DAY 0 – Training

Jim pitched up before 8 this morning to take me to Bristol Parkway to catch a train to Inverness, the northernmost city in the United Kingdom if you ignore The City and Royal Burgh of Kirkwall which is, technically, a mere town. We didn't need to leave until about 0845: that is until Jim remembered that his phone and wallet were still at his house. Fortunately his house is roughly on the way to Bristol so we left Home Farm at 0830, picked up the missing goods and proceeded. Jim's car is subject to the Bristol Ulez so we needed to find a way round the zone which involved a lot of minor roads and then dicing with heavy lorries once we had reached the ring road. Anyway, we arrived in plenty of time in a light drizzle and I collected a sheaf of tickets from the machine. I had used Trainline to book the journey on split sections which meant I had three separate tickets and bike reservations: the upside was that it cost £73.49 which compares favourably with the cost of flying and doesn't involve my least favourite travel pastime of waiting in airports.The Cross country service to Birmingham arrived on time from Plymouth and I couldn't help but notice that it went all the way to Edinburgh up the east coast, stopping in many of the places I shall be visiting. I hung my bike up in the designated spot and found a seat on a very crowded train.

My ticket gave me 12 minutes to change to the Avanti west line service at Birmingham involving a lift up from Platform 8 and down to Platform 7, comfortably achieved but now involved locking my bike into a forward compartment behind the driver with no way of getting to it before Edinburgh. I found a comfortable seat at a table and dozed as we went north, waking occasionally to look out at Crewe, Preston and Lancaster before we made our way over Shap Fell, a serious climb on a bike - which I did in 2015 - but seemingly effortless for the train. Down down down to Penrith and on through Carlisle and the gentle rolling hills of southern Scotland. At this point the conductor informed us that the train was running 20 minutes late: as I had 15 minutes to change at Edinburgh for Inverness this was a trifle disconcerting but there wasn't much I could do about it. Half an hour later he updated us with the information that if we changed at Haymarket, short of our destination at Waverley we stood a good chance of catching the Inverness train heading in the opposite direction, running as late as we were. So that, dear reader, is what happened. I made it down to platform 4 as the train came in and was able to hang Lucy up by her front wheel and breathe a sigh of relief.

Our route was the reverse of the journey I made on my bike in 2021, taking about 2.5 hours against the two days it took me on a bike. We passed Gleneagles and Perth and up the Tay valley to Pitlochry and then shadowed the A9 over Drumochter pass - at 452m the highest railway line in the UK - and then down through Kingussie and Aviemore before we eventually arrived in Inverness early and in the daylight.

I wheeled the bike with two very heavy panniers to the King's Highway, one of Wetherspoon's finest. I've eaten there in the past but this time I had a room booked. Inverness is an expensive place to stay but I figured it was worth paying a bit over the odds to be close to the station with cheap food and drink available after a lengthy journey.

Tomorrow is a relatively easy day, 55 miles and not much climbing but rain is forecast from about 2pm.

Day 1 – Gently, gently

Wetherspoons are excellent at serving well prepared food and drink,but their hotels are a bit meh. The King’s Highway is a stone’s throw from the railway station and I booked in easily and was given a key card that opened doors on the way to the room as well. I suppose I should have asked or used my eyes but, after I’d lugged my panniers up three flights of stairs, I realised there was a lift. The receptionist didn’t tell me but said I could leave the bike in a passage on the ground floor: as there was a lift, it came into the room with me. The room was fine with an enormous bed but was in the attic: poor value for £125 a night but there wasn’t anything better close to the station. As it was burger night I dined on a smoky burger and a pint of Belhaven 80 shilling for a total of £9.99. Both were good and made up, to some extent, for the high room price.

Knowing I didn’t have far to go today it shouldn’t have been an early start, but roadworks started in the street at 0645 so that put an end to any sleep. I went downstairs and ate a £7.48 Scottish fry-up which I washed down with a cup of tea, packed everything and was outside and on my way by 0900. I was slightly concerned as to how the bike would handle as this was her first outing with loaded panniers and, indeed, the front end is light and skittish but once I got some speed up and got used to it all was well.

There’s a steepish hill out of Inverness and I blipped the motor to get up it and made my way to the Culloden Road. Bike paths extend to the edge of the city, some shared with pedestrians, so I made good progress to the Culloden Battlefield site, about six miles from the city centre. Plenty of coaches and cars in the car park and a lot of American accents. I hitched my steed to a railing – rather I used my hiplock to chain Lucy to a bike stand – and made my way to the visitor centre.

There was an exhibition for a payment to the National Trust for Scotland but I declined and went outside to look at the battlefield on Drummossie moor.

Now the battle of Culloden fought on 16 April 1746 in snow and rain is a strange beast. You would think that the Scots would be keen to forget that the army of Bonnie Prince Charlie was given a hammering by the Government forces of George II commanded by his 25 year old son the Duke of Cumberland; but this wasn’t really a Scottish Nationalist fight. Charles Stuart was trying to gain the throne of England, Ireland and Scotland for his father James (hence the Jacobite rebellion) and there were probably more Scotsmen against as for him. This was an unwanted invasion of Scotland and some of Cumberland’s troops were pure-blooded Scots. Anyway, the site of this, the last pitched battle fought on British soil, has been well preserved and the lines of the armies as drawn up at the start of proceedings are marked on the flat moor by red and blue flags.

The Jacobites attacked and were repelled with large losses, thought to be 2000 killed or wounded - and in those days most would have died of their wounds - against 350 or so of Cumberland’s men. It was the final Stuart attempt to regain the throne and the final verse of the British National Anthem makes reference

Lord grant that Marshal Wade*
May by thy mighty aid
Victory bring.
May he sedition hush,
And like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush.
God save the King!

*Wade built many military roads in Scotland to move troops easily across the difficult terrain but was replaced as Commander by Cumberland in 1746.

I didn’t linger but moved east along roads with little traffic. I made my way down towards the sea at Ardersier, just past which is Fort George a working military post and small arms fire was rattling around me as I rode past.

I passed through Nairn, where the promised rain started in earnest, and crossed over a wrought iron footbridge

I crossed the River Findhorn, the first of the great east coast salmon rivers that I shall cross, on an old railway bridge. There was a hopeful fisherman on the bank but not testing the water.

On to Forres where the rain abated so I stopped and took a picture of the Benromach distillery, though how it describes itself as Speyside stretches credulity.

I passed Diageo’s Roseisle distillery and a large field of pigs that were, no doubt, benefitting from the brewery waste. The roads were flat and straight as I headed for Burghhead and a visit to the sea which I had been away from since Ardersier. There is a small port and a sandy beach which, no doubt, does good trade in the school holidays but was, today, almost deserted

With only 12 or so miles to go and rain, again, threatening, I pushed on to my destination, the Stotfield hotel in Lossiemouth. RAF Lossiemouth sent a couple of jets into the air as I passed, and I noted the verdant golf courses unlike those in the south. The general greenness of the countryside is certainly a change from home.

Day 2 –​​ Ups and downs

Stotfield Hotel​​ stands opposite​​ the Moray Golf Club​​ which has two 18 hole courses and a putting green that was getting good use as I arrived at about 2.15 pm. ​​ It was spitting with rain but it didn’t come to anything and, having put Lucy in the conference room for the night, I lugged my two panniers and bike battery​​ up to my room on the first floor. ​​ The Hotel has a rather sad feel to it. Grand structure with a wide staircase but needs a lot of tlc to bring it back to its Edwardian best. ​​ The room was fine with a good shower​​ over the bath​​ and I washed everything and hung it up to dry, having squeezed as much moisture out of the clothes by wrapping them in towels and wringing hard. ​​ It worked: by morning they were dry enough to wear. ​​ It was simplest to eat in and I got to the bar at about 6.45 and had a pint of Tennents bitter, sat down and ordered Haggis​​ Pakoras for starters​​ – sorry they’re off tonight. ​​ Ok ​​ Beetroot Falafel bites. ​​ I’ll have the Homemade steak and vegetable pie to follow. ​​ Service was quick but surly. ​​ All the waitresses were large ladies who looked as though they would rather be somewhere else and food was plonked down without a word. ​​ The Falafel bites were good but the pie – oh why can’t people accept that a pie needs to be enclosed in pastry. ​​ I was served a steak and vegetable stew with a flaky pastry biscuit. ​​ It was tasty enough and there was plenty of it served with mashed potato but it wasn’t as advertised. ​​ I suppose £22 for two courses wasn’t bad value but not a great experience. The highlight was a magnificent sunset over the Moray Firth.

I woke early again and was down for breakfast at 0800. Different waitresses but still surly. ​​ The fried eggs were​​ seriously​​ overcooked, the potato bread was greasy and there was no haggis or black pudding – altogether pretty disappointing. ​​ I made do​​ with sausage and bacon​​ and was away from the hotel by 0857. ​​ The sun shone brightly and it was forecast to stay dry until later in the day. ​​ I made my way down to the harbour and East beach and stopped to take a picture.

The way out of Lossiemouth was a cycle trail which took me to a lightly used road​​ that passed the former RAF Milltown airfield, now abandoned and covered in crop stubbles, though the runways are still there. ​​ Shortly after the airfield the navigators instructed me to turn right down a farm track that deteriorated into a grass track through the woods.​​ Storm Floris had covered​​ the track in fallen branches and I had to GOAP for a couple of hundred yards before I once again found some blacktop. ​​ The road was little used and I made good time to​​ Garmouth where I found an excellent cycle track along an old railway. ​​ At the start there was even a cycle repair station with track pump and other useful bits for self-service. Although only about a mile long this route crossed over the River Spey (second of the​​ great salmon rivers I have crossed) by way of a magnificent iron viaduct. Impossible to get a picture from the side so here is one off t’internet.​​

​​ The carriageway is so narrow that there is only room for one user and I had to stop and pull Lucy to one side whilst a young lady with pram came towards me. Further on a cyclist stopped to allow me to proceed.​​

The track joined a side road and I made my way to Buckie, once home to the largest steam drifter fleet in Scotland but now a shadow of itself. There is still industry and the port refits RNLI Lifeboats amongst other shipbuilding works.

My route now took me uphill and I joined another cycle track, this one not tarmacked but a good surface except in a few places where someone had put loose gravel which nearly had me off the bike. ​​ A fairy trail had been constructed for small people,​​ with grottos and wendy houses along a mile or so of the track. I was about 80 feet asl and continued across country until I reached Portnockie where an unlikely diversion through a farmyard arrived at the best bit of cycle tarmac I’ve yet encountered. ​​ Sadly only a couple of miles long it the route looked down over the Cullen Golf course – very picturesque.

​​ At Cullen I was pushed back onto the road, not any old road but the A98 which I had been trying to avoid for the last couple of days. ​​ Not a pleasant experience made even more scary when a truck towing a caravan decided to overtake a tractor and trailer coming towards me. ​​ A minute or so later and I’d have had to bale out onto the verge but all was well. I was glad to reach Portsoy where I found another cycleway to Banff, mostly on minor roads but signed as the National Cycle Route 1 which I’ve been following most of the day and with a lot of ups and downs. Back down to sea level at Banff but still on a cycleway, I skirted the harbour and crossed an old stone bridge which had a pavement that I could ride on and avoid the traffic. ​​ It was then back on the A98, fortunately not busy, along the coast to Macduff and I climbed a steep hill out of the town until I was able to turn off onto a B road.

Now the climbing started in earnest and I was reminded of Cornwall last year when I saw a sign saying 20%. ​​ For the next 10 miles or so it was up and down some very steep inclines and I was thankful for the motor which hadn’t been used much until then.

​​

As it was,​​ I used about 20% of the battery over those 10 miles to New Aberdour. At that point I went back down to sea level and the last 5 miles or so were along a cycle track beside the carriageway. ​​ I found my way to the centre of Fraserburgh and my lodgings for the night just before 3pm.

It's been an interesting day with very different topography, generally enjoyable except for the A98. ​​ The weather has been kind with no rain at all although it is still quite chilly at times. Tomorrow,​​ I turn the corner and head south to Aberdeen.

Day 3 – Round the bend

I would like to be more generous but, honestly, Fraserburgh is the arsehole of Scotland. I was staying at the Cheers Bar and Tavern slap bang in the centre of town.

At a quick glance you’d miss the entrance but beyond the narrow passageway is a vast area of bars and entertainment areas. How much they are used is anyone’s guess but Lizzie, probably in her 60s but could have been younger, booked me in and locked Lucy in a shed at the back of the huge area. My room was up a rickety staircase, accessed through a door with a fierce spring, with several trip hazards on the way but the room itself, overlooking the main street, was fine with a bathroom across the landing. The shower was adequate, a tad weak but it got the grime off and allowed me to rinse the clothes before hanging them in the window where they dried nicely overnight particularly as the early morning sun shone straight in.

I asked about food, but Cheers don’t cook in the evening and about all that was on offer was takeaways. Fraserburgh has a population of about 13,000 and, as far as I could see, there was only one restaurant, in the Saltoun Inn where you could sit down and eat. By the time I realised that that was an option I’d already ordered a Chinese takeaway accompanied by a bottle of Hardy red from the Iceland store across the road that felt as though it would dissolve what’s left of my teeth.

I ate and drank in my room whilst writing the blog and trying to get on-line which proved impossible with the Cheers Wi-Fi. During the day I take photos on my phone and save them to One drive so that I can then select them on the Asus lap-top that I use to write the blog. Without a wi-fi connection this is impossible so I wrote the words and saved the file to my computer and resigned myself to being unable to publish until I could find a reliable wi-fi. I went downstairs to the bar and complained, but the barmaid wasn’t interested, so I had a pint of Tennents and went back upstairs to bed. I suddenly had a thought that there might be other open wi-fi systems in the area and sure enough Boots, directly opposite my room on the other side of the street, was showing a very weak signal. I logged on and, praise be, it worked. I was able to add pictures and publish the blog before I turned in. Hurrah for Boots.

Fraserburgh has the unenviable reputation as the Scottish town with the greatest heroin problem. 20% of young men are addicts and heroin is cheap: it costs about £80 a week which is less than the cost of smoking 20 cigarettes a day, and is readily available. Many of these work on the fishing boats, a hard life, fiercely cold and back-breaking, but, for which, they earn good money. Whilst working they keep their habit in check with dihydrocodeine but as soon as they return, they’re back on the smack. The bar at Cheers was full of noisy young men who, when the pub closed, spilled out into the street and kept me awake arguing and shouting until 0130 when I finally got a chance of sleep. As you can tell I’m not a fan of Fraserburgh!

Breakfast was included in the room price and was served by Polish Anna. A large carafe of orange juice was most welcome, and the fry-up was good, a marked improvement on yesterday.

I was packed up and ready to leave at about 0900. The sun was shining brightly and the forecast was for dry weather. I still had about 4 miles of easterly way to make and turned the corner at Inverallochy and headed south. I was following the coast but out of sight of the sea as there are no roads along the shoreline. The ground was flat with a lot of large fields of harvested cereals. Judging by the number of straw bales the harvest has been good and there were tractors busy ploughing for the next crop.

I crossed the river Ugie and made my way into Peterhead, the largest fishing port on the east coast with a substantial fish market and some mega trawlers in harbour.

I cycled around the harbour and bay but didn’t venture into the centre of town; but, and maybe the weather helped, it had an altogether more optimistic feel than Fraserburgh. Beyond Peterhead I was able to stay in sight of the sea, albeit 100 or so feet asl. More harvested fields and herds of prime cattle, mainly continental crosses, which were looking very well. I imagine farmers in the north east of Scotland will have a bumper year.

Beyond Cruden Bay I had to join the A975, not too busy as it crossed the River Ythan

I confess I’ve never heard of the Ythan and wondered why it doesn’t feature in the world of salmon fishing. I was soon to find out. I passed through the town of Newburgh and, as I was in no hurry turned off my route and made for Newburgh beach. There is a large car park, surprisingly full, and a lot of people wandering around. The local authority has installed a marvellous boardwalk which I was able to cycle along for the 300 yards to the beach. The opposite shore was a mass of seabirds, but the estuary was heaving with grey seals – you can just about see some of them in this picture. Any salmon that makes it into the estuary must pretty quickly become seal food,

To keep off the A90 I had to pass Trump International Golf Links

The Donald has invested about £50 million quid buying 1400 acres of land at Balmedie, just north of Aberdeen and building not one, but two brand new Golf Links with a hotel and accompanying razzamatazz. He is desperate for the R&A to hold the Open there and, indeed, it would make an excellent venue with good transport links and plenty of space. Whether it will happen remains to be seen. He has, since 2014 also owned Turnberry on the West Coast which has been a venue for the Open in the past.

I passed under the A90 in Balmedie village and made my way west to the B995 which took me across the river Don

which has retained its reputation as a salmon fishery. Now in the ‘burbs of Aberdeen I spent a lot of time cycling on pavements and in cycle lanes which were of limited use because of stopping buses and cars parked in them but I eventually reached the centre to find my proposed route was blocked by roadworks in Union Street. I diverted and eventually got back on course to cross the River Dee (one of the greatest salmon rivers that, much further west, flows through the Balmoral estate) by the George VI bridge which has a nice wide cycleway.

I turned right and followed the river for a mile before climbing steeply out of the valley and across country, at times on dirt track, before reaching my destination the Premier Inn at Portlethen shortly before 4pm.

Day 4 – Take the rough with the smooth

You can get some amazingly good deals with Premier Inns. I don’t know how they decide on pricing but the deal I got at Portlethen which lies about 7 miles south of Aberdeen City Centre was a cracker. Bed, breakfast and an evening meal for £73.99, certainly the cheapest night of this trip. My room was on the ground floor of a block situated away from Reception and the Brewer’s Fayre restaurant that served the meals, but only a short stroll across the car park. The hotel is beside the A92 but it’s well screened and I wasn’t at all disturbed by traffic. A five minute walk over the flyover is an ASDA store and I went and bought a bottle of wine – a very palatable Australian red blend from McGuigan – for blog inspiration, before I went across for food. The meal deal was a drink (I chose Belhaven) and either a starter and main course or a main course and pud, though you could have all 3 for an extra £2.99. I went for chicken wings in a bbq sauce, messy but tasty and haddock and chips with mushy peas. Now if you can’t get good haddock in this neck of the woods it’s a poor do, and it didn’t disappoint: tasty fish in good batter and well cooked chips and peas. Nothing I could fault.

I was able to use the fan to dry the clothes and they were ready by bed-time. Breakfast was the usual Premier Inns help yourself. No black pudding or haggis, which was disappointing, but good sausages and well cooked bacon. Scrambled eggs weren’t great.

I was away by about 0900 knowing that I had about 73 miles to travel. My planned route took me through some housing estates to keep me off the main road but when I looked at it, the road wasn’t busy and there was a rudimentary cycle track, so I hit the A92 for about 3 miles. Once off that I had a lovely ride along lanes until I reached Stonehaven.

There was a large group of middle aged cyclists coming the opposite way and I stopped to chat. They were on a trip doing 30-40 miles a day and a number of them were obviously feeling the pain.

A steepish climb out of Stonehaven on a tarmac cycleway Ied to more country lanes with gentle climbs until I once again came down to sea level at Inverbervie.

More excellent cycle track along the shore to Gourdon which was where the fun started. I realised that there was likely to be some pretty rough tracks because there is no Google street view of the route but, my word, it was rough, with large pebbles across the track.

I GOAPed more than once and made very slow progress until I got back on the A92 and made my way through Montrose which seems to cater for the large support vessels used in the North Sea oil and gas business, and crossed the river Esk, now about halfway into my journey.

More ups and downs on minor roads before I reached Arbroath, home of the eponymous Smokie.

There were a lot of pedestrians, and I dinged my bell a few times. It never ceases to amaze me that if there are two people walking side by side and I ding my bell they inevitably part and go to opposite sides of the way instead of both staying on the left.

From Arbroath I was on cycleways all the way to Dundee, not all tarmacked but all in good condition.

I passed Carnoustie Golf Links with plenty of players on a sunny Saturday

and reached Broughty Ferry with its sinister looking castle guarding the Tay estuary.

I managed to miss some instructions from the navigators and went much further into Dundee on the coastal path than I had intended which entailed a bit of back-tracking to get back on course; but I eventually found my way to The Travelodge where I am staying, arriving just before 5pm.

Day 5 - Golf and gowns

Like Inverness Dundee was an expensive place to spend the night. Premier Inns were off the scale and, if you wanted somewhere reasonably central that wasn’t a hostel, it was £100 plus. I ended up with a deal at Travelodge Strathmore road, not in the centre but it sufficed. I had a dinner, bed and breakfast deal for £110 and then had to pay an extra £3.50 for Wi-fi for the night. I chose a curry (an extra £1.50) and a sticky toffee pudding. The latter with custard was good but the curry disappointing. A pint of Guiness set me back a further £6.85. I had walked 5 minutes down to the local convenience store to buy a bottle of Californian Zinfandel for £5.99 and it accompanied the blog very well. Only one double socket in the room meant that I had to think about how I was going to charge everything, especially as I used the fan to dry clothes again.

Breakfast was help yourself to cereals, cooked and pastries. Better scrambled egg than PI but no black pudding or haggis. I filled up and left contented.

I had not realised quite what a steep hill I climbed to reach the hotel and I hared straight down it on my way to see three of Dundee’s most famous residents. The streets were almost empty at 0900 on Sunday morning and I was able to take the picture with no photo bombers apart from the pigeons.

Dundee is famous for Jute, Jam and Journalism and the Dandy and Beano are part of the last epithet. D.C Thompson are still publishing the Beano but the Dandy is, since 2013, only produced as an annual.

I had wondered about spending a morning in Dundee to see the SS Discovery and a Jute Mill experience but the forecast was for heavy rain starting at 4pm and the museums didn’t open until 11am, which had the potential for a wet arrival in Kirkcaldy. I made my way to the Tay road bridge and, as usual in Scotland cyclists are well treated. There is a lift up from street level to the centre section of the bridge which is shared by pedestrian and cyclist.

As I left the lift there were two cyclists who had crossed from the other side waiting to descend but, apart from two joggers I saw no one else and got across without hindrance. I looked across at the Tay rail bridge: not much of a sight compared to its cousin on the Forth but it has stood the test of time since it was completed in 1887, replacing the one that collapsed in high winds in 1879 whilst a train was crossing, killing all 59 people on board and inspiring William McGonagall’s low quality poem ‘The Tay Bridge Disaster’ which ends

"Oh! Ill-fated bridge of the silv'ry Tay,

I now must conclude my lay

By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,

That your central girders would not have given way,

At least many sensible men do say,

Had they been supported on each side with buttresses

At least many sensible men confesses,

For the stronger we our houses do build,

The less chance we have of being killed."

Once across the Firth of Tay I had off road cycleways to Tayport and then forest trails through the Tentsmuir National Nature Reserve during which I saw one Scotland Forest vehicle, two joggers and a cyclist. It started to spit with rain, so I stopped to put on a jacket and decided to put on my waterproof overshoes in case it started raining heavily. In order to do this, I need to sit down and found a suitable log to sit on which was a bit wobbly but sufficed.

Now waterproof, I continued, to find, about 100 yards further on around a bend, several picnic tables which would have been ideal for the change! The trail surface was excellent, and I enjoyed my excursion through stands of maritime pine.

I left the forest at Leuchars which proudly announces itself as the home of the British Army in Fife and there is a mixture of both army and RAF regiments based there. The architecture is the same as any barracks town, drab and uninteresting.

I crossed the Eden estuary at Guardbridge, the remains of a former bridge alongside the modern one

I continued on to St Andrews. The whole journey so far had been pan flat and easy cycling and there were cycle tracks alongside the road to make it even easier. There are seven golf courses on the links and I was cycling alongside three of them on my way to the town centre, keeping an eye open for golf balls that had gone astray but alas did not find any.

The iconic Old Course, home to many championships and considered one of the best in the world was closed to golfers but open to the public who were walking everywhere. I took a picture of the Swilcan bridge

and moved on to the centre of town which was a sea of red as students of St Andrew’s University crossed the road to take part in the Pier walk, a tradition that happens each Sunday of the semester when they walk to the end of the pier, climb a ladder and then return at a higher level.

It was particularly busy today as the first Sunday of the Michaelmas semester and there were many hundreds, if not thousands of students taking part, most wearing their red gowns

My route now took me south east to Crail.

I was battling into a strong head-wind and the motor was being used more than normal but as I turned west along the south coast of the Kingdom of Fife the wind was on my beam, helping me along. Through Anstruther, Pittenweem and Elie and on through Lower Largo and Leven, crossing the river of the same name. I was keen to get to Kirkcaldy before the forecast rain so didn’t stop to take pictures and fortunately made it to the Victoria Hotel by 3.30pm without getting wet.

It’s been an enjoyable day with things to see. The weather has been overcast and the head wind has been trying but I’m making good progress.

Day 6 – Go Forth old man

I found the Victoria Hotel in Kirkcaldy on Booking.com and reserved mainly on cost but it also had good reviews. I ended up with a single room with a window that didn’t open but there was a fan in the room which served the dual purpose of drying the washed clothes and keeping the air moving around the room so that I could sleep in the comfortable but single bed. As it was Sunday they served roast lamb and all the trimmings and it was very good. The soup I had for starters sounded a bit strange, leek and rice but was quite tasty. Service from the three young waitresses was excellent and I enjoyed my meal. I’d missed out on wine shopping so apart from the two pints of Guiness I had with the meal there was no alcohol for the blog.

Breakfast was included in the £75 room price and I helped myself to cereals and yoghurt and then had a FSB without beans but including haggis and black pudding. The building had been designed and built by an architect and the panelling and ceiling decorations were high quality

I was packed and away by 0920. Lucy had spent the night in a garage at the rear of the hotel and seemed none the worse for it. I took the battery up to the room for charging. I like the ability to either charge on or off the bike: that wasn’t possible with the Boardman. I found my way down to the Promenade which was already quite busy with dog walkers and joggers and all was fine for about three miles with tarmac surfaced wide paths. I was then directed onto a cinder path which didn’t look too bad but soon deteriorated and I had steps and steep slopes to negotiate until I reached Burntisland when I was able to get back on the blacktop: however it had taken me more than a hour to travel 5 miles and I took to the main road but then returned to cycle paths past golf courses and then through a housing estate at Dalgety Bay before finding a nice smooth path, with views of the three bridges,

which took me off road to the Forth Bridge crossing.

The old suspension bridge now only caters for pedestrians, cyclists and public transport. The cycle way is wide and is only closed if windspeeds reach 50mph. Today it was quite calm, so I sped across with no holdups. It is about 1.5 miles from end to end, and this is the second time I’ve used it.

How well the cyclist is treated in Scotland. From leaving the bridge to arriving in Leith about 10 miles later, having negotiated the whole of the Edinburgh conurbation I had no need to go on any public roads. Either cycle ways alongside roads or, mainly, dedicated cycle paths, smooth surfaced and wide enough for two-way traffic. It was hard to believe I had been through the middle of a major city.

More cycleways from Leith along the prom at Portobello, the main seaside resort for the city and on through Musselburgh before the tarmac ran out and I was pushed onto cinders through a nature reserve.

Finally at Prestonpans, 40 miles into the journey, I was back onto roads with traffic

Having written about Culloden I can’t let Prestonpans pass without comment. Whilst Culloden April 1746 was the last battle of the 1745 uprising by the supporters of James Stuart, Prestonpans was the first. On 20th September 1745 an ill-prepared Government army under Sir John Cope panicked and was routed by a Jacobite force, giving much hope to the Stuart cause. Edinburgh castle held out, but the rest of the city was occupied by Jacobites. Seven months later Bonnie Prince Charlie was on the run and the Government forces had prevailed.

Just short of Aberlady my back tyre went down with a thud. I pulled over and removed the wheel to find a thorn in the tyre. It chose that moment to start spitting with rain, so I put on my jacket and set to, removing the thorn and putting in a replacement tube. The went according to plan but when it came to putting the panniers back on the rack it was apparent that the rack was broken and one of the struts was waving close to the rear disc brake. There was nothing I could do but hope it would last until I can repair, or more likely replace the whole rack

This coast is dotted with golf courses, perhaps the greatest being Muirfield, one of many around Gullane.

I carried on to North Berwick with its prominent hill, North Berwick Law which I had been able to see since leaving Edinburgh,

and along the coast road with views of the Bass Rock and an improbable Sauna on a cliff top.

Although I was travelling along the A198 I was able to cycle on shared pavements for much of the way and it was only the last 10 miles to Dunbar that I was on open roads.

Day 7 – Into England

I found the Royal McKenzie in Dunbar though Booking.com and made a reservation on the Booking website: however, I then received a message from the Manager saying that if I cancelled with Booking and reserved direct, not only would I get a cheaper rate, but I would also get a free breakfast: something of a no-brainer. However, I am surprised that Booking have not caught up with this subterfuge and stopped advertising the RM. Anyway, I profited and had a very good FSB to my specifications.

On my way into town last night I noticed Belhaven Bikes, attached to the local filling station but it was closed. Presumably because they work weekends, they take the day off on Monday. It seemed worth the effort to call in this morning and see if they could fix me up with a replacement pannier rack, so I cycled down from the hotel at 0900 and, praise-be, Colin, after moving several bikes out of the way, found just what I needed hidden in a corner. I took the old rack off – four bolts out, fitted the replacement -four bolts in and I was on my way £30 poorer but a lot surer. Back to the hotel to collect the panniers and I was away from Dunbar ay 0929.

Bike paths all the way, passing the Tarmac cement works and then onto one beside the A1 for a couple of miles, turning across both carriageways as the bike path switched sides. Fortunately not busy and easy to achieve. Three miles later I went under the A1 and headed down a steep hill to Peas Bay, an ugly settlement of static homes next to a beautiful bay. What goes down must go up and I found myself climbing with the motor in its third setting which drains the battery pretty quickly. However once up on top of the hill the road roller-coastered for several miles averaging out the battery use.

*

I’m not sure what hills I was riding across. The Cheviots are a bit further inland, but it was nice to be on top of them on a bright sunny day with not too much wind.

20 miles in it was back down to sea level at Eyemouth, both a working harbour and a seaside resort

Another steepish climb and then a fast descent to Berwick-upon-Tweed the northernmost town in England, though it has changed its nationality on several occasions. However since the Act of Union of 1707 Berwick has been subject to the laws of England and Wales. I crossed the River Tweed by the Old Bridge

And turned back towards the sea at Spittal into a stiffening breeze which stayed in my face for the rest of the day

Once again life became interesting as the path, following NCR1 deteriorated into a narrow sandy track and slowed progress considerably. The views for about 6 miles were spectacular

Suddenly I was in the middle of Goswick golf links on a tarmac road. Just as quickly the road became a hard stone surface and then a sandy track through sand dunes.

Finally, I found a lovely fine gravel track and was beginning to think my problems had passed when the back tyre went down again. I unloaded everything and was getting ready to put in a new tube when Mike, on a mountain bike stopped to ask me if he could help. We had a bit of a chat: he lives in Berwick and was on his way down to café for tea and cake before heading back home. He wished me luck with my adventure and left me to sort out the puncture. About 200 yards further on I met the road leading to the Lindisfarne causeway and cycled on to the warning signs.

I could have gone on and got back in plenty of time to miss the incoming tide but I was starting to feel pretty tired and just wanted to get on to my destination which was still 16 miles away.

I thought, erroneously, that most of the climbing was over but, to keep away from the A1, soon found myself on back roads with some serious slopes. 53 miles into the journey I went under the A1 for the last time and meandered up and down, past coastal lagoons

and on to Bamburgh with the majestic castle rearing up from the green below

I didn’t have the time or inclination to explore but the castle, owned by the Armstrong family since 1894, is open to the public for a fee.

Now on the last leg, me on my last legs and the battery down to 14%, I drove my tired body along the main road to Seahouses where I am staying tonight on a room only deal. There are lots of restaurants and I’ll probably buy some rolls and salami for breakfast in the morning. I’ve only travelled a little over 60 miles, but it seemed a lot further. Tomorrow will be further to travel but with less ups and downs

Day 8 – Into the wind

My abode for the night in Seahouses was bed only. There was no one on reception, just instructions as to how to get into the room which I got to by way of a metal outdoor staircase. I was told to leave my bike in the boiler room, and they had left a key in the lock of the door for me to use and keep overnight: only one problem, the key didn’t lock the door. I took a chance and left Lucy totally unguarded, thinking that the chances of anything untoward happening were pretty slim. My room was quite small with two single beds taking up most of the space and no desk. My eyes lit up when I spotted a fan heater which would be useful for clothes drying but it was broken and dangerous in that the heating elements worked but the fan didn’t. The shower was electric and had a mind of its own, not responding to the controls so I nearly scalded myself. I managed to get it to a bearable temperature, I’m not sure how, but I cleaned myself. Given these three problems I thought I’d email and tell them the problems. The email bounced back.

There was a Co-op across the road, so I bought a bottle of wine for the blog and some rolls, egg mayo and salami for breakfast. There was a choice of restaurants and I liked the look of an Italian but when I rocked up it was heaving so I went round the corner to an Indian which wasn’t quite so busy. Onion Bahjis looked great but disappointed with their lack of crispness. The Malaya lamb curry was good, nicely spiced and I washed down well with a pint of Cobra. Just under £30 was reasonable value.

Having put together and eaten my breakfast I left just before 9, briefly passing the time of day with a man staying in the same building who was on his way back to Derbyshire. The wind was fresh, and in my face, and forecast to increase as the day went on. A bare three miles into the journey I came to a road closed sign. Whilst I usually ignore these and expect to get through with a bike, there was a reasonable alternative which I took, adding a couple of miles to an already long day. The roads were quiet and, apart from the wind, I was enjoying myself. I by-passed Craster, famous for kippers but got a shot of the pretty village across the bay

I was travelling on an A road and managed to miss the cycle track beside it, something I did several times today. After a mile or so I was able to switch to the track and had a pleasant ride to Lesbury, crossing the river Aln which gives its name to the County Town Alnwick and the estuary at Alnmouth.

Lots more cycle track beside main roads until I reached Amble. Now I’m concerned about the state of my back tyre, with two punctures yesterday and I would like to change the tyre for the most puncture resistant specimen I can buy. I had looked at Google maps and twigged that there were a couple of bike shops in Amble that might provide what I wanted but I spent a fruitless half hour, failing to find one and finding the other closed.

Onwards along the coast, cycle paths all the way: some tarmac, some loose stone but generally OK. Thirty years ago, Rob (aged 14) and I joined many others (at least 100) to cycle coast to coast from Druridge Bay in Northumberland to Silloth in Cumbria, to celebrate the founding of the National Trust in 1895. I remember, particularly, at least three Pennyfarthings completing the journey. Back then I was not cycling regularly and found it really hard, but we both made it to the finish. I had a Renault Espace and we drove to Druridge and needed to car to end up in Silloth so I gave the keys to a total stranger and asked him to deliver it to Silloth! All was well.

Anyway, the reason for that pre-amble is that I cycled past our point of departure today.

The wind was unrelenting as I continued along the coast making my way, often with wrong turnings through North Seaton and Blyth, at one point getting onto a main road and having to grit my teeth and put up with heavy traffic for a couple of miles.

Eventually past Blyth where a shower of rain threatened briefly, I once again hit the coast and followed it on hard cycle tracks through Witley Bay

to North Shields where I copped the first really good bit of luck for the day when I caught the ferry just before it left to cross the Tyne. A couple of minutes later and I would have been waiting half an hour for the next sailing.

£2.60 to save cycling all the way into Newcastle was a small price to pay.

Once at South Shields I was feeling that the journey was almost complete, but Sunderland was still 12 miles away and I kept getting lost. Eventually I found myself on an old railway line which started with a good tarmac surface which gradually deteriorated until I took to the main road, past the Sunderland Greyhound Stadium and through housing estates until, finally, I reached the bridge over the river Wear.

A few more errors of navigation and I finally arrived, exhausted, at my Premier Inn hotel. I’ve paid for breakfast tomorrow, but I’ll eat out tonight.

It’s been a hard day, due to the wind which has been blowing a steady force 4 in my face all day. I’ve got a similar length of journey tomorrow over slightly more hills

Day 9 – a day to forget

The Premier Inn in Sunderland is like every other Premier Inn, comfortable and reliable. I’d only booked B&B because there were plenty of eating options around the hotel and PI Thyme restaurants are a bit basic and uninteresting. My room was on the first floor, but my window looked out onto the same level as a car park, the hotel being built into the side of a hill. No problems with noise and I slept well after a bottle of South African red from the Co-op. I went about 100 yards towards the city centre and next door to the Sunderland Empire found Aperitif, an Italian restaurant that was doing good business. I had a pint of Peroni with my mushroom bruschetta and then another with Pollo al Pepe, chicken with a pepper sauce and well cooked veg. Altogether a good meal before I retired to compose the blog with the aforementioned wine. The main dressing room of the Empire Theatre is said to be haunted by the ghost of Sid James who suffered a heart attack on stage and later died.

I had a good breakfast before leaving at about 0836, as I had arranged to meet an old college friend of mine for lunch just outside Middlesborough. Duncan lives close by and although we meet once a year it was a good opportunity to catch-up and have some lunch.

I made the inevitable wrong turns but found my way out of the city on some good bike tracks with variable surfaces but all hard and easy to cycle. I was still following NCR1 as it snaked its way south, annoyingly littered with pesky gates which seem to serve little purpose and, in some cases, are very difficult to get through with panniers.

I hadn’t reckoned on quite so much climbing but I was using the motor quite a lot on what were old railway lines so the train engines must have struggled similarly.I was down to sea level at Ryhope and Seaham but quickly climbing again and becoming concerned that I would miss my lunch date because of my slow progress, when at Hesleden I had the familiar sensation in my back wheel. I rang Duncan and said there was no way I would now make it in time, fixed the puncture and carried on to Hartlepool where, after a lot of wrong turns, I found Wet rock & ride, an atypically tidy bike shop where I bought a Schwalbe tyre with good puncture protection, which I immediately put on Lucy, and a couple of extra tubes. Hopeful that I was now past the puncture problems that have been plaguing me for the last couple of days I continued along the coast to Seaton Carew where I had a nice little spin along the prom

I was feeling a bit more chipper with my new tyre but schadenfreude struck as the heavens opened whilst I was on a particularly unpleasant bit of road, busy with a poor surface, that led into Middlesbrough. I was wearing a rain jacket but it’s not entirely waterproof but, more annoyingly my shoes were soaked with little chance that they would dry out. The rain stopped as I came to the Transporter bridge that has been closed since 2019. The only operational transporter bridge now left in the UK is the one at Newport, South Wales that I visited in 2020 when it, too, was closed, because of COVID. I was forced to make a 6 mile detour to cross the Tees

I had arranged to meet Duncan just south of Redcar at 1pm but, by the time I got to our meeting place it was 3.45. I cycled straight on knowing that I still had 30 miles to go to Whitby when 3 miles further on the front wheel punctured. Now I could understand the problem with the back tyre but the front tyre was brand new when I started. I checked inside it to see what had caused the problem but there was nothing obvious so I replaced the tube and hoped for the best: fortunately that was the end of punctures and tyre changing for the day. Fingers crossed that will be the end of them, full stop.

I dropped steeply down to Saltburn-by-the-Sea, an attractive little place and climbed out almost as steeply and followed the coast up and down, sometimes in sight of the sea, more often not.

These last 20 miles to Whitby were excruciating. Steep climbs and drops through the villages of Brotten, Carlin Howe, Boulby and Hinderwell had me aching to get off the bike but I gritted my teeth and finally made it to The White Horse and Griffin where I am staying the night. It’s not a day I want to remember and I only hope that my shoes dry out tonight.

I was shattered when I arrived at the White Horse and Griffin in Whitby. I unloaded my bags, and Lee went around the back of the pub and opened a door into a store crammed with cooking oil and other detritus that collects in pubs. He had to move lots of stuff in order to get Lucy in there, but he managed, and she was still there this morning. It’s an old building dating back to 1681 but was completely refurbished and opened in its current form in 1993. It’s full of timber beams and panels and the stairs creak like a ship in full sail. I was shown up three flights of stairs into the attic, the final set almost like climbing a ladder, and immediately wondered what would happen in the event of a fire. I’m amazed that it has passed a fire inspection, but I suppose that it must have done. The double bed was crammed into an alcove, such that it was impossible to get in from the side. I had to launch myself from the end of the bed when the time came. When it came to lights out there was a bright green light over the stairs that stayed on, presumably to show the way out in emergency. I was in serious pain after the days exertions and had trouble fighting off cramp in my legs so had a very restless night but didn’t feel too bad this morning

I didn’t have the energy to go out so decided to eat in the restaurant. A slightly strange veggie starter was good and the fish pie that followed was excellent, both washed down with Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter: however the prices were exorbitant, nearly double what I normally expect to pay.

For a change this morning I had porridge with honey and raspberry jam, tea and toast and marmalade. It was good and included in the room price, but, overall, I felt the White Horse and Griffin was poor value for money.

I was a bit later away today and the forecast was for sunshine and the same stiff winds but no rain. I climbed the steep hill to the Abbey and took a couple of pics. It is now strongly associated with Dracula since Bram Stoker made Whitby the landing place for the Count, but its history goes back to 657 AD and the ruins of the Benedictine Monastery that we see today were the result of the suppression of monasteries by Henry VIII.

My route away from the headland was along a quiet country road until I saw the now familiar NCR1 sign leading to what is known as the Cinder Track. As its name implies It’s a rough track, very rough in places, that follows the line of the old railway between Whitby and Scarborough. It’s 21.7 miles of mainly off-road path, occasionally crossing public roads. I climbed 450 feet and then dropped down to Robin Hood’s Bay

Before climbing once again to nearly 700 feet asl and a nine mile descent into Scarborough. Lots of variation of scenery, some with great views of the sea and sometimes in a tunnel of trees.

There were a number of gates along the route and at one of these I came up behind a chap of my age on a Cube pedelec who was vigorously rubbing his shoulder. We stopped and chatted: he had just managed to fall off his bike, hence the shoulder massage. He had cycled from Barrow-in Furness and was on his way to catch a train back home from Scarborough. He was obviously a bit of a bike nut because he immediately recognised Van Rysel as a Decathlon bike. We parted company and I stopped and took this picture

As usual I got a bit lost at the end of the trail and ended up in Tesco car park. I manged to find my way down to the sea and then climbed up the esplanade with its grand hotels overlooking the wide bay

Next resort down the coast was Filey, home to one of the original Butlin’s Holiday Camps, now a 600 holiday home development. I carried on down the coast, past several other holiday home resorts, determined to see Flamborough Head, the only chalk cliffs in the North.

As I approached the Lighthouse

it started spitting with rain with the odd rumble of thunder. The sky darkened and we were hit by a squall of rain that I managed partly to avoid under a café umbrella. However the result, when the sun came out shortly afterwards was an almost perfect rainbow

Sadly my phone camera doesn’t do it justice, but it was most impressive. As an aside I think I’m taking pictures which don’t get saved.

It was about 7 miles to Bridlington, quite a large port and tourist resort

where I nearly came off Lucy as I was trying to get up a narrow ramp off the promenade. Having been spoiled with off road tracks and promenades for much of the day I now faced 12 miles of busy A road, mostly without cycle paths. About six miles from my destination at Hornsea the road forked and quietened down but as I reached the outskirts the heavens opened, and I sheltered under an overhanging roof of an enormous indoor bowls centre until the storm passed, and I found The Ashburnam Guest House where I’m staying tonight.

Day 11 – Spurning the short route

Colin and Debbie bought the Ashburnam Guest House, which sits on Victoria Avenue one road behind the Promenade at Hornsea, in a sorry state and have invested money and love into turning it into somewhere anyone would be glad to stay. Colin and spaniel Toto greeted me and after unloading panniers Lucy was put in the garage for the night. There is a pub immediately in front of the Ashburnam, but Colin wrinkled his nose when I asked about it and suggested Indian or Chinese as a better bet. Having done the usual chores I wandered about 200 yards and found the Golden Wok which was doing a roaring trade on takeaways but virtually empty as a restaurant. I ordered too much food but was very hungry after a long day on the road and managed to put away a bottle of beer, a bowl of chicken and sweetcorn soup, a mixed meat noodle dish and sweet and sour pork with egg fried rice: and very good it was too. However, when it came to pay, I hadn’t noticed that they don’t take credit cards, and I didn’t have enough cash. They did accept a bank transfer which is how I finally managed to pay the very reasonable bill.

Breakfast was a perfectly acceptable FEB or perhaps that should be FYB as I was in the East Riding, and I left replete at about 0900 knowing that I had a flat ride to Hull which is only about 16 miles away by the shortest route. I had other plans: Having visited Flamborough yesterday it would have been plain wrong not to go down to Spurn Head at the north side of the Humber estuary. I cycled along the prom at Hornsea and, as often seems the case left the sea and didn’t see it again until I got to Withernsea 17 miles later. I was trying to decide how you should pronounce Withernsea and decided in my mind that the “n” should be accentuated so it sounds Witherensea but I’ve no idea if I’m right. Anyway, it looked a pleasant enough place

With lots of off shore wind turbines on the horizon

The terrain was flat with occasional rises in the road. Large fields of harvested cereals with tractors and combination drills hard at work putting in the next crop

22 miles in, I came across a road closed sign but figured that as it was Saturday there probably wouldn’t be any work going on: my hunch paid off and, apart from a couple of verges that had been dug out ready for stone and tarmac, there was no sign of industry.

As I approached Easington, I passed a large industrial complex which, I have since discovered, is one of the sites that receives and distributes gas from the North sea. Not only from British fields but also from Norway. Much as our current Energy Secretary would like to see an end of this, I’m sure it will be operating for many years to come.

I was now about 4 miles from Spurn village and starting to see a number of people wandering around with binoculars, tripods and cameras. This was Spurn Migration Festival or, as birders refer to it. Migfest 25. I was amazed at the size of it. Large marquees and hundreds of cars.

The brainchild of two Spurn stalwarts, Martin Garner and Andy Roadhouse, the festival has become one of the most popular events on the birding calendar. From its humble beginnings in 2013, the Spurn Migration Festival has continued to grow year on year. According to the website, Spurn is undoubtedly the best place to observe migration in mainland Britain. So now you know!

The gravel spit to Spurn Head extends about 4 miles into the estuary, but the surface is loose sand and shingle and I didn’t go any further once the road ran out.

It was now time to head for Hull, and I didn’t need to retrace my steps very far before I was on new roads, long, flat and straight, up to two miles without deviation. Quite hard work into a brisk south westerly wind

I was generally away from the estuary but occasionally chanced on an inlet before once again heading inland

Just short of Thorngumbald – now there’s a name for you – I took a short cut down a rough track. The surface was easy to cycle but when I got to the other end there was a locked gate with no way through or round it. I had just passed a couple of dog walkers and he suggested we just throw the bike over. I unhitched the panniers and we unceremoniously “threw” Lucy over the gate.

For a short distance I joined a busy road but was soon instructed by Rita to turn off down a rough track. I had seen on my plotted route that there was about 10 miles of cross country track that couldn’t be viewed on Street view, always a bit unnerving. In the event the surface was generally OK if very narrow.

I didn’t have any “interesting” moments although I kept my left foot unclipped for most the the run, just in case. This was the track of the long defunct Hull to Withernsea railway and there was occasional evidence in the shape of old rails.

The track took on a concrete and then tarmac surface as it came into the city.

There was a tearaway on a noisy trials bike who, I’m sure shouldn’t have been on the pathway but no real harm done and Rita and Gary between them guided me faultlessly to the door of the White Hart, my home for the night. Although I haven’t travelled a great distance it has been tiring. As I’ve often observed you have to pedal all the time on the flat. Tomorrow will be more of the same but a greater distance.

Day 12 – Into Lincs

The White Hart, Hull is a pub that dates back to 1904. It fell into disrepair but has been renovated and running since 2018. There are 8 rooms above the bars, accessed by a steep staircase. I was given an access code, told that I was staying in Room 7 and left to get on with it. I asked if they had safe storage for Lucy but was told she could go into the beer garden which has CCTV. When I arrived, I took a look at the stairs and figured I could get her into my room with a bit of grunt. It wasn’t easy but I managed, and the room was big enough for both of us. There was a fan, so the washing dried well overnight.

The Three John Scotts, housed in the former general Post office, is one of Wetherspoons finest and that’s where I went. I’d forgotten that it was Saturday night: the pub was heaving but I found a quietish corner and ordered a pint of Ruddles and fish and chips. I had another pint and sticky toffee pudding to finish, total cost under £20. Just around the corner was a One Stop where I bought a bottle of Aussie red and went back to write up my days adventures. The city was bustling with people on a night out and every pub and club had a black gang on the door to make sure there was no mischief. There were hen parties and lads in fancy dress: I left them to it and retired to my room.

I had the best part of 80 miles to travel today and the forecast was for rain in Skegness at about 4pm so I planned to leave early. There was no breakfast in the deal so I could leave when I wanted to. Unfortunately, I had a dreadful night, unable to sleep. The bed was two singles put together and uncomfortable and there was a bit of noise from outside so I felt that I hardly slept at all when I stirred at about 6am. As I was awake, I decided to get on with it and packed and took the two panniers and bike battery down to the lobby and then heaved Lucy down. It was easier than I feared, bumping her down on her back wheel, and I hope I didn’t wake any other residents. The upshot was that I was pedalling away at 0722 and stopped to take a pic of the City Hall Theatre in the bright morning sunlight

Amazingly I found the route straight away and made very few wrong turns on my way to The Humber Bridge. I was following the signs for the Trans Pennine route which, I noticed yesterday, started in Hornsea. I did manage to miss the access road for cycles onto the bridge and had to turn round to avoid the main carriageway but, once found, I had an easy crossing. I had done it before in 2016 on my tour of County Towns on a very murky day. The view today wasn’t great but better than nine years ago.

The Humber Bridge was said to be a vanity project of John “two jags” Prescott, MP for North Hull and former Deputy PM, although it had been talked of long before he took office. When it opened in 1981 it was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world, though it has now fallen to 14th. The original tollcharge of £3 for a single journey by car, £24 for an artic, was the most expensive in the UK and lorries, in particular, felt it made more economic sense to go inland to avoid it. The toll has now been halved and lorries pay £12 whilst bikes and pedestrians use it freely.

It is a beautiful structure and easy to see from the viewing point on the south bank. My route now followed the edge of the estuary for about three miles along a dirt track on the top of the levee, and I proceeded cautiously with one foot unclipped, passing lots of dog walkers on the way.

When I eventually got back onto tarmac I made good time towards Immingham, one of the largest container ports in Britain and surrounded by power stations and gas plants,

Grimsby is next down the coast: once the largest fishing fleet in the world was based here but that has almost entirely disappeared. It still has a major fish market but most of the fish sold has been imported from Iceland for distribution round the UK and Europe. Taking its place is a large food industry with the claim that there are more pizzas made in Grimsby than anywhere else in Europe, including Italy. I passed around rather than through Grimsby and crossed the railway by means of this rather grand structure

Now on the seafront again I had a short ride to Cleethorpes and its rather paltry pier

As I hadn’t eaten, I stopped for a bacon bap and a mug of tea

And very good it was too.

I had to venture inland to miss a large area with no roads or tracks, partly marsh but mainly productive farm land, before heading back to the coast at Mablethorpe,

the most northerly of a string of seaside resorts on the Lincolnshire coast with acres of land devoted to holiday homes. Miles of concrete path link Trusthorpe, Sutton-on-Sea, Chapel St Leonard’s, Seathorne and Skegness.

I made the mistake of trying to follow this promenade from Chapel St Leonard’s and found myself bogged down in drifted sand which held me up long enough to be caught in steady rain for the final five miles before I arrived at the Royal Hotel, Skegness.

Gale force winds forecast tomorrow. I may have to take a train.

Day13 – Too windy for cycling

I booked the accommodation in Skegness a while ago but when I was idly looking at reviews on Booking it was apparent that it was pretty awful so, as I was able to cancel, I did and, instead, found a good deal at The Royal Hotel which is owned by the OYO Group, an Indian based international hospitality chain. I’ve stayed in a couple of their hotels before, and I’d put them on a par with Travelodge but without the corporate identity. Each hotel is different so one doesn’t know quite what to expect but in this case it is a large building with a grand entrance. Here’s a pic from t’internet

What I booked was a single room B&B for £52 which was very good value. When I arrived, somewhat wet, as a result of the rain that had hit me five miles from the finish, the receptionist welcomed me, took payment and gave me a key code to get into the room. I said, “what about the bike?” and he said “take it up to the room with you or I can store it down here”. So Lucy went up in the lift with me to the first floor which, intriguingly, was floor 3 in the lift. I got to the room expecting a poky single and instead had a large double with loads of room in both the bedroom and bathroom – result. Another shower with rather dodgy thermostatic controls but I eventually got it right and washed myself and my riding gear. There was a fan, so clothes were hung up in the bathroom and blasted well dry by this morning.

I was expecting there to be food at the hotel but that, on a Sunday night in the off-season, was too much to be expected and I had to venture out in the, now quite heavy, rain to the local Chinese takeaway – once again cash only. I brought my sweet and sour pork and noodles back to my room and polished them off with a bottle of wine from the One stop shop. The bed was comfortable, and I slept well until awoken by cooing pigeons at about 0600.

An excellent breakfast included in the price. Help yourself to as much as you want, cereals, orange juice, full fry up. A good start.

I’ve known for several days that today was forecast to be very windy from the south-west, and that is exactly the direction in which I was heading. I went outside to check, and it was blowing a hooley, so I needed a plan. I was booked into accommodation about 11 miles from King’s Lynn and it was paid for with no cancellation allowed. However, I e-mailed The Boathouse, explaining the situation, and asking if they would, at least, give a partial refund – a resounding no! So either I had to make it to Sutton Bridge, or I would lose £70 and have to pay for alternative accommodation. I figured if I could make it to King’s Lynn, I would have 11 miles to cycle to Sutton Bridge with the wind roughly behind me, but I checked to see if there was alternative accommodation available in KL just in case it proved too difficult to cycle, and there was.

Onto Trainline to see if I could get from Skegness to King’s Lynn. Yep, but it was a long way round and would take about 4 hours and cost about £35, half of what it cost me to get to Inverness.

So I booked it and left Skeggy

at 1114 bound for King’s Lynn, change at Grantham and Ely, arriving at 1530

I’d plumbed in a course from KL train station to Sutton Bridge and, indeed, I’ve cycled that course twice before on other journeys. This took me through a park and down onto the levee of the river Lynn. This was un-nerving and I nearly gave up and went to plan B, but I persevered and crossed the river and was then faced with about three miles of cycling on a very narrow pathway with a crosswind that pushed me towards the roadway whenever there was a gap in the hedge – not at all pleasant. Then it improved, the wind was behind the beam, and I was on a wide road with little traffic. Through Terrington St Clement and Walpole Cross Keys and then five miles of sheltered cycle track to finish

I arrived at the Boathouse just before 5 and it looked completely deserted. I phoned and eventually it was answered, and I was told the door was open. Tracey greeted me and told me to leave the bike in front of the building beside a convenience store on a busy road, and don’t chain her to the fence because it’s broken! I pleaded with her but to no avail, so I have put cables through the wheels and the Hiplock round the wheels and frame and just have to hope that all is well. “ Oh that’s where everyone leaves their bikes and we haven’t had one stolen in 14 years and there’s CCTV covering it.” More fool me for not checking but If I’d known that in advance, I’d have written off the £70 and stayed in King’s Lynn. Anyway, there’s going to be a damning review on Booking.com.

So a frustrating day which ended badly – and it is the 13th day……until midnight

Day 14 – North Norfolk

I couldn’t wait to get away from Sutton Bridge. From the moment I arrived, after my hair-raising ride from King’s Lynn, at a building which looked deserted, to the moment I left, was a thoroughly unpleasant experience. I suppose my judgement was clouded by the refusal to cancel the booking but she was within her rights. I took an instant dislike and closer acquaintance did not improve things.

There was nowhere to sit down and eat within a mile, so I resorted, once again, to buying a meal deal at the next-door shop and retiring to my room to eat it and drink the Aussie red whilst I blogged. The closure of so many pubs over the last 10 years has meant that I often find myself without a nearby hostelry and that reduces the chance of meeting people to chat with.

Partly my concern with leaving Lucy chained inadequately, open to view from the road and pavement and partly because the road was busy throughout the night, I slept poorly and went down for breakfast at about 0745. I was damned if I was going to miss breakfast on principle but it wasn’t one of the best with tinned tomatoes, insipid sausage and slightly overdone eggs. Let’s draw a veil over the whole sorry business

I left at 0836 and crossed back over Sutton Bridge, an imposing structure that swings open to allow the passage of cargo boats.

And retraced my steps of the night before to the Great Ouse river crossing that had almost caused me to turn back. The wind was still perceptible but only about half the speed of yesterday as I made my way through and around King’s Lynn, a town of nearly 50,000 people, much larger than I had thought and it showed in the time it took me to finally clear the suburbs at North Wootton. My route was largely off-road with good cycle paths or wide pavements until I reached Castle Rising a fine 12th century keep which was completely hidden from my view and then on to the grandest Norfolk estate of all Sandringham. This was owned personally by the late Queen and passed to King Charles on her death. Again, the house can’t be seen from the road but there were a large number of people visiting. The nearest I got was a picture of one of the avenues of trees

I continued past Snettisham and had to divert because of a road closure but after almost 30 miles of the journey I finally saw the sea at Heacham and then followed the coastal road up to Huntstanton, surprisingly busy for a weekday in term-time

Moving north to Old Hunstanton kite surfers were using the force 4-5 wind to good effect putting some colour into a drab day.

Here my northerly route changed to an easterly one which was helpful as the wind was now largely in the west, and, on several occasions, I was coasting along without pedalling. This north Norfolk coast is desolate marsh, beautiful in its own way, and there are many bird observatories and opportunities to explore the natural world. The only road along this coast is the A149, not busy and I didn’t feel threatened at any point. You are largely out of sight of the sea unless you turn off at one of the Staithes or small harbours. These are several miles of winding estuary from open water.

And the river is filled with small craft.

Onto the greatest of these, Wells-next-the-Sea, which was heaving with day-trippers enjoying their lunch

This fine granary has been converted into luxury flats but the loading structure has been retained for visual effect.

I passed through Stiffkey (pronounced Stewkey) infamous for its one-time rector Harold Davidson who was defrocked by a consistory court in 1932 for immorality with young girls. Davidson protested his innocence and publicised his case by appearing in seaside spectaculars including exhibiting himself in a barrel on Blackpool beach. He met an unfortunate end in Skegness when he was attacked and killed by a lion in whose cage he was appearing as a publicity stunt.

The road was starting to become a bit of a roller coaster and, as I was out of sight of the sea I thought I would push on to Sheringham, my final destination and try to find a launderette as, after two weeks on the road, I’m starting to hum a bit. However the launderette that I found was service washes only so I was left with a couple of hours to kill before I could get into my room at the Youth Hostel. I went down to the front

un-inspiring and back up into the town – no better, but I did discover that there was a café open for evening meals, and into Tesco to buy a bottle of wine until I finally found a bench beside the North Norfolk railway and did the Telegraph daily puzzles. I also discovered that there is a launderette in a petrol service station that I passed on my way into Sheringham. Had I realised that, it would have passed the time nicely but I shall go there tomorrow morning and wash and dry everything before I set off to Southwold, judged recently to be one of the best places to live in the UK.

Day 15 – disaster averted

I stayed last night at the Youth Hostel in Sheringham. I had a three bed room to myself with a wash hand basin in the room.

The loo and shower were just across the corridor, and it was fine. Lucy went into a bike shed under lock and key and I had a peaceful and relatively restful night myself

I’d made an effort to get to Sheringham early to do a wash but the launderette I found was not doing self-service. It was only much later that I discovered there was a ME wash at a garage I had passed on my way in. You’ve probably seen them at supermarkets and garages: I first came across them in Ireland in 2018 when I washed my kit after a couple of weeks on the road. I determined to drop in there this morning after breakfast at the YHA, which was fine, indeed the sausages were excellent.

I chatted with two couples who were cycling round Norfolk and meandering through the Broads today. They were most impressed with my exploits and wished me well for the rest of the trip

I set off at 0857 in spitting rain with more forecast throughout the day and found the ME wash, loaded all my dirty clothes into the machine, paid the money by card and……..nothing happened. Whether it was me or the machine I do not know but I rang the helpline and was told that they would refund the money (which they have). Still, that left me reloading my bags with dirty smelly clothes for the onward journey. The weather worsened and I was soon very wet despite a good jacket: gloves in particular were wringing wet, although, fortunately, it wasn’t cold.

I soon got to Cromer and took a pic of the pier, one of very few today as managing a camera was difficult

The navigators then took me on a cross country route on narrow sandy, and now wet, tracks. I bailed out part way and found my way back onto the blacktop. I pulled into a bus stop shelter in Mundesley to change gloves but that didn’t help much. I was having trouble managing the phone and life was bleak. I was surprised at the amount of climbing, not steep but up and down regularly. I associate Norfolk with flat lands but that was not the case today.

Between Paston and Bacton there is a massive Gas terminal and road works, with traffic lights, were happening on a short hill. I pulled in and waited and a couple of vehicles pulled in behind me so, when the lights changed, I took off as fast as I could to avoid holding anyone up. I’d been aware since pulling into the bus-stop that the cues I was getting from Rita were very faint, but I was so wet that I thought nothing of it until I came to a junction and there was no cue at all. I looked down: my phone had been in my top jacket pocket which has a zip but the zip was open and the phone wasn’t there. Had I put it in a pocket? – fevered searching revealed nothing – it was gone. I was fairly certain that I had it at the traffic lights a mile back so I retraced my steps thinking the most likely scenario was that it had come out of my pocket as I took off when the light changed green. Nothing at that point so I returned and, amazingly about 200 yards further on, there it was on the verge, undamaged and working . phew! That, however, is not the end of the story because I am sure that it was still in its case when I picked it up but, somehow, later in the day the case went missing. Still, I’m not too bothered about the case – the phone would have been different. My main means of navigation, my only means of communication would have been lost and God knows how I would have found my way to my destination without it.

The rain continued but let up a bit at Happisburgh, about 20 miles in. I returned to the sea at Eccles, an extraordinary place, with lots of holiday homes but no made-up roads. The Council collect their waste, because I was held up by the bin lorry, but they don’t provide roads. Five miles of rough and sandy tracks and I was back on the tarmac with long straight roads and marshy terrain. I was on the edge of the Norfolk Broads where I had several enjoyable holidays 60 + years ago. On to Caister-on Sea where I missed the sea and on bike paths to Great Yarmouth where I saw the sea again and took a pic of the pier whilst sheltering from another squall

The rivers Waveney and Yare conjoin at Great Yarmouth and flow out to sea down a canalised estuary, able to take substantial ships. Still raining so no pictures but a little further on I cycled along the promenade of Gorlestone-on-Sea

I was now heading for Lowestoft and the weather was improving but the picture that I took after crossing the inner harbour didn’t save. I was last here in 2019 when I cycled the extreme points of Britain, of which Lowestoft Ness is one. So here’s a picture of me back then on a conventional bike

Same panniers but all that clothing is now gone. Back then I made my way back inland and didn’t appreciate that Lowestoft has long sandy beaches and pleasant promenades.

Now ten miles from the end of the journey lethargy was starting to creep in and I was feeling desperately tired. I pulled in beside the road for a pee and was amused to see a field of parsley: I’ve never seen it grown as a field crop before, but I suppose it has major culinary uses

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the place I am staying in tonight is a cottage a couple of miles from a pub. I decided to go down to the seafront of Southwold and took a picture of the pier before continuing along the prom.

Into the town to see what I could get to eat. Lo and behold I found an excellent fish and chip shop and stopped and ate £15 worth of cod and chips outside the shop. Down the road to the Co-op for a bottle of McGuigan Black label and I was sorted for the evening.

Nourished, I cycled on into town to see the Adnams brewery with that wonderful hoppy, malty, yeasty small

and then had to hit a couple of miles of rough tracks and a pedestrian/cycle bridge over the river

before, finally arriving at Lodge Cottage where I’m spending the night. And the most wonderful ending to my strange and strangely enjoyable day is that there is a washing machine and tumble drier that I shall use before I set off tomorrow!

Day16 - Ferry or not ferry

Following my fish and chip supper, I arrived at Lodge Cottage

quite late after a cross country route across the river Blyth. I put Lucy in a shed, as previously arranged and was then delighted to find a laundry room with two washing machines and two tumble driers. I thought it only polite to ask if I could use them and was given the Ok. So, at about 7am I took all my clothing, less what I was wearing for the day and shoved it in the machine. An hour later I put half in each of the two tumblers and half an hour later they were dry enough to stick in my dry bags and thence the panniers – job done. I wasn’t asked to pay but I thought it only right, and left £15, which is about what it would have cost in the Wash ME. I should add that the bed was not very comfortable, and I had a restless night.

I was able to leave at 0857 with clean clothes and conscience. I was disagreeably surprised at just how lumpy the route was. I associate East Anglia with flatness, but I was roller coastering from the start and the first ten miles seemed to take forever. There seemed to be regular roadworks, involving stopping and starting, and large herds of outdoor pigs

My early route took me inland from Sizewell nuclear power station, that I spotted from Lowestoft yesterday but there was no sign today apart from vehicles on the road with Sizewell insignia.

My first notable stop, some 15 miles into the journey, was Snape Maltings, an arts complex on the banks of the river Alde, developed from its original purpose in the 1960s, largely at the instigation of composer Benjamin Britten and his partner Peter Pears, into a world class music venue. There were a lot of cars and people wandering around the large complex

As I hadn’t had any breakfast I stopped at the adjacent pub for a bacon bap and a pot of tea, and very good they were too

I made my way through Woodbridge, a pretty town on the River Deben. Close by is Sutton Hoo, the site of a remarkable discovery of an Anglo-Saxon ship burial which has been factionally portrayed in the film The Dig. In my past life as a Land agent I was briefly responsible for the surrounding estate, although the burial land is in the ownership of the National Trust.

It was now decision time. My original route had been to follow the coast and cross the river Deben downstream by ferry at Bawdsey but I couldn’t find if the ferry was running so I decided that I would stay inland and use Woodbridge as my crossing point. However, there was also the mighty river Orwell to cross. Two options: cross upstream at Ipswich or take the ferry across from Felixstowe to Harwich. Again, I had found it maddeningly difficult to find out if the ferry was running but, this morning, there was a definite yes. I consulted the map and worked out that it was about 11 miles to Felixstowe beach and I had about an hour to catch the 1330 ferry, knowing that, if I missed it, I would have to wait another hour. I used my phone to book the passage for £7.50 and time-trialled it to Felixstowe. Amazingly the roads I was using were virtually empty and I was able to make excellent time until the last mile or so when I hit dirt roads and, finally, shingle. It was a strange sight, a small ferry boat with a gangway in the middle of a shingle beach.

I think they must have seen me coming because I was a few minutes late, but they waited, and Lucy and I boarded and settled down for the 15 minute ride across the harbour. I had two travelling companions. Mike a 40 year old who had heart problems and had been to hospital in Felixstowe that morning and was returning home to Shotley and Dave, a scouser who was working on a tug in Harwich harbour. I explained my mission and we had a broad conversation which was entertaining.

The initial move out into the estuary was rough and water came through the doors but once we were out in the tidal stream we made our way across to Harwich quite calmly. Felixstowe is a vast port, dealing with almost half of Britain’s containerised trade. I was glad to have made the journey: I’d already cycled through Ipswich on a previous trip, so it was nice to tackle something new.

We docked at Harwich, not only a port but also a seaside resort with a long sandy beach at Dovercourt. Now my route took me inland skirting the Hamford Nature reserve, devoid of roads and tracks, before, once again, meeting the sea at Walton on the Naze, the promontory that sticks out into the north sea and provides miles and miles of golden sand for holiday makers.

From here I had an amazing 5 mile run on promenade or track via Frinton and Holland to my destination at Clacton-on- Sea.

It shows the versatility of Ride with GPS, my chosen navigation system, that it was able to cope with the changes of route during the day and still deliver me to the Aviator, a Marstons hotel in the middle of a trading estate and give an accurate track of my movements . I was delighted to note that opposite the hotel is a large Lidl which will provide me with a bottle of wine for later.

Day 17 – Perfect route, a day too early

Marstons are akin to Premier Inns, indeed the one I stayed in last night probably was a Premier Inn in the past. Comfortable bed and standardised bathroom with an excellent shower. The only niggle I had was that I had specifically rung them before I set off to ask for the policy on bikes and they said, “take it to your room”. However, when I checked in, they gave me a room on the first floor with no lift, so I had to lug Lucy upstairs - not as bad as Hull - and she’s no lightweight. Across the car park is the restaurant, not much in the way of healthy food with an emphasis on deep frying. I had battered mushrooms with a mayo dip as a starter and followed by beef lasagne and garlic bread with a few token leaves and sliced onions. It was fine but left me longing for some decent vegetables. Just across the way was a large Lidl so I was able to buy a bottle of wine for later.

I didn’t bother with breakfast, not particularly hungry and thought I’d stop during the day. The route out of Clacton was inland, but here’s the pier

The weather was fine with plenty of sun forecast and I was feeling good. There was a bit of cross-country to start with, reasonable surfaces but a few gates to open and close but I was soon in horsiculture country, indeed I was told off by a lady from her upstairs window that I was in her garden, having taken a wrong turn. I was soon back on the tarmac and heading for Wivenhoe, a pretty town on the river Colne that flows down through Colchester. Unfortunately, I hadn’t twigged that I needed to cross said river and the only way across at Wivenhoe was by ferry. Even more unfortunately the ferry only runs at weekends. The next crossing was about 3 miles upstream at Hythe, so thither I went. The track surface was generally good after the first mile, so I made good time. I then had to get back on my route which took a bit of head scratching, but I joined up at Fingringhoe after a 7 mile detour. The terrain was up and down but not severe and the battery was getting little use. I was close to the coast but no sign of water until I reached Heybridge and crossed the Chelmer river

And just to prove the sun was shining

Now at Maldon I had a decision to make. If I had crossed the river at Wivenhoe my route took me to Burnham-on Crouch, the Cowes of the east Coast. My route also factored in a crossing of the river Crouch by ferry to Wallasea island and a direct route to my destination in Southend but….. you’ve guessed it….. that ferry also runs only at weekends. I still had the opportunity to visit Burnham and then make my way back up the river to cross it at Battlesbridge, a detour of getting on for 30 miles. I was feeling good, the legs were full of power, my only problem was with my arms and shoulders which were aching, but I took the detour. The route to Burnham was pleasant with little traffic and, as I pulled into the town, I spotted the Burnham bakery and stopped to pick up a ham and cheese roll and a can of 7up to take and eat and drink on the quay. The owner was charming, and I told her of my adventure – cost £4 for as good a filled roll as you could ask for.

Here’s the ferry quay which I could have used tomorrow but alas….

The route on to Battlesbridge was a challenge. Only a B road but a lot of traffic on winding roads meant that I was holding it up. I stopped a couple of times to reduce the queue, but it was relentless, and I was relieved to reach South Woodham Ferrers. The respite was not long as I had to cycle along a very busy A road before turning off at Battlesbridge and finally crossing the River Crouch. Now it was pavement cycling to avoid the late afternoon traffic followed by some off road

And then back onto busy roads for the final push into Southend-on Sea. I’ve enjoyed today. It’s been a long journey, but the sun has been shining and I’ve felt good. I made my way down to the seafront to try to take a meaningful picture of the longest pleasure pier in world but it’s difficult with a poxy phone camera

Anyway it’s 1.33 miles long and is serviced by a railway if you don’t feel like walking. It has experienced several fires but has now been open for 20 years since the last catastrophe.

I made my way up from the promenade to the University of Essex buildings where I am staying the night. Lucy is locked onto a bike stand, and I have a single bed in a room 4 floors up a tower block. I was reassuringly told that fire drills had already happened for the day so if the alarm went off it would be for real!

Day 18 – The last leg

I booked a room at the University of Essex Southend campus entirely on cost. £38 for a bed and shower was the best I could do in the area. I pootled down to the seafront to have a look at the pier and then back up into town, guided expertly by Rita who took me to the door without any mistakes (by me). The security personnel at the university are dressed like policemen and overweight to a man. I was shown where to put Lucy, undercover in a bike rack and then shown to my room which was in Building 7, floor 4, unit H. There were no less than seven 13A outlets, so no problem there. The loo, whb and shower were all in a module in the corner and did the job admirably with a good easy to control shower. I washed my bibshorts and one of my undershirts and hung them up on my bungee clothesline: they were dry to wear this morning.

I was quite late getting out so chose a Thai restaurant a few doors down from the uni. A couple of pints of Singha to accompany Satay chicken with a peanut dip and then Beef Massaman and a bowl of rice. It was all very nice but quite expensive, especially the beer at £6.95 a pint. Having not had a sit down meal for a few days it was nice to relax and eat out.

No breakfast included in the deal, so I set off just before 8, back down to the seafront

and along the prom to Leigh-on-sea with masses of joggers out for their morning run. Just past Leigh I took to the country with a 3.5 mile track, very rough in places but improving to a gravel path when I reached Benfleet. I stopped to consult the maps, hesitated and had a stationary fall, the only one of the trip. Unfortunately, it has exacerbated the problem that I had when I broke a rib back in January and I was in moderate pain for the rest of the day. I popped some Brufen which helped but I was, and still am, uncomfortable.

My journey to the Dartford crossing was a mixture of roads with cycle paths and tracks. At one point I had to cross the main railway line and the kissing gate on either side of the track was so badly designed that I had to lift Lucy over them.

I t wasn’t until I reached Coalhouse Fort at Tilbury, over 20 miles into the journey

that I, once again, saw the sea in the shape of the Thames Estuary. The path, signed as good old NCR1, along the top of the embankment was rudimentary and at one point Sustrans gave up on it and put in a steep metal stile with a bike rail on the side. It was so steep I found it easier to lift Lucy over the top. The track improved somewhat as I passed Tilbury Docks with a large cargo ferry docking and a cruise liner in the distance.

Tilbury docks was my first taste of England 73 years ago when we returned en famille from Malaya where I was born. I looked across the river to see the places that I would travel to this afternoon.

Onwards to the first potentially big challenge of the day, crossing the Thames. The Dartford crossing consists of a northbound tunnel and a southbound bridge, The Queen Elizabeth II bridge, a fine cable-stayed structure.

Cycles are not allowed in the tunnels or on the bridge. It’s not especially well advertised but I had read that if a cyclist turns up at a particular place on either the Essex or Kent side, during certain hours, there is an intercom to ask to be transported across in a van, without charge. And so it proved: within a couple of minutes of asking, the van appeared, I loaded Lucy and panniers in the back, and we set off over the bridge for Kent.

I’d noticed as I was loading into the van that the face plate of the bike battery had come loose and one of the screws had almost fallen out. Mercifully I was able to tighten everything down before setting off again.

I had decided to cycle to Sittingbourne, close enough to the end of last year’s journey along the south coast to join the east and south together, and catch a train to London and on to Templecombe.

The route took me along the opposite bank of the Thames to this morning looking across to Grays before turning inland at Ebbsfleet where I met several totally unnecessary cycle gates and back to the river at Gravesend, Looking across at Tilbury, before turning south west with a slog up Telegraph Hill and a swoop down to Strood, crossing the Medway at Rochester.

I stopped in Chatham to rest and take pics

but I was tired and sore and wanting to get on so I eschewed the “pretty” route by the river and took a more direct one. I was somewhat surprised to find myself in the middle of a busy golf course but kept going until I got to the clubhouse and couldn’t find my way out. I had to go into the pro shop to ask them to open a gate. They didn’t seem surprised, so I guess it happens quite often. The route then took me through apple orchards with trees heavy with fruit

and finally, along by-roads to Sittingbourne station.

I hadn’t done any planning because I was so uncertain about my timing, but trains only run once an hour to London at quarter past the hour. I arrived at about five past four, went to the machine which told me it would cost nearly £80, and so consulted Trainline who came up with a more reasonable £46.80. By now it was perilously close to train time and there was a queue of people waiting to collect tickets: however all was well and the 4.15pm train pulled in as I reached the platform. I couldn’t find the bike carriage so just wedged Lucy in and moved her from side to side when we made interim stops.

I now had to get from Victoria to Waterloo and, after a bit of indecision as to which was the way, I set off past Grosvenor Gardens, along Buckingham Gate and Birdcage Walk to Westminster bridge. There’s an amazing cycle route, sometimes in the centre of traffic but controlled by lights that takes you through Westminster and across the bridge, then left turn up York Road and I was at Waterloo Station before 1800hrs for the train that was due to depart at 1820.

This time I’ve found the bike rack so can settle down to record the blog. I can’t get Southern Railway’s Internet to work so will have to put the finishing touches when I get home at about 9.15. There’s plenty of juice in the battery to light me homewards.

As always, I’ve had good days and bad but I’m glad I’ve done it. Only the most difficult bit of Britain left but I’ll have a look at the 1200 miles around the North West of Scotland and England when I’ve recovered from this one.