A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.
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Lauderdale’s beyond prolific. This clocks in as his 34th album containing 13 tracks. As one of americana’s big names he inhabits the country/rock/pop end of the spectrum but has a number of roots albums in his recent collection. Last year’s When Carolina Comes Home Again was a country release and a homily to the State and it’s music. This album has more mainstream commercial sensibilities but you’ll find some folk, country and even jazz inflections. Lyrically he’s focussed on being positive during the pandemic and mitigating the effect it’s had on peoples’ lives. I think we can all agree that’s a good idea.
With this modus operandii “The Opportunity To Help Somebody Through It” is the first track: it’s a light rock track underpinned by electric guitars whilst Lauderdale exhorts the upside of helping those struggling. It’s an upbeat opening with a memorable chorus and some deft picking. “Sister Horizon” is another easy pop sound with a delightful chorus and an acoustic guitar picking the melody.
“The Brighter Side Of Lonely “ just emphasises what a nice guy he really must be. He seeks to lift a friend out of a slough of despair. Their “making friends with being sad today” and they should “meet on the brighter side of lonely.” The tune matches the optimism and such a clever lyric is a highlight of the album. Pedal steel introduces “Breathe Real Slow” and it sounds like the Rick Rubin era of Johnny Cash. He adopts a gravelly voice and with a profound delivery advises some retrospection in the face of adversity. The chorus is a another great melody on this pure rock track.
I imagine everyone is taking an interest in the Olympics. You’ve got to feel for the Japanese: they’ve spent all this money and even attendance at the events is prohibited or limited yet they’ll be paying for it all for decades. It seems the IOC and global television companies get the benefits. A mystery is the pleasure we all get from simply accumulating medals irrespective of what the sport is (and being ahead of the French and Germans in the league table.) It’s simply a competitive scrabble irrespective of what they’re competing for.
Many of the events are truly mystery: take taekwondo. As I write we have a chance of another medal. Our athlete who I’ve never heard of despite a lifetime of devotion (by her and her parents) to raising her feet above her head violently whilst standing. The sport is nearly unwatchable as clad in a helmet and wearing a padded mat around your middle you try and kick the opponent in the head or thump them in the stomach. The event also ‘enjoys’ several minute time outs whilst the competitor’s coach seeks to have points deducted off the opponent via a type of VAR scrutiny. The last bout I watched saw the British girl (sorry Katrina, woman) lose in the last second. How the hell do you cope with the disappointment?
Last time Beach Volleyball got ridiculed (apart from the kit!) I think Street Skateboarding is running it close. The sport involves jumping on your skate board and then propelling it whilst spinning so you can slide down a staircase handrail in outside spaces. We used to caution youngsters for doing this in town centres?
I have enjoyed all the cycling whether Tour de France or Olympic. The Olympic schedule has coincided with the mornings and I did sit riveted to the road races and the Otley lad, Tom Pidcock, who won the Mountain Bike Cross Country race. At Le Tour I was so delighted for Mark Cavendish, a real fairy tale slightly tarnished by not getting the 35th Tour stage victory. However, knowing what Eddie Merckx achieved, and how he did it, then maybe a tie is apposite.
The God that is Mark Cavendish
Cavendish may have got the green jersey but an unexpected delightful prize dropped through the letterbox from Jude and Peter up in Edinburgh. A fitting medal for the Lands End to John O’Groats bike ride. Thank you.
Ann-Marie, my sister, has been reinforcing the bottom of her garden. It backs onto a stream that sadly becomes a brutal rushing river when there is heavy rain on the local Welsh hills. The result is the washing away of about five feet of an already small garden. I helped with the contractor selection and costings. I rushed down on Tuesday to be on site early for discussions.
In my haste I left without money. Not ideal if you need to fill up your car with diesel when nearly at her home near Conwy for the return trip. I have a payment solution on my Apple Watch and so no problem, that is, if I had chosen to wear it on the trip! So I then recollected I could install it on my iPhone and this I did. This isn’t an ideal emergency solution in case there is a problem.
The problem might be that if I filled up the car with £50 worth of fuel to find the App didn’t work? I had hoped to find a sympathetic cashier I could do a trial run with by buying something cheap that they could refund if the phone didn’t work. I entered the busty petrol station hoping for a young person who would understand the technology and help me establish if it worked. Brilliantly I found a teenager who calmly ran through the trial purchase: it worked! (I felt that I had also won a Gold Medal with this small technological triumph.)
If you haven’t watched Clarkson’s Farm on Amazon Prime then you’re missing a treat. Clarkson’s not everyone’s cup of tea but he nicely gets out of his comfort zone as a farmer. We spend a season with the man, and his workers, managing the arable lands and livestock (sheep). It’s quite instructive about the rudimentary nature of farming and predictably there is considerable slapstick and hilarity. Check it out . Below are the local crops I see on my constitutional.
The camera works it’s way down the side of the train until we find Jacob Tovar standing in the doorway of an open boxcar, he’s stood legs astride, playing acoustic guitar to the wide open spaces that the train’s passing through. “I Felt Love”, with its shuffling beat and the rhythm of a train, fits perfectly. As the shot closes in we see behind Tovar is his four piece band. We immediately know that this must be a steam locomotive upfront as Paul Wilkes is plucking an upright bass. Adding to the atmosphere is a squealing, yet discrete pedal steel, whilst the drums maintain this travelling beat. The words are about a peripatetic musician and the regret he has for being away from home for long stretches. My scene is imaginary but it would have been my video of this first single off the album to encapsulate the magic.
This is a perfect confection of traditional and contemporary country with exceptional lyrics and stories. Daniel released his first album in 2018; this is his third. In this short time garnered praise and awards as a new, authentic talent who can write a fabulous song and deliver it with a magnetic vocal. Here there’s a variety of country sounds from the 60s to the 90s, all drenched in melody and personality. and his partner, and sometime co-writer, Jodi Lyford own their independent record label. He’s clearly an entrepreneur and to complement this acumen he’s assembled a brilliant cast to support him on the record: firstly Tommy Detamore (a seasoned producer with a CV including Jim Lauderdale, Moe Bandy and Sunny Sweeney) was on controls and steel guitar. Detamore’s recruited some ace, veteran musicians to play on the record and they elevate the whole sound. The players include Ronnie Huckaby (George Strait), Kevin Smith (Willie Nelson) and John Carroll (Jim Lauderdale).
For a millennial Daniel has already lived enough for a lifetime of stories, including beating substance abuse. This shows in his songs: “Gray” tells of a good friend who’s addicted and has begun slipping away. His clear and mellifluous voice tells the story over an acoustic guitar, before a piano contributes a few chords in advance of a viola adding the heart wrenching emotion. Equally bleak but compelling is “Clayton Was A Cowboy”. It’s a story of a successful, swashbuckling rodeo cowboy who’s on the circuit, living fast and loose. A lively dance rhythm, with some fabulous finger-picking and a slapped snare beat, helps recount his life and demise in the ring over five verses.
(A little unusual to start the blog with ending but it seems right.)
The weather was beautiful first thing at Crask Inn. At 8am it was T shirt weather as we pushed off and left Elsa to lead her horses south and the lean Belgian cycling couple to pack up their tent and head north (at a gentler pace than ourselves.) I said goodbye to my favourite soft toy – a ‘Heeland coo’.
The terrain fell toward the coast but it seemed that long descents were balanced by demanding little climbs. We lost 200 metres of altitude with little pleasure. They were resurfacing the road on one section and I had to plead with the highways crew to let us through, a detour today was not desirable! After over a couple of hours we’d reached the coast.
The fun was now going to start…not. A headwind blew for 50 miles going east. It was expected as the coast usually has this wind but frankly it became gruelling as some steep climbs came along with darkening skies and falling temperatures. This wasn’t going to be a victory lap. With modern cycling Sat Nav devices you can receive a lot of data about the ride as you go along. One key piece of information is how many miles to go. When you’re climbing for about two hours the distance covered seems to stop and I look at my device feeling I’m getting nowhere.
The Inverness YHA was in an earlier life a student accommodation block and so had greater space. The staff here seemed more enlightened and had a flexible attitude to the guests. It was a much better experience. We ate our porridge and hit the road north. Then a remarkable thing happened…
We met Jay a fellow Lejogger from Cheltenham. He’d started off camping, then had his wife support him and now was by himself for the last couple of days. Unpicking his route, equipment and logistics brought up more questions than answers but he was, like other younger people, learning and on a great adventure. We suggested a coffee as we got to Dingwall. On a Sunday it was a ghost town bar the large Tesco that seemed to be the local hive of activity.
Jay was a tall strapping lad on a road bike. With flimsy wheels his weight and his luggage were quite a burden. It seems he’d struggled from the start of his ride with spokes breaking. At Tesco it happened again, not a convenient problem on a Sunday in a small town with everything shut. However Jay was game to sort it himself. Peter volunteered to help but was turned down; in reality he was lucky to have Peter available to help. This was until the very end when Peter’s offer of help was accepted and the wheel sorted (we hoped.) From here he was up and running and heading east to Helmsdale on the coast whilst we were going due north to Crask.
After meeting one Lejogger then came Chris from Bradford, riding 100 miles a day for the Woodland Trust charity. He looked all in and complained of several ailments: at least he was now close to the finish.
The inconsistency of how establishments control social distancing and reduce the risk of infection is never more contradictory than at the YHA. Glencoe had all the self catering facilities out of bounds but after having a shower and toilet allocated to us exclusively I still found a plonker showering in our bathroom. He didn’t absorb the rules when explained to him at Reception. I did after hammering on our washroom door and explaining it. The YHA also don’t sell food at the moment either, so why is it safe in a hotel, B&B or pub?
Granted there are different rules between England and Scotland for reasons that can only be explained by the Scottish government wanting to energetically demonstrate they are different.
Each YHA is manned by organised millennials who carry out all the rules to the letter. Peter was apoplectic about denied entry to the YHA when arriving before me. Entry was apparently denied until the actual person who booked the room checked in. Peter asked the receptionist to waive this but she said “no”. Peter then embarked on a well worn routine of challenging this mindless bureaucracy, as only he can, with various arguments. The millennial held firm against the 59 year old. When I arrived, to the team building comment from him of “oh I thought you’d be longer”, Peter ran through the long list of arguments he put to her including “If you’re worried, ask your boss.” “I am the boss.” (You have to love her don’t you!) I did think he’d met his match when his last compelling argument was that he’d been to this hostel 43 years ago!
Undaunted by this setback Peter then decided to tackle the local pub’s decision to not allow diners to eat in an empty dining room inside. Rejection and counter arguments came and went with another millennial on the bar like watching a rally at Wimbledon. Eventually Peter hit on a winning strategy of playing for sympathy. His vulnerability to midge bites was a risk to his physical and mental well being he said. (This was despite wearing more SkinSo Soft by Avon, the ultimate midge repellant, to immobilise a small colony of the hateful insects in any case.) He won them over and we ate inside.
An early start saw us cover the 15 miles from Glencoe to Fort William for breakfast. The cafe owner was English (remember this, there’s a theme developing.) That done it was basically all about following the Caledonia Canal to Inverness.
This 19th Century triumph of waterway engineering linked the east and west coast of Scotland by water.
There are few British men who are not delighted to receive a Full English breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, mushrooms, grilled tomato and maybe a hash brown plus buttered toast. However after 10 mornings and probably eight cooked breakfasts the thrill has gone.
I asked our landlady, Amanda, if all the cyclists on our long distance jaunt still ordered the ‘works’ or opted for something lighter. “Och aye” she started in her beautiful Paisley accent “there’S plenty that just want porridge and toast”. We’d nearly reached that stage.
Eating in our room as they’re refurbishing the dining room. (Peter’s too poor to afford a jersey with sleeves or rear pockets.)A bit of air in my tyres
We were quickly onto the reviled A82 that would be our companion all day. The road is the main artery to get north and west. It took all types of traffic: cars, trucks, buses, camper vans, motorcycles etc. All usually on the road at the same time.
The B&B landlord and landlady were from Kirbymoorside in North Yorkshire. As part of a midlife crisis Mark was sick of being a car mechanic and Dawn was restless; so they bought the B&B after an extensive search. Moffat was delightful as a location but also affordable and when the property turned up they bought it. They were a chatty couple and interesting hosts. The flow of LEJOG cyclists was a nice little earner along with other regulars. In the garage where we stored our bikes he was putting a new engine in an old car for a friend. The ‘friend’ had done them some favour and this barter system seemed to be a way of getting things done round here.
Getting ready to go
It was climbing from the start although nothing like the Cornwall and Devon hills. We were soon high up in a green and unspoilt landscape. It was terrific. The morning was fresh, dry and bright.
Eventually we fell a 100 metres or more and met up with our old friend the M74 and the old road beside it. We rode that and it rose and fell. It was quite hard work. Peter had alerted me to Scottish road surfaces and in places the surface was nearly unrideable, a bit like going over cobbles. The road wasn’t damaged: it was the use of very large aggregate/stones as part of the top dressing. I feared for my bike as I clattered along. One sign depressed me though…
The YHA at Keswick was ‘intimate’! Peter kindly volunteered for the top bunk bed and I didn’t argue.
In fairness to the hostel about the size of the rooms then having a balcony was a bonus and the view was delightful.
Also this was the best view at breakfast so far.
Another Full English!
So after this plateful it was time to hit the road. Yesterday had been tough with awful legs and I’d been to Boots for various lotions. How would today go? The first five miles were rolling, the sun was out and the temperature was fresh. As we moved away from the Lakes the hills became less dramatic until there was a fork in the road to ‘go climbing’ as per the Guide’s route or the option to stick to the A road and get to Carlisle by a longer but easier route. Peter ascended and I pedalled off on the flatter roads.
A question posed each morning at a B&B is “what time would you like breakfast?” We reply “7.30” and they say “8 O’Clock is the earliest”. So it was at The Black Bull Hotel. It’s not with a little irony that the brewer’s truck turned up at 6.45am and there began the symphony of metal casks being dropped, rolled and manhandled in ways that maximised noise as they emptied and then loaded the cellar. This extra time awake was therefore deployed in blogging, shaving and stretching. (The plan is to loosen up all muscles around the knee to put less strain on it.)
The weather looked bright and dry and so lay ahead a trip into the Lake District as well as the later event of England vs Germany for a place in the Euro Quarter Finals.
The start was chilly but the route was all downhill as we continued to enjoy The Forest of Bowland. Discreetly placed new housing developments were visible; who wouldn’t want to live here? Everything looked well cared for and smart.
After a sort of rest day I set off in trepidation wondering if I had actually recovered a little from that half day. The route was up through Manchester City centre. In fact the ride was quite fast despite the rush hour traffic, rubbish road surfaces and infrequent cycle lanes. After all the media exposure of Manchester’s mayor, Andy Burnham I would have thought a bit more action and a little less talk would be a good idea on transportation.
The condition of British roads, their maintenance and adaptation to be cycle friendly would take many £ billions. Looking at Manchester then to restore the road surfaces is an enormous project, to redesign layouts for bicycles means reducing space for motor vehicles (no votes in that) and large capital investment and then keeping it all in good condition necessitates a dramatic expansion of the Highways Department and it’s budget. It’s not going to happen.
Any urban road system is maintained by that town or city council. They’re always strapped for cash. Think of the many statutory obligations they have to fulfil with their taxes. Filling potholes is not a priority. Major highways are maintained by The Highways Agency and they’re well funded, look how good a condition major A roads and motorways are. Lastly many out of town but local roads are maintained by the County Council Highways Departments. You’ve often seen repairs up country lanes and scratched your head as to why city residential streets carrying thousands of cars are potholed ruins yet blokes are mending unused roads in the middle of nowhere; now you know, it’s a different organisation and budget. The whole system, responsibility and funding is a shambles isn’t it. Feel free to ask me questions, I spent six months visiting councils and analysing their Highway Department’s performance in my last job. Who says I’m dull?
Another observation about Manchester is the diversity. When I was a student there, over 40 years ago, it would have meant a few scousers, Irish and southerners mixed in. Today it is much farther afield with mothers and daughters abounding in hijabs as they headed to school, folk who were African, in ethnicity, by origin on their way to work and then in North Manchester Orthodox Jews in their strict dress code often pushing buggies with young children in ‘western dress’. Quite a mix.
The road rose from the centre of Manchester. The Sat Nav directed us hither and thither:
We set off toward Knutsford. Peter lived there many years ago and wanted to visit and then weep at the gates of his former home knowing it would now have appreciated sufficiently for him to be able to buy a large yacht and qualified crew to man it.) Knutsford was and is a very up and coming place; very smart. So were the bountiful millennials on their expensive carbon bikes out for early morning rides and zipping past us.
We passed over the canal and admired how the skipper steered the barge under the bridge
Today was about riding to the Favourite Eldest Daughter’s home near Stockport to meet the family, dine royally, clean bikes and do our laundry. Peter was also attempting to rehabilitate his Garmin Sat Nav that has been behaving peculiarly.
First, however, we were aiming for Wilmslow to meet Harry, the Favourite Youngest Daughter’s partner. He was joining us for a spin to Reddish. On our other rides my fitness and lighter bikes had given me a telling advantage over him. Here, on a much heavier bike and with my legs like rhubarb Harry was considerably more lively. Later asked why he didn’t get his own back and humiliate me with the odd sprint past he kindly said he didn’t want to be unkind given my earlier days riding. He was told by Peter and me that when on a bike the chance arises to ‘kick a man when he’s down’ you should do it with alacrity!
Given the absence of the hosts I did wonder how the breakfast would be served? Would R2-D2 crash out of the kitchen brandishing plates of bacon and egg or would the host emerge wearing a deep sea diver suit?
In the end a human being, without a mask, brought the fairly mediocre Full English. Given the requirements of cycling then cereal or porridge would have been preferred. However at breakfast were two ladies (Katrina…women) attending a wedding later in the day nearby. One lady’s husband had ridden across the USA and so that was a common interest and the other lady was originally from Arkansas and so country music was discussed. Bliss! Venturing outside the day was overcast but the horror drenching of last night had evaporated and whilst a little cool it was not uncomfortable. It was goodbye to Hereford Cathedral.
Herefordshire was delightful and whilst the hills were hard they didn’t, unlike Norman Hunter, bite yer legs. There was also the surprising courtesy of drivers who stopped and let us pass on narrow lanes. (Clearly all the higher IQ Cornish had relocated here.) There was an obvious level of prosperity and some attractive properties.
Shortly we’d crossed the border and were into Shropshire and at Ludlow. This town was known to me by name but was a complete delight to discover. Like Monmouth this was another treasure found on the ride. If you travel slowly by bicycle she certainly absorb the sights and sounds.
So the first thing the window check revealed was a grey overcast and windy day. Disappointing. With the high mileage demands of the next couple of days an early start was in order. (The Premier Inn steer you next door to their affiliate restaurant for breakfast and last night’s dinner wasn’t good enough to make us want to return.) So Peter added some water to our porridge ‘cuppas’.
Adopting the ‘child’s pose’ or facing Mecca?
Soon we were sorted; a photo taken of our fine establishment and at 7.25am we were pedalling away.
The first 5 miles were bliss until we hit the 300m vertical ‘lump’ that was the Old Bristol Road. This was a tough start to the day with the legs screaming but by 9am 15 miles had been covered, we had a reward, and it felt like we were making progress. The countryside was rolling and verdant as we headed downhill off the hills north to the coast and Avonmouth.
Bristol seemed cycle friendly with many paths to assist you more directly and safely through the city. One took us through a park.
Repurposed bridge for cycling
Other Lejoggers had complained of the awfulness of getting through a busy, traffic choked part of Bristol to get to the Severn Bridge. As regards directions then with Sat Nav there were few missteps. It was tortuous with cycle paths swapping sides of the road and not without risk when on the main roads with fast and heavy trucks. The aspect that got to me was the noise of large trucks speeding closely by. It was a cacophony for an hour or so. But we saw some iconic sights.
Clifton Suspension Bridge
Our bridge to cross the Severn was reached and frankly was a little of an anticlimax.
Over the bridge was Wales and after riding for over 5 hours some food was needed. A supermarket had to suffice.
You can see by my clothing that it wasn’t warm (the corned beef roll was though)
The road was still up and down and the legs were terribly sore. The new lower gear helped and, as always, the hills were conquered. One anticipated yet unknown delight was the Wye Valley. Quite exquisite in its French like tranquility and beauty. The road ran beside it and if it did climb it did so gently.
Tintern Abbey
Monmouth was another lively market down bursting with tourists. It looked inviting with lots of character and is definitely worth another visit sans bicyclette. Tony was kept happy with an ice cream cornet.
Behind us is Mr Rolls, of the car brand. Apparently Monmouth was the seat of his ancestral home!
However there was still the grim requirement to get into the hills to bridge the gap to Hereford. To distract me from the legs I put on the headphones and listened to some music. Sadly Robert Palmer and Candi Staton didn’t completely obliterate the sound of Peter continuing to complain about cars going too fast, cars going too close, cars being driven badly, cars etc etc. I thought I could go on and on about things, clearly I need to practice.
Most drivers, in fact the majority, are more cautious around cyclists but it’s a fair point to say that if the mammal in their path was a pedestrian, a horse or any member of their family they’d cut their speed and keep a greater distance. When it comes to cyclists there is a disregard if getting to Tesco’s or to pick up the kids is being delayed by 20 seconds. It is what it is and all over the world the behaviour is the same.
Peter was ahead and got to the B&B first. Access to the property and various instructions, such as how to order breakfast, were delivered by text or email. The owners are ultra cautious/unnecessary about Covid and were not to be seen. Seven hours on a bike and all you want is someone, with a smile, to open the door and show you your room not redirect you to codes and key boxes. We even had to text to get a wi-fi code. Being Friday the choice in Hereford was limited!
We dined on a Chinese all you can eat buffet. We conformed to the protocol of revisiting the selection on multiple occasions. Peter even came away with pockets laden with jelly beans (mostly put there to satisfy the under 10’s with their parents.)
We went out in the dry and it then later rained as if Noah was floating the Ark! To say we got soaked was an understatement. We had a pint of cider (that’ll shock the Favourite Youngest Daughter) at the Golden Fleece on the way back to B&B and discovered, from the publican, why some football clubs have triangular flags on their corner posts and others have rectangular.
Tomorrow is the longest ride so far of 90 plus but should be slightly less climbing. Oh please be true.
Tony Ives’ Blog 