekly crawl on to the welcome and comfort of Edstone.