With Premier Inns you get what it says on the tin, a comfortable bed and good, if not exciting, food. When I set out to plan this trip, I realised that I could probably stay in a Premier Inn on most nights, so I got in touch and asked them if they’d do a deal. I thought that they might offer me a fixed rate for dinner bed and breakfast in exchange for a bit of publicity about a 75 year old cycling 1000 miles for charity, but no they weren’t interested. Maybe I failed to speak to the right people but, as they weren’t playing, I looked elsewhere for the best deals. In the end I shall stay in three Premier Inns, instead of eleven, the first of which was in Bideford. I arrived about 5.15pm, wet through and dripping all over the floor. The receptionist didn’t seem the least bit fazed, just wanted my details and a credit card, asked me when I wanted feeding and told me where my room was. She did ask me, perfectly sensibly, not to charge my bike unless I was in the room. I dripped my way into the lift and went up to the second floor, to about the furthest point I could possibly be, through three doors on fierce closers that are very difficult to manage with a heavily laden bike. I finally made it and did my washing and charging before coming down and making my way across, in the still pouring rain, to the Brewer’s Fayre, as with Premier Inns also owned by Whitbreads. As a little aside, and I had the same thing in Wetherspoons yesterday, when you venture through the door of the restaurant you are immediately asked if you have any allergies. I should have thought that if people know that they have allergies they will ask if their particular allergy is a problem with any items on the menu. Then again I suppose that it’s a way of getting the restaurant off the hook if someone suffers. I dined on a very tasty salt and pepper Calamari with a tomato mayo, followed by not very good lasagne and a good blackberry and apple crumble. It’s not fine dining but it’s perfectly acceptable, particularly when you haven’t eaten for almost 24 hours. I washed it down with a couple of pints of Guiness at £4.75 a pop. Satisfied I departed to the blog and turned the light out at about 10pm.
Surprisingly I didn’t sleep well. I have a Premier Inn bed at home as they are so comfortable, so I assumed with such a hard day of cycling behind me I’d be out like a light until the alarm went off at 7.30. Unfortunately not: I woke at about 3 am and having had a pee and a drink of water, couldn’t get back to sleep. Still, I was rested when I got up to go to breakfast at 0800. Now Premier Inns breakfasts are excellent: pretty much anything you want in the way of cereals and yoghurt, full cooked breakfast including black pudding (yum yum) and croissants, pancakes and muffins if you’re still hungry. I filled my boots, not expecting to stop for lunch, and was on the road by about 0930. The day was overcast but dry but there was a 20mph wind from the west which would make the first part of the journey difficult as I was heading straight into it, making my way towards Clovelly on the A39. The route I had planned made several diversions from the main road to get onto quieter country lanes, but, as the A39 was very quiet I stayed on it all the way to Bude, cutting my journey by about 5 miles. I passed the quaintly named Fairy Cross with a couple of grand bus shelters on either side of the road
and then on past the Milky Way adventure park, at the entrance to which was, rather appropriately, parked a Muller lorry (sorry I can’t work out how to put the umlaut over the letter u). Apparently the Park has nothing to do with Milk and everything to do with fairground rides and more but outside the school holidays, not doing much business.
Just short of Clovelly, about 10 miles into the journey the A39, rather grandly named the Atlantic Way, turns south which meant the wind was just behind my beam, occasionally giving me a bit of assistance. I crossed into Cornwall
and was soon in Bude, crossing the river Neet and the canal where a family of Canada Geese made their way noisily downstream.
The wind was still blowing hard as I made my way past Widemouth Bay, at one point forcing me to GOAP when a sharp gust almost blew me into the verge. The breakers were rolling in but I didn’t see any hardy souls out on surf boards.
Having survived the journey along the seafront I took to the hills, climbing steeply up above the bay.
This was now to be typical of the reminder of the day, up and down like a yoyo on some very steep grades which required the motor. First along the coast and down to Millook
where I stopped and talked with a man having his lunch. He was walking the SW coastpath in easy stages and had been at it for a decade or more. He was making his way from Crackington, my next seaside stop, to Widemouth, warning me that the road out of Millook was very steep in places: not steep enough to stop me making it to the top with secondary motor assistance and I carried on for another 5 miles before descending steeply to Crackington Haven
where I stopped for a pot of tea in the café, joining a surprising number of people and dogs, including an Alsatian who had lost the use of his hind legs and was running around in a very smart carriage which supported his back end. I was interested because 60 or so years ago we had a dachshund called Salami who suffered the same problem which we solved by making her a carriage out of tin and Meccano, with which she chased rabbits for another 6 or 7 years
.
The hill out of Crackington was not as bad as Millook but still needed a lot of motor. Next stop was Boscastle, a village that suffered a horrendous flood on the 16th August 2004, 52 years to the day since Lynmouth, which I visited yesterday had the same treatment. Sadly 34 people died in Lynmouth but, miraculously, there was no loss of life in Boscastle. This has received a lot of publicity as it was recorded in detail on film and was the subject of a Channel 4 documentary. What is not so well known is that Crackington suffered similar flooding on the same day, again without fatalities. Hard to believe the power of water on a gloomy autumn day.
Onwards, and again upwards for the three miles to Tintagel. I skirted the village and didn’t visit the medieval castle, often associated with the legends of King Arthur, the ruins of which stand on the cliff tops below the main village. A mile or so past Tintagel I climbed what must be the steepest hill I’ve yet encountered. It wasn’t very long but it forced me to GOAP even though I had full power on the motor. I pushed for 100 yards or so along a very narrow lane, meeting a VW beetle and having to push myself tight against the bank to let her pass. Fortunately that was enough but it wouldn’t have been for the SW Water van that I met 50 yards further on when the road had widened. I remounted and kept going, knowing that with about 10 miles to go the worst of the climbing was over. The result of all the climbing was that the battery was getting very low, only about 15% remaining but it was sufficient to get me to my destination in Wadebridge where I am booked into the second Premier Inn of my journey. I arrived at about 5pm, fortunately not as wet as yesterday.
