Devon Coast to Coast - The Knee Trembler

A man is standing on a train, he is staring at the floor, more particularly he is staring at his cycling mitts on the floor, he is convinced they used to be on his seat. He takes one pace forward and spots the example of Exeter youth that has ejected his mitts so that he can use his mobile more easily. After ejection Nick (for it is he) regains his seat and gloves, and contemplates the countryside whizzing pas..., whizz..., the grass at the edge of the track comes into sharp relief as the train stops.
Nick, being observant, part of his profession, notices the herd of bullocks thundering across the field to observe, and comment lustily upon, the train. He thinks, "Cow on the line, hope we haven't hit it!" the latter part of the thought being for the benefit of himself and the fellow passengers, as opposed to the cow. The train edges forward passed a bemused bullock that seems to have forced the hedge.
Outside Castle Cary we come to a shuddering halt again, the bovine bush telegraph has been in operation, our train has been deemed of significant interest for cows, this time a whole herd has decamped onto the line to admire the livery. The driver is unable to warn his fellow drivers as his emergency radio has broken down, necessitating the train being taken out of service at the next station. Nick fulminates but then a glimmer of light, two engineers on the train have managed to fix the radio.
"Dear Passengers, the following trains have been held at Exeter for those of you travelling to X, Y and Z, passengers for Barnstaple, there's no way we can hold the train for thirteen minutes." Nick fulminates.

So it was that I ended up in Barnstaple an hour later than I had meant to be there, I had decided to do the Devon Coast to Coast, a cycle route of 100 and something miles running from Ilfracombe in the north to Plymouth in the south, the majority of it off-road on disused railways, Barnstaple being the closest railway station. From there I had to cycle 14 miles north to Ilfracombe and then back to Barnstaple on the railway track down the Taw estuary. I had elected to go via Guineaford, a route recommended on the internet.

Barnstaple has obviously subscribed to the same Transport Policy as Harlow, there are signs for the A39 (a road) and signs for the A361 west (another road), there are no signs for anything/anywhere else. After an hour, and several enquiries (revealing a paucity of folk who have diverted from the A39 or A361) I found a roadsign for Guineaford, the first roadsign, the first roadsign that was 1.5 miles from Barnstaple, I was now another hour late, and was getting worried about getting back before dark.

The author of the internet piece had alluded to "a few climbs", one patellic explosion later and I was cursing both him and the inability of my bike to drop swiftly into the ultra-low granny gears. I appeared to summit but this was difficult to gauge as the cloud had dropped heavily onto the top of the down and the lenses of my spectacles. The descents would have been cold but for the heat generated by my brakepads. Finally I arrive at a crossroads, and am immediately abandoned by any useful roadsigns, at this point I made my first correct decision of the day and screamed down the road entitled "Harbour P" before screeching to a halt at the Tourist Information to ask where the Tarka Trail was. They pointed back up the hill, so it was with a heavy heart and bicycle that I turned and pedalled dankly upwards.

The author: "The starting gradient is 1/32, no problem for a bike but feel for the fireman stoking.....". I had a problem with 1/32, I couldn't do it in anything but low range, and I was passed by a jogger, not a runner, a jogger. Add to this the fact that I couldn't see anything through my rain-obscured glasses. Things were desperate, I foraged - a few blackberries gave me a noticeable sugar hit (it was either that or the stopping to pick them). I clicked up a gear and set off down the single track road to Buckland, meeting several short-cutting commuters coming the other way, I was of course, forced to move to the side of the road and wait their passage. Eventually I made Braunton and promptly lost the waymarking, fulminating, I cast about and discovered them lurking in some bushes. My trip down the estuary was good with frequent pauses to admire the bird life... when it swam back into focus. Soon I was re-approaching Barnstaple, my B&B was called Sandford Mount, a fact I hadn't considered up until now. I discovered it at the top of the hill, and creaked up the drive.

She stared at me as I dripped in the hallway,

"Bring your bike into the living room and park it on the mat."

"Are you sure? It'll drip!"

"Fine, what time would you like breakfast?"

"Nine?"

"Is there anything you don't eat?"

I reviewed my 1/32 debacle plus the cramps I had later, plus my general lack of energy.

"No.

Where can I eat tonight?"

At this point she should have said,

"Risk life and limb on the pavement-/sidewalk- less major road for an eon, then turn off, walk up and down to the village and get lost, and then ask a bloke with a dog."

What she said was,

"The Crown in Lynkey. Walk about half a mile down to the end of the main road, and then down into the village."

Some pate and a sea bass fillet later (carbs supplied by a pint of Doombar and a pint of Tribute) I set out on my hazardous return journey, about a quarter of a mile from the driveway I pass a roadsign, "Lynkey 1 1/2 miles" it says. I festooned the bedroom with an assortment of wet clothes and passed out.

WEDNESDAY

I awoke to a gloomy dawn chorus of several dispirited birds, and rain dripping off the eaves, that plus increasing traffic heading into Barstaple. I turned on the 'phone in the vain hope that someone might have tried to contact me - it had died, not just run out of battery, died, a non-phone, a screen blank except for one and a half straight lines, I shaved instead.
Over breakfast the gardener, drafted in to act as waiter due to a delivery of flowers - I don't know! That's just how it was - ALRIGHT? Over breakfast the gardener asked me where I was going.
"Hatherleigh."
"Oh over hill and down dale, that'll keep you fit!"
"?!"
After I had got over this shock I decided that he was wrong, it was, after all, a railway line. Well the start of it was a railway line, well, when I found the start of it, it was a railway line, and a beautifully tarmaced one at that, well. tarmaced down to Staplevale at least, and then it wasn't.
However, it was a nice run, if you like gloom and the sort of heavy dew that drops continually from the sky, on other occasions, and with the right company, it would be lovely. I'm being churlish, it was lovely but dank.

After leaving the railway it became "over hill and down dale" and also a typical Sustrans route.

A typical Sustrans route : This way. That way. This way...............................................................

....................................................................................................................................................This way. What do you mean I didn't tell you which way to go back there? Well tough! This way. That way.

The road sign said Hatherleigh to the right, Route 27 (the Devon Coast to Coast) to the left. So it was after the bliss of the railway that I started on that most typical of Nick cycling trips - like a Triathlon without the swimming - or running- or going very fast at all. I walked up steep hills, pausing to forage, and then went down a series of what they call screaming descents, well, I know I did.

By the time I got to Hatherleigh it had nearly stopped raining - nearly. I checked into theTally Ho Inn. The girl behind the bar said that she'd send up the girl with my Continental
Breakfast, it arrived, two slices of white bread wrapped in cling film, a pot of marge, plus some milk to combine with the tea and coffee already in the room. The room smelled of stale smoke (curtains not washed since the 1st July 2007), still, I made it my own by hanging wet gear everywhere, and repairing the convector heater, whose feet fell off when you picked it up, I could sympathise. I have enclosed the link so you can avoid it, though the food and beer was fine.

I then wandered around the town (10 minutes), which gave me the opportunity to find my route out in the morning (about 1 in 7 up) and to extend my "continental breakfast" with some bananas. My dinner was extensive, a rack of barbeque pork ribs, which necessitated some shirt cleaning afterwards. As I lay in bed attempting to digest the repast, while at the same time trying to ignore the persistent buzzing from the BBQsauce sugar-rush, I was taken back to a skiing holiday in Keystone. There I shared the room with a fridge, here I shared the room with a fridge, and not only that a fridge that could shake itself with the alacrity of a post-dip cocker spaniel, that could resonate on the same frequency as my fillings (resin AND amalgam), that would wait until 10 microseconds before my sauce-addled brain shuffled through the door to dreamland, and then would clear its phlegmy throat with all the enthusiasm of a camel with chronic hayfever.

THURSDAY (just).

At 5.30 I got up and turned off the fridge. At 8.10 I got up and discovered that the clingfilm on the "continental" had proved ineffective at stemming the flood from the defrosted (probably for the first time ever) icebox - I flushed breakfast. I then tried to leave, I had keys but was somewhat disconcerted to find the pub sans staff, after another wander round the town (5 minutes) and some topping up in the co-op (a packet of Twix, for extremis situations only), I came back to find that the Chef had arrived, he allowed himself to relieve me of some cash.

It wasn't raining, I put on my shades and set off for a brisk walk up the hill out of Hatherleigh, I took the bike with me. At the top there was a view south towards Dartmoor, I turned my wheels towards it, and set off. At the bottom of the hill the sun went for a sulk behind a cloud, I took off my shades, pulled out my other glasses and watched in horror as the side arm fell off, fortunately, actually miraculously, the screw stayed in the case. I cycled crepuscularly on, until I found a roadside fruitstall where I could borrow a holeless cardboard box in which to effect a repair with my cycle multi-tool. In gratitude, and for the sugar content, I bought a couple of apples so red that I cast around for an evil stepmother, in fact, so red that the flesh was pink.

Half an hour later and I'm in Okehampton, in fact in Specsavers,

"Can I borrow a screwdriver?"

She looked at the helmet, the fleece, the sweat and snot-stained shorts (it had been cold the previous two days, my nose had run, and the panniers I was holding.

"Ummm what size?"

I took off my specs and indicated.

"Oh! Yes they look a bit loose, I'll tighten them for you."

Okehampton has a good High Street, some cast-iron pig bike-parking and a mural of Sherlock Holmes standing on (well, nearby to, the Great Grimpen Mire), oh yes and a large hill up to the start of the cycle track. After a refreshing stroll I remounted the bike, and set off down the Granite Railway, skirting the northwest edge of Dartmoor, with an absolutely delightful (the sun had come out, it could have been wall-to-wall gorse and nettles, it would still have been delightful) across-the-moor section. It was so lovely that I lost my hankie when I rolled up my sleeves in the unexpected heat. Eventually we (the bike and I) arrived in Lydford, where I promptly had a not-inconsiderable fly lodge at the back of my throat. Consequently the passing tourist were treated to a first-class display of retching and choking (perhaps this should be "wretching") as I struggled for my water bottle, they didn't say "Hello!"

Having consumed a small amount of protein I decided to have lunch, so parked the bike in the beer garden of the Castle Inn, next to Lydford Castle, which was a prison (don't ask me, this is reportage), and went inside, then I came out again, my heart swilling around inside my boots, as I failed to find my wallet. Fortunately, with the addition of sunlight, it appeared back in my pannier, wearing a smug expression, I re-entered the pub at the back of the queue again, and ordered the last chilli baked potato.

Then on to Mary Tavy, including a bit of track that people have been complaining about for ten years, yes, even full-on hardened cyclists have been forced to walk up it. Then Peter Tavy and some more typical Sustrans marking, and finally a deliriously pretty contour to my B&B The Manor (see embarrassing video) at Samford Spiney, home to horses, dogs, alpaca, and me (for one night only). The Manor was a huge farmhouse, featuring such items as bread ovens and huge granite sinks, ("That's where they used to bleed the pigs."). I washed up and chucked a couple of sticks for the dog before heading down off the moor, to Whitchurch and yet another pub. Obviously influenced by my surroundings I opted for game pie, which incidentally, came with very good chips. I then had to head back, the dusk had fallen and would soon become night, it was at this point I discovered the shortcomings of my illuminatory equipment. The lights, so useful at saying to London traffic, "Look there's a cyclist, you now have two options, one of them illegal." were so unused to the absence of streetlights that they went into a sulk and lit virtually nothing, nothing that is, apart from the all-round visibility ring which illuminated my retina so perfectly that I had to cycle with one-eye shut to retain some night vision. It is, how shall I put this? It is disconcerting when riding up a hedged road and committing the strange shape looming over the hedge to the role of tree trunk, as opposed to monster from the Cthonic reaches, to have it suddenly move. This immediately reverses the above committal until one can reclassify it as curious horse, or possibly, giraffe, this period engendering a lot of swearing and even a quick revision of atheistic tendencies. If one cannot reclassify - keep cycling!

FRIDAY

My hosts had left for a funeral, leaving me in the charge of the house-sitters,

"I couldn't find the mushrooms so I gave you an extra egg."

This was the sort of lady that appreciated a good trencherman, the dog, however, didn't, and gave me the rueful eyebrows that only a spaniel can carry off, charged with the emotion of a beau from the silent age. Before I left. I threw him a couple of sticks but I could tell that he knew it wasn't a sausage. Upon regaining my room and packing, I looked upon my statins and addressed them, "Boys, your time has come!"

Heaving myself aboard the Trusty Steed, I sallied out along the single track road and met the dustmen (garbage truck) coming the other way, I deferred to their bulk and stood to one side with extensive breath holding.

Once again the signposts let me down but I eventually found myself at the start of the track along the old Plym Valley Railway. The start was atrocious, a rubbled path descending steeply down the valleyside, a path that obviously aspired to greater things, like Annapurna but it eventually turned into a ballasted track, which then turned into an asphalt track. I zoomed but had to keep stopping to stare over the edges of the viaducts. I even took a video going through a tunnel, fulfilling all small boys' fantasies (the ones that don't involve the next door neighbour), I was at the front of the train, and driving! I suspect that tandem users may have to do the tunnel a couple of times to avoid divorce.

We emerged at Coypond outside Plymouth. It sounds delightful doesn't it? Visions of expensive and expansive carp lazily disporting themselves in gin-clear water, flicking a fin here, a whisker there. Sadly it was the recycling centre and a traveller's encampment. There followed an industrial journey into the heart of Plymouth, a cup of coffee, a failure to find the route to the official end/beginning and a failure to get on the train due to late-running and overcrowding. After an hour (I had a book) I managed to get on the next Virgin Cross-Country, the three lads two minutes behind me got thrown off, "No more than three bikes. Health and Safety!" As a Health and Safety professional - what a pile of shite.

I arrived back at Exeter at 3.30 and threw myself gratefully onto the tender and welcome mercies of Paul and Carole for the weekend.