In which the author does battle with hills, rain, church bells, hills, midges, sheep, pies, wind and more hills as he rides from Lands End in South West Englandshire to John O Groats in Bonnie Scotland.

Pictures for this can be found on my Flickr site

Two weeks on the road.

It started as a bit of a dream really. Approaching my 40th birthday I wanted to do something a bit different and get the chance to see more of the UK that I had done previously. So Lands End to John O'Groats it had to be. After many months of staring at maps, planning and thinking about routes, I decided that hopping from friend to friend with a stopover at the York Rally would be the best idea. This meant an east coast route, parts of which I would be familiar with but much of the route would be new. I left detailed planning to the day, sketching out stopovers and so on. Train tickets were booked, the first night at Penzance YHA as well, and after much anticipation and an almost complete lack of any kind of distance training it was time for the off.

I thought I had packed light as I rolled down to the station for the first leg of the journey south. Into London reading Dave Gormans travelogue 'America Unchained' as an inspiration. Advice I had received from others was that the less I carried the better. Ulkike my usual intentions of planning everything to the utmost, I took only the minimum of maps – pages torn from a 4 inch road atlas, 2007 vintage with a detailed google maps printout for finding my Durham friends house.

The train pulled into King’s Cross at teatime on a Saturday afternoon. It was time to choose – across town to Waterloo, and another train, or take the road west and cut down through the park. A sunny day and a desire to ride through Richmond Park won. I had forgotten how much fun riding in London is. Euston Road, a bit of zen navigation through the Paddington area and out along Bayswater to Notting Hill, Hammersmith and Richmond Park as I headed for my folks house (and a very nice curry). Richmond Park was definitely different to the last time I rode round there (in the early '90's) - many more bikes, slower cars, more bikes of all shapes and sizes. The bike was fully loaded so it would be interesting to see how the climb from Robin Hood Gate to Ladderstile would fare compared to my memory of it. No worries, it is only a wee bump.

Sunday morning I woke refreshed and refueled and up to Waterloo for my train. Change at Exeter. On to Penzance. My adventurous spirit had meant that the only maps I had of the town were the pages ripped out of a road atlas. Four inches to the mile is not good for detailed street level work. However, Google maps on the mobile phone is. I found the youth hostel without much bother, checked in and after supper set off for Lands End. Lumps and bumps as I remember but an unladen bike makes the ride easier. Out into a headwind, then when I got there it was closed. Rampantly commercial, a bit tacky even. OK, a lot tacky. With photos taken by a young lady called Emily, I headed back to the youth hostel for a fitful nights sleep.

I woke early, very early, and was up and away as there was little point hanging around. The main roads were blissfully quiet as I navigated round Penzance on the A30, a sense of trepidation as to the challenges that lay ahead that I really was not prepared for. My training rides had all been well short of any of the planned days so I was fearing the effects on hands and bum. I rolled into Redruth to get some breakfast from the Spar. The shop was at the base of the railway viaduct which towers six stories high over the street. My route out went over the railway via a bridge - that meant a not insignificant climb. I was now leaving the main roads and navigating on back streets to Truro. In the main this is good, but very stop start as I needed to keep checking the map - and at 4 miles to the inch you don't get a lot of detail. A bit of rush hour traffic as I crossed a main road, then it was a minor road that seemed to twist and turn and descend forever. A real blast at 20-25 mph with only the odd oncoming vehicle to spice things up. Round a corner and slam on the brakes. A ford to cross. I'd bounced through the subsiduary gulley a few metres upstream but didn't want to risk a river crossing, so after a picture, returned up the road a few metres to make use of the footbridge. A steep climb up and then a descent into Truro for a saffron bun and a cup of tea at the bakery opposite the cathedral. It was mid morning and I was only a third part through the planned day so with teapot empty and bun digesting it was onwards and upwards. St Austell beckoned.

Asda at St Austell provided the raw materials for lunch. And a lengthy stop. And a change in the weather. It started to rain. Then it got a bit better at raining. Then it got really, really good at raining. Torrential downpours with water running in rivers along the gutters. Where is Noah when you need him? Anyhow, you don't get anywhere by sitting still so I drained my coffee, donned the wet weather gear and set off in the direction of wet. St Austell to Lostwithiel was a lumpy ride - grinding slowly uphill into the rain, leaning on the brakes on the downhills to keep the bike under control. All that hard work going up the hills negated by having to keep the bike between me and the scenery. The route joined the A38 for a brief stretch. A new bypass was being washed dirty by the rain as ungrassed earth banking became a new alluvial carriageway surface. I joined a couple of fellow LEJoGers under a bridge for a few minutes. And then back into the pouring rain, 25mph downhill meant rolling my lips inwards to ease the pain of the raindrops bouncing off them, ears filling up with water, eyes barely able to make out the road and a bike computer that had long since given up the ghost in the wet. Liskeard brought respite in a café, aptly named the four seasons as I had experienced them all in one day, with a pasty and chips to refuel as I warmed up and dripped all over the café floor.

And then the final leg of the day to Tavistock. A lumpy (but no more than earlier) road but the rain had eased and it was just a question of grinding out the miles. By this time my legs were very weary - the uphills were painfully slow and the descents a relief until reaching the bottom and discovering my legs had seized up and required a few grimaces and groans before starting to work again. The steep descent through Gunnislake (so glad I was going east) led to the river Tamar and over the border into Devon. Cornwall was now behind me. Tavistock however was less than welcoming for a damp and weary cyclist. Everything seemed to be closing as I arrived and after an abortive bit of waiting around and trying to find a B&B I gave up and headed north towards Okehampton. Climbing over the shoulder of Dartmoor I struggled on feeling the days effort really telling in my legs. I was dreading the next day as the 24" gear came into use a few times. Eventually, with the sun coming out and the sky clearing I found a place for the night at the Fox and Hounds. A restorative half of Dartmoor Ale in the bar and I was soon tucked up in bed and sleeping like a baby after washing through all my kit and trying to find something that the torrential rain had not penetrated. I had hoped to post stats for the day but after St Austell the torrential rain had drowned my cycle computer. Well, almost like a baby. My legs rebelled briefly with a touch of cramp in my thighs, on opposing muscles so no mater which way I tried to stretch it got worse. After 5 mins or so it subsided, but this first, thirteen and a half hour day had laid foundations for the next few.

The next morning was sunny, the clouds having cleared away overnight. The landlord of the pub mentioned a 'nice smooth downhill run on the old railway cycle path into the centre of Okehampton'. It definitely sounded worth a try, especially as the alternative would be a lumpy ride via the A30. And my tired legs were holding the casting vote. After a not very indulgent breakfast (I passed on the fry-up as that tends in my experience to be followed by the throw up a few miles later) I was off and rolling downhill. The path appeared, clearly signposted. Well, clearly signposted as a cycle path but no indication of any destination as it crossed the main road. I had a choice. Go left down a smooth tarmac road, or right up a stony dirt trail. I looked at the map (which barely even has smaller A roads on it) and guessed that the stones had it. 23mm race training tyres are not the best performers off road, but it was now so dry so they were grippy enough. Past the ubiquitous gates and within 200m I was on a smooth tarmac ex-railway viaduct with a gentle downhill gradient into Okehampton. Fantastic. The wind was behind, the sun warming up the day, and my legs spinning along nicely with minimal effort. When Sustrans routes are good they are very good. However they are somewhat variable. Another gate and 200m stretch of stony path interrupted the smooth flow. Then it was the other Sustrans game of 'guess where the route goes now' as you reach a junction (via blind bends and curves around obstructions) and the direction signs disappear. Fortunately I was able to make use of self-mobile direction indicating response units (ie. ask a pedestrian) and Okehampton town centre came and then went with a brief stop to slap on some sun cream. Gentle hills led to Crediton as the stop for morning coffee and ice cream followed by the hardest part of the day. A long climb up and over a ridge to the Exe river valley with a nice descent to Tiverton.

I then started to be adventurous, taking minor roads to parallel the A38. This started off very well, not too many wrong turns but requiring frequent stops to check the map. The road varied from a two lane affair with a fairly even gradient to, in places, a track barely wide enough for a car with grass growing down the middle and steep climbs in and out of the farmyards that pass as hamlets. Further signpost following led me, unintentionally to the A38, but with the M5 running parallel it was fairly lightly trafficked so it was time to put away the maps for the moment and get on with getting on. I span into Taunton and stopped at Tesco for lunch. The morning had been quite hard, very draining as I was still not settled into a touring rhythm, so after creating some lunch I lay down on a bench for a rest. A short while later I became aware of three Tesco shop assistants looking at me. 'We have had a complaint from a customer. They weren't sure if you were all right' Nice to know they are checking if their customers have died on them.

The sun went from warm to hot as the afternoon turned into a real scorcher. A tailwind behind me aided the ride from Taunton all the way out across the Somerset levels, the Somerset not quite so levels, and the Wiltshire not level at alls. After a brief stop to report a load of bricks dropped on a roundabout just after leaving Taunton, it was a steady pace along the A361 to Glastonbury. My first sight of a church on a tor was not Glastonbury. It was near Othery (twinned with Thissy?). But eventually Glastonbury arrived. Or at least, I arrived in Glastonbury. It was getting towards late afternoon and I stopped for a cup of tea and a fruit slice at the something Gecko cafe. Wow, Glasto prices are steep. There must be a captive tourist market there. And the tor keeps hiding. You can see it, then you can't, then you see it again but in a totally unexpected direction. The late afternoon was hot. Drink lots. Keep pedalling. Drink more. Pedal more. I went through Frome, phoned my mother in Law and eventually arrived at her place near Trowbridge after 11 hours on the road and 118 miles. Baked, roasted, weary but still in quite good shape. My Mother in Law is wonderful. I was perfectly pampered with excellent food and kit washing, a good nights sleep and then a nice breakfast.

Historically day three has always been the make or break day on the cycle tours I have indulged in. Mentally and physically, it always seems to be the hardest. Having allowed two weeks to complete the ride, and with no return train ticket to take advantage of, it would be expensive and very disappointing to call it quits so soon. I was determined to give it a good effort. With over 200 miles in my legs from the previous two days I set of at a leisurely pace at just gone stupid o'clock (the tail end of the school rush) and headed cross country past Melksham, Corsham and Castle Coombe where the whining of motorsport engines cut through the clear Cotswold air. Over the M4 and I enter South Gloucestershire, rolling Cotswolds country. I'm trying to take it easy, looking to find that gentle rhythm that will not tax my legs too much. In theory at least today should be a shorter day and I haven’t decided on accommodation for the evening yet. I roll on through picturesque little villages like Biddestone – village green, duck pond, pub, church, school of Cotswold stone – a real gem. Lunch beckons as I pass Badminton and the cross country circuit, and leave the minor roads to follow the A46 into Stroud via Nailsworth. I’ve tweeted my location and route and am just rolling along, wondering if Jonathan will text me. (It turns out he must have been texting a wrong number and I passed within about 50m of him in Nailsworth). Coming into Stroud (which knows a thing or two about hills) I passed four lads on heavily laden bikes as we approached the town centre. A cafe beckoned - classic cheap greasy spoon on the high street - and a classic working mans lunch in my belly.
Over lunch I looked at the map to plan a potential stop. B&B prices for a single person can work out very high and with no no guarantee of being able to find somewhere suitable I phoned Leominster YHA to find out if there were any beds available. 'Maybe 2, but you should be there when reception opens' said central booking. It was 1pm. Reception opened at 5pm. 50 miles away.
A quick pack up and back on the road. Time trial mode, just keep pushing. The wind was at my back so I was absolutely flying, over 20mph for much of it (the day's average speed including the morning pootle was over 17mph).
This doesn't give time to take in more than noticing a brown sign for the historic dockside at Gloucester, the distance to the next town and the increasing ache around my kneecaps. But still you keep going because that is what you have to do. The time splits (time vs distance to go) were getting more and more favourable but I still didn't stop for more than a few moments. Finding the youth hostel in Leominster was also quite a challenge. After a random circuit of the town centre and following directions from some rather uncertain locals (who no doubt had lived there all their lives) I eventually found it. I had got there at about 4.30 so sat outside in the ‘soft’ conditions waiting for 5pm when reception would open. After much humming and hawing, and checking of the booking system I succeeded in getting the last bed in the hostel and was sharing rooms with John, a chap who was on a four day ride around South Wales. Some hours later the four lads I had passed entering Stroud arrived. They were from Newcastle Uni and also doing an End to End, planning to finish the same time as me. 300 miles in three days told a tale. That evening my legs were very stiff. Getting in and out of chairs was painful so mostly I just sat, replenishing my energy from a plentiful supply of snickers bars.

Leominster was mostly a nice hostel. It is located in the old priory and the ancient bells in the church next door ring on the quarter hour. Very English. However they ring on the quarter all night. Four, eight, twelve, sixteen chimes for each quarter plus the hour bell. All night. And then, just to make sure you are awake in time for Matins, you get three verses of some hymn on the bells at 4am.

This led to an early start. 7am from the hostel, aiming for Ludlow just up the valley for breakfast. I really had to soft pedal today. My legs were really stiff and aching. Even the slightest hill saw a significant drop off in speed so trying to find anything other than an easy pace was not going to be an option.

Ludlow is very pretty, a medieval town which seems to have had little change over the years. Cobbled streets, tudor beamed buildings surrounding a market place and a nice classic castle. Breakfast in the shape of a bacon and egg roll washed down by a pot of tea was found at the assembly rooms and then it was onwards into Shropshire, finding my way along the top of Wenlock Edge, followed by a fast descent into Much Wenlock and onwards to Ironbridge. It was on Wenlock Edge that I met and rode with for a short way, an elderly gentleman and his daughter who were taking the CTC Bed & Breakfast route over three weeks. After a few minutes chat I left them behind and continued on to the birthplace of the industrial revolution. My original route plan ended up on the cutting room floor as instead of the map, I followed road signs and had a nice long descent into Ironbridge from the top, rather than crawling in from the bottom.

Ironbridge looked like it could be fascinating. I'll be back to explore the museums with the family. It was crawling with school parties drawing the bridge and doing other key stage whatever exercises. A bakery next to the bridge beckoned and I succumbed to a pork pie, eccles cake and rather poor cup of tea. Postcards were bought, written and posted, and another cup of tea was had at the Tea Emporium, a much better establishment. Two motorbikers on the next table told me how they have entered the Manchester to Blackpool ride but haven't done much training yet. Time to go. Telford beckons.

The map told me that the best way out lay up Coalbrookdale, a long but steady climb. The hooting of a horn indicated well wishing from the two motorcyclists as they passed me at the top. And so I went on into Telford.
Telford is frustrating. It has really nice, well made, smooth and wide cycle paths that are a joy to ride on. The problem is, as ever, that they are not connected to the road network in any sensible manner, nor are they signed. Imagine a direction sign for a roundabout but instead of putting destinations on the sign, it labels all exits as 'route for cars'. Welcome to Telford. And the cycle paths stop just short of roundabouts and junctions with the 'design failure. Please start again' sign that reads 'cyclists dismount'. So after the first attempt at dragging my weary legs up one of these paths I stuck to the road. Again the quality of map I had taken led to some interesting navigational challenges. Heading down a slip road on to the A442 I decided that a 70mph 2 lane no hard shoulder dragstrip was not where I wanted to be thankyouverymuch and beat a hasty retreat to take a quieter alternative route.

I had arranged to meet Alan in Stafford so with little inclination to stay in Telford I pressed onwards. The main road (A518) was essentially flat and not very busy so, with a fair wind and calm seas, I docked at Stafford Tesco to restock my snickers bar store (much depleted) and refuel with tea prior to meeting Alan and being conducted on a magical mystery tour out of Stafford. Again the old railway paths came into it and I am glad Alan knew where he was because I certainly didn't. Once out of the centre it was B-road country. Someone in the roads contracting business needs a good kicking. They had just tar and chipped a section of road, but had left enough loose chip to form an inland version of Chesil beach. Trying to keep a bike upright made for an unwelcome challenge. We arrived back at Alan and Marge’s where I was duly pampered, well fed and watered, and had an excellent nights sleep with nary a church bell within earshot prior to the ride to York. Alan had completed a ride from John O’Groats to Lands End just three weeks previously and he and Marge were fantastic hosts, knowing just what a tired cyclist needs.

The route for Friday’s ride was always going to be a bit problematic. Traversing across the width of the country meant either big cities or lumpy bits, or in the worst case both if an outlandishly complex and long route was to be avoided. After discussions with Alan it seemed the first part would be the lumpiest, followed by a nice flat run up to York. After an early breakfast, Ashbourne was my first town, just waking up to the start of the morning rush. I ground my way up onto the footslopes of the Derbyshire Dales. A rapid downhill through Turnditch at a speed somewhat over the limit for motor vehicles and I was passed by a Parcelnet truck. The guy driving it must be a complete nutter. This was swiftly followed by a front wheel puncture brought about by a pothole or rock in the road. Thud. Psssss. Frantically braking hoping the front tyre doesn't come off the rim. I stop on a railway bridge to replace the inner tube and reinflate the tyre. The railway was maked as a light railway and appeared to be under active restoration. Google tells me it is the Ecclesbourne Valley railway and that I was watching folk working on the line at Shottle station. Aside from this unplanned stop the morning passed extremely smoothly, save for a few spots of rain which fell mostly as I was replenishing my cup of tea levels in Belper. Out of Belper the route began to go cross country, pleasant quiet Derbyshire lanes leading me over the M1 and into zero degree west territory, the furthest east I would ride save for my brief foray across London the previous Saturday. Back onto A roads and through the outskirts of Worksop, which was surprisingly lumpy. More B-road travel gave way to the picturesque village of Blyth and the definitely not so picturesque Blyth Services on the A1. Definitely not a good place to stop again. The road north from Blyth to Doncaster was busy until I forked right to bypass Robin Hood Airport and head onwards to Thorne. A slight cross/headwind was building, the variable quality of the road surface when riding with a racing saddle and hard tyres was providing a tenderising effect on my contact points and after nearly 500 miles my legs were very weary. Finding a B&B crossed my mind but having made such good progress in the morning “I'm so close to York I can get there tonight” kept going through my head. And so on. Grind the pedals on. Knees aching, just keep the pedals turning. Standing ever few minutes to relieve the aching behind but starting to move my legs again brought groans of complaint from the quads department.

And into Selby. Which appeared to be undergoing major reconstruction. I spy a team of four VC167 riders and am directed by them to the Selby to York cycle path. Note for Selby visitors: Ignore any references to the cycle path until the roundabout on the edge of Selby. It is uniformly awful in Selby itself. Listen to the voice of experience. From the roundabout you are directed onto the NCN something or other that meanders through Barlby and Riccall by the A19 then takes the old railway line towards York. After 7 or 8 miles it turns from stone to tarmac and is much nicer. Now I am on roads I know and my legs take encouragement from that. I leave the path at Bishopsthorpe and head for the Knavesmire. Alan and Marge had brought a tent and sleeping bag with them so I had accommodation provided (Yay!). And so I drift rapidly to sleep. Saturday would be a much needed day off after 500 miles riding in the first 5 full days.

Part 2.

A quick summary of part one.

On the first day he rode to Lands End and found it was tacky and commercial.
On the second day he rode across Cornwall, and found it was lumpy and wet.
On the third day he rode across Devon, Somerset and into Wiltshire and was scorched by the sun for more than a hundred miles.
On the fourth day he rode into Herefordshire at speed and found that his legs hurt.
n the fifth day he found a friend, and enjoyed an industrial west midlands tour.
On the sixth day he went east and came to York and found that it was good.
On the seventh day he rested and blethered and ate cake and drank tea.

It was good to meet up with Martin after his amazing 400k audax ride in Alan and Marge's mobile tea and cake emporium. Aiming to give my legs as much of a rest as possible after a punishing week I was walking and riding as little as possible. I replaced the unrepairable punctured tube with three new ones from the trade stands at the Cycle Show, and watched the Forresters in the evening. A folk group who have their own characteristic interpretation of many classic singalongasongs. I shall say no more lest I get into trouble. The food at the rally was much better this year with several high quality vendors providing plenty of variety. The showers were much worse.

Sunday morning. Pootled into York via the river and off to the church service. Back in the parade which is always good fun. And then it was time to pack everything up and leave. I decided to follow the cycle route out of York to Overton, then revert to the roads I knew. It was regatta day. Boats, blades and blondes littering the riverbank. Threading my way through, then out of York proper. The cycle path isn't bad. There is substandard design though - 4ft wide black tarmac with a sharp dropoff at the edges twisting through woods? Who designs these things? Umpteen cattle grids later (is York overrun with rampant sheep of a weekend?) I reach the minor road that leads up through Overton, Tollerton and on to Topcliffe. Another hot day in the saddle. The A167 up to Northallerton is not bad at all, though like all A roads the surfaces vary between wheelsuckingly slow, bonejarringly broken and delightfully smooth. It is hot. A slight side wind and a coffee stop in Northallerton is requited by the Costa in the high street. Youch that was expensive. Just round the corner was the Tesco with a cheap cafe. Oh well, I’ll know for next time.

Leaving the urbs of Northallerton, you pass a nondescript marker for the Battle of the Standard 1138or some such. An early invasion by the nascent Scots nation if that be the right term for a loose aggregation of tribes led by King David I, successor to Macbeth (I'm not done with Shakespeare just yet) was repelled for King Stephen by an army of mercenaries raised by the Archbishop of York. Past the road to Yarm, and towards Darlington, the road is gently rolling as I approach the end of the vale of York with the Howardian Hills to the side. Too make the ride more adventurous, my map is a series of pages torn from a cheap road atlas. There are no contours marked so I have little idea of where the hills may appear. Turning left towards Neasham I pass a Spar just as four members of the Ferryhill Wheelers arrive and stop for refreshment. Ferryhill is between where I am and where I want to be so I turn back and stop to take advantage of their local knowledge. It turns out that the route I had previously selected would be not terribly pleasant. 'You are heading for Brandon? You want to go through Bishop Auckland. We are going that way so why not stick with us?' I was a little reticent as they were all on throughbred carbon racing machines, but, being tempered by 100 miles of North York Moors already in their legs, our paces matched sufficiently for me to hang on the back of their steady train that weaved a devious and mostly flat route through roads broad and lanes narrow, cut throughs and snickets. Eventually we came to Bishop Auckland and with a few helpful directions I was back on my own, following a minor road along the riverbank. I stopped for a rest at Binchester roman fort. After a few miles further cycling, with the promised steep bank up to Willington requiring my 24” gear, I found my friends house and was soon immersed in a hot bath. Many thanks to the Ferryhill Wheelers for being so helpful. It was really appreciated.

Planning time again. Durham isn't really on a sensible cycling route to anywhere. This is where looking at a 1:25000 map with contours really comes in handy. Carefully identifying a back lanes route to the northeast, I discovered that I could drop onto National Cycle Network route 1 where it made use of a disused railway track into Seaham, just south of Sunderland. This seemed like a good plan. Early the next morning I set off, returning 5 mins later to collect my waterbottles from where I had left them by the kitchen sink. Downhill and uphill and downhill into Durham. Every road out of Durham is uphill, I just hoped I had the right one. With only a couple of navigational oopses in the Durham suburbs and a bit of help from passers by I managed to navigate my way to NCN 1, running through old coal territory.

The devastation of communities that have been built around a single large industry when that industry is wound down is painful to see. But the effects are so varied across the country. Shirebrook in Nottinghamshire was a town that seemed to be on life support. Shabby shops and streets - it seemed the only person making money was the one selling the plywood sheets for boarding up windows. People looking strained - poor health, poor diet, poor prospects. A town that seemed only to still be there because the population couldn't afford to leave. This is a fleeting opinion based on just passing through and stopping for lunch. Other towns and villages are nearer large centres of alternative employment and benefit from that proximity. The villages on the east coast of County Durham, like Easington Lane, seem to now be on the up and regeneration and a sense of pride in what has been, and hope for what will be was the impression I got. There is still much deprivation though.

Back to NCN 1. Even it certainly was, barring the occasional gate and bump. Smooth it certainly was not, being a dirt path with recycled ballast as a surface. Never mind, it was good for 20mph with a following wind until you find the wrong type of rock. Thud! Pssst. Another flat. This was soon mended with a new tube. After a few miles stones gave way to tarmac, and cycle path to B road, and B road to Sunderland City Centre. Over the bridge, turn right, and follow the coast road towards South Shields. But not just yet for right now it is time for a bacon roll and coffee stop at the aptly named Coffee Geeks (free WiFi). Seaside towns and resorts in the off season or bad weather can be depressing places. But with enough people about to make the place look lived in I carried on, legs aching again, in search of a ferry. The North Shields and South Shields are joined by a ten minute boat ride. Roll on, pay your fare and roll off again. And there you are once again, dropped into the middle of a town with no idea really where to go next as the road atlas doesn’t mark pedestrian ferry crossings. What do you do? Just google it. Google maps on my mobile phone gave me sufficient direction to find the A192, my constant companion for the next 25 miles or so to Morpeth across the North Tyneside connurbation. Gently spinning to save my legs for the Cheviots, it was a chance to play the game of 'hunt the signpost' but because it was the Department of Transport rather than Sustrans, the game was level=easy. Enough to catch me out a few times, though not seriously.

Hot. Another hot day so I was downing fluids like crazy. I had picked up a load of useful electrolyte drink and power bar type things from the lucozade stand at the York Rally. The Peppermint Tea Shop in Morpeth proved a good place to augment this with more traditional brews, a bacon toastie and a slice of apple pie with a slightly burned base. My legs ached in anticipation of what was to come. The Cheviots loomed. I lurked and then could lurk no more. Off we go again.

My main fear about the border road (A697) was the long drags I remembered from previous rides. Yes they were there, but my legs were now so tired the only thing they could do was to ride up them spinning properly. I had no power left in them for a sprint or hard effort at all. Sit and spin, feel drops of water on my legs and look for the rainfall. It was the sweat pouring off my head. Sit and spin. Fly down the other side. Sit and spin but first have to ease the now seized muscles again. Repeat for 30+ miles. What do you do about it? You just get on with it because that is what you have to do.

A pair of RAF tornados buzzed overhead and shortly I arrived at Wooller. This, at least mentally, was the crux point of today’s ride. Sitting high in the Cheviot hills, it is a picturesque little town just south of the Scottish border. Now bypassed by the main road, it would have been quite idyllic were it not for the JCB and Scammell trucks removing part of the road surface for renovation. Fortified with tea and cake I proceeded to Coldstream, mostly downhill. Over the Tweed and pose for photos in front of the ‘Welcome to Scotland’ sign. The euphoria I felt on returning to Scotland was quite strange as I am not a native scot. Now it should be easy. Turn left at Coldstream and gently twiddle along the banks of the Tweed to Melrose. The Scottish Borders really are God's own cycling country. Quiet, mostly midge free, covered with the historic detritus of wars and conflicts for millennia and the cradle of scottish ingenuity and engineering. They are also home to some of the best mountain biking in the world.

Headwind. Turn left into a headwind. Never mind, at least there are no hills. Kelso. There is a nice flat A road along the banks of the Tweed from Kelso to St Boswell. The road signs didn't take me that way. Instead I found myself on the hillier and slightly longer B road. I really am getting tired now. At St Boswell I stop by a park bench, ostensibly to read the map, but more because there is a bench and I just want to stop. I fight the hallucinations of a duvet and pillow. It really is only 6 miles to go.

But what a six miles. I can hardly turn the pedals. The hills bring me to a snail like tempo. Eventually I succumb and reach into my pocket for a freebie lucozade carbo gel. In it goes, energy suffuses my limbs as the sugars do their work. I climb back on the bike, push the pedals round and ride the last 150m to the top of the hill. And then it is all down hill from here. Literally. A steep drop into Melrose. Directions from a pedestrian point me in the right direction for the youth hostel and I arrive on a temporary high from the sugar rush of the gel. Book in. Make bed. Shower. Wash kit. The sleep of 120 miles in my legs - what will they be like in the morning?

Tuesday morning arrives, today I go home. Temporarily at least. I creep out of the hostel early and roll downhill to the centre of Melrose. The Spar is open so I can grab some bits that look vaguely breakfastish. Only vaguely though. I hit the main road and my legs have gone to rubber. All the climbs are a struggle, the sort of feeling where I would turn round and go home if I was on a normal ride. For the first time I seriously consider jacking it in and catching the train home from Edinburgh. These thoughts are put to the back of my mind and refuse to even hint of them by tweet as that would give them a life they don't need. Suffocate the negative memes at birth. As I climb slowly, tortuously, out of Galashiels along the A7 I notice that the 'Ginger Pot' cafe has changed hands and name. I'm feeling crap so after about seven miles or so I take the first sensible opportunity to get off the main road and onto a parallel minor road the other side of Gala Water. The soon to be restored border railway line is clearly evident in the valley with many of the bridges still intact. I can hear the buzz of morning traffic increasing on the A7 as commuters head towards Edinburgh but the minor road is quiet, albeit a lot more rolling. The hills all hurt but as the morning goes on I begin to warm up, the legs start to feel a bit better and the bike rolls more easily. Eventually I get to Heriot and it is time to rejoin the A7. But now we are nearly at the top of the hills and some energy has returned. The rubber legs feeling is disappearing and I crest the pass feeling quite alright. Negative thoughts have been washed away, left behind on the other side of the watershed. I don't need to pedal as I fly downhill towards Gorebridge and Colin's snack bar. It used to be a caravan but is now a container in a lay by just outside Gorebridge. Time for breakfast proper, a bacon roll and cup of tea. I chat to a gamekeeper/stalker who has stopped for a bite to eat and to do some business.

Downhill, uphill, legs working fine and the traffic now in the post commute phase. Edinburgh is a delight as much as it can be. I narrowly avoid breaking the law at the Western Approach Road and pick up the Roseburn path, then the Blackall path on NCN 1 out towards the Forth. I pass a couple cycling out towards the bridge. I then pass them again having missed a tiny NCN 1 sign obscured behind a white van offloading a carpet and being forced to retrace my steps. And then the bridge. If you just ride over the road bridge it is magnificent, giving great views of Barlow's rail bridge, truly a masterpiece of engineering (and engineering management). If you stop to take a picture you realise just how bouncy the road bridge is as HGVs pass over. Many attempts later and I have a pic of myself on the bridge with a suitable background.

Off the bridge and I drop by Sandy Wallace's shop to see if I can pick up some more go faster juice tablets. He has none in stock. I visit Cathy's Cafe further up the high street for sausages and chips and tea and end up in discussion with some Belgian cycle tourists who have just spent 5 weeks doing the north of Scotland, Western and Northern Isles. Onwards and upwards. A steady climb in the heat to Cross Gates and then the broken roads of Cowdenbeath. I nearly come to grief at a roadworks in Lochgelly, a cable running across the road at an angle, then some kerb build outs that I don't know how I missed. Memo to self: Pay attention even when you know the road and are tired. Cardenden passes, as does Thornton with the aid of an ice cream, though I remember catching a small rock a glancing blow. Nothing untoward, or so I think at the time as the rock skitters away into the opposing carriageway.

The side road past the church in Markinch is steep. Too steep for me to want to ride in the heat so I engage the 24 inch gear. Half way up this short but steep brae there is the sound of an inner tube letting go. I look down and see there is a tear in the sidewall of my new (at the start of the trip) Pro 3 Grip tyre. I sit on the steps of the church and change the tube with a tyre boot inserted to get me home. On through Kingskettle, Cupar. I am now grinding into a headwind but want to get to the bike shop to pick up some more electrolyte tablets before they close. The struggle into the headwind is not fun. I eat. Molten penguin bars are tricky to eat on the move but edible. I drink. I pedal. I check the time. I pedal more. My legs protest. I grin and bear it. This is Time Trial country. Dig in. Pedal on.

The Tay Bridge arrives. I have made good time and swing right at the roundabout to find the cycle path down the centre of the bridge. Downhill, 20mph, 2km, dead straight. The view never changes, just Dundee gets closer. And so through the bottom of the West End and into the Spokes bike shop which is buzzing. They are dealing with the City Council’s bike to work scheme and are very busy. Some banter naturally ensues, I buy the Maxim tablets and a handful of energy bars on a whim before heading home to tea and a bath. I bump into some of the lads that evening whilst out on a shopping run (by car I hasten to add). Then bed and ready for the morning. It is so nice to sleep in your own bed again.

With a broken tyre and a broken washing machine I grab a clean change of clothes, repack my bags slightly and take the training wheel from the race bike, just checking that the speedo magnet lines up. Aviemore beckons as my target for the day. Leaving home is always tough. I intend to be up and out early but that rapidly morphs into waiting till after the school rush. But I know these roads. Up Birkie brae and out towards Tullybaccart. After Piperdam I am passed by a Dundee Wheeler - Vic Polanski who greets me. I can easily pace him for a short while before the road bends up. But what goes up must come down. A fast and fun descent to Coupar Angus, then out to Dunkeld. It really is only 25 miles to the cafe there. A disappointingly short distance but far enough to justify a mid morning cup of tea and a bacon roll. I now join NCN 7/77 taking the alternative road route to the east of the A9. Pitlochry is reached in fairly short order despite passing through a traveller encampment on the old A9 which now forms part of the parallel cycle path. There is a suspension footbridge leading across the Tay/Tummel/whichever - just as bouncy trying to get pics. I leave Pitlochry and head for Blair Atholl on a gradually rising road into the heart of the Grampians. A lunch stop at Blair, then up through Calvine and pressing on up Drumochter on the old A9. Drink, drink, sweat, sweat. Grind, grind, keep it steady, don't overcook the legs. The old road gives way to a gravel cycle path that meanders and seems to have been designed by an engineer with a dislike for cyclists. Why oh why put the bridges in with a right angle turn either side on a loose surface? And some parts were leaving me seriously worried about my tyre’s ability to survive intact. The summit is far nearer to Dalwhinnie than to Blair. I wait for a suitable gap in the traffic to hobble across the road to get a photo in front of the summit sign, then have to wait to get back again.

And now it is all downhill on a loose surface, a twisty path, at 20+ mph. I nearly overdid it once, just managing to straight line a pointless S bend in the path and being grateful for there being no ditch hiding under the heather. And onwards and downwards. At times I wasn’t sure whether it was a cycle path rather than just being a rather stony verge. The path exits onto the Dalwhinnie road. Past the hotel, which didn't look terribly interested in serving and a garage which also didn't inspire. I am down to half a bottle of water as I pull into the distillery. The lady in the gift shop indicates that apart from going back to the hotel or petrol station, the next cafe is 7 miles further on. What she didn't say is that those seven miles were virtually all downhill. And on high quality minor roads. In lovely hot sunshine. With almost no traffic. I took the plunge and pressed on, eventually coming to the Ralia cafe and visitor centre at Newtonmore after a delightful ride. Kingussie likewise was fine as I passed through the town centre, then alongside the river Insh to Aviemore. The road runs through old pine forest (not plantation), and in the superb weather it was a pleasant run down. I was really enjoying today and watching the miles tumble as I came into Aviemore. A fish supper was obtained at one of the many chippies, and a bed for the night in the youth hostel. A grand day out.

If Wednesday had been good, then Thursday was even better. I left early, 7am, and beat most of the traffic down the usually busy A95 that forms part of the route towards Carrbridge. I found a café for breakfast but had to wait for the 8.15 opening so had a chance to look at the 17th century bridge after which the town is named. A narrow slender arch spans a river impassable in spate. It made a huge difference to the local people and is one of the few bridges of its type and era still remaining as a continuous span. The Old Bakery coffee shop opened and breakfast was consumed. This seemed to weigh heavy on me as I found the ride out of Carrbridge to be hard going. Stopping for a breather I noticed the front wheel was rubbing a little. The training wheel has a slightly wider rim than the wheel that was in the bike so the brakes needed adjusting. Easily done but it appeared to make little difference. It was only when the minor road brought me to the A9 at Slochd summit that I realised I had been climbing for most of the morning. After a short stretch of silly cycle path, it was B road country again. Gently downhill, spin like mad, enjoy. What a beautiful day as I passed through Moy. The 10% slope at the end of the village has a Sustrans signpost half way down. The usual microscopic sign that is hard to spot at the 40+mph I was doing. Lean on the brakes and turn right onto a minor road that leads, eventually, to the ancient monument of the Clava Cairns. I pull in and stop at a deserted car park and am just about to go walkabout in peace and quiet when a coach load of German tourists arrive. I persuaded one to take my picture and they got back into their coach and left.

The road reaches a T junction where NCN 1 joins, then crosses a river and climbs to pass the Culloden battlefield. A blisteringly hot summer’s day seems totally out of place for the site of the last battle fought on British soil. One expects looming ominous clouds, a dreich day with mist on the moors and a bit of a chill to the air. But all was bright and cheerful, sunny and light. And full of the same coach load of German tourists. Coffee, cake and a few pictures later and it was time to head into Inverness along the cryptic cycle paths to find the station and sort out my train ticket. This seemed to be no problem and I left with all my reservations etc sorted. Or so I thought.

The way out of Inverness is via the docks which lead, eventually, to the Kessock Bridge and to the Black Isle. The cycle path is nice, though a bit tricky to follow in places, Sustran’s delight in not putting destinations on signs paying dividends. Then it was off the beaten track time to locate and visit the Black Isle Brewery. Munlochy brought lunch and from there it was onwards towards Cromarty. Out of Rosemarkie the road climbs. Rather a lot. At the top of the climb there is a minor road indicated to the right with a sensible distance by bike to Cromarty. I take it as the A road is fairly busy (by Scottish standards) with biggish lorries and not the most pleasant. It climbs. It climbs some more. In fact it keeps on climbing so much I would swear we were high above the Black Isle on some virtual piece of land. And then it goes down. Big grin. Try not to swallow the flies. Into Cromarty. And to the quaint little Cromarty to Nigg Ferry. It has just enough space for two cars. You drive on, then, as the boat crosses the sound, the deck is rotated on a turntable so you can drive off the way you drove on.

It is now that I am starting to feel tired. Tain is ten miles away. The construction sites at Nigg stand idle, dust blowing across car parks blocked off with baulks of timber. Signs of a mobile workforce that follow the tide of economic activity around the globe in a way that the people of the former mining towns cannot. A desolate, dreary place that both my father and brother in law have visited in economically more prosperous times. The tide actual is also out in a reflection of the economic state as I follow the northern shore of the Cromarty Firth to Tain and a resupply before the final leg of the day. I buy two bottles of spring water to augment my bike bottles ready for the crossing of Sutherland in the morning. Tain is an interesting place. The Glenmorangie distillery has a visitor centre and there are a lot of offshore workers in town, with the affluence that brings, but there are also the signs of the farming and similar lower income land use industries. It is a town holding it's breath to see where the economic winds will blow.

Carbisdale Castle Youth Hostel is, quite surprisingly, a genuine Scottish Baronial castle. The towering gates, complete with battlements lead to a rising 500m driveway flanked by pink flowering rhodedendrons and the castle proper. Statues and pictures adorn the rooms - the main staircase is as grand as you would expect. Cannons stand guard outside the front door. There is even, allegedly, a castle ghost. Tomorrow will be a big day - the final push to the end so I decide to take the hostel evening meal. Three filling courses. One of the staff is a cycling buff - into long distance rides as is the father of one of the others. He points out that NCN 1 makes use of a footbridge next to the railway over the river Shin that will cut out a more than 8 mile loop to the next bridge. This is fantastically helpful. Despite a great ride today, I am very tired. I'll need all my energy for the morning so head to bed in trepidation of what the following day will bring.

The Final Part

Summary so far:The hero of the epic has avoided any major catastrophe and disaster in reaching this stage. To be frank he is quite surprised to have got here at all. But now the final challenge awaits.

I knew this would be a long day. Over 100 miles on paper, even with the NCN 1 footbridge shortcut. It was the elephant in the room that had been lurking there all the time. I hadn't confronted it in my planning, maybe because I hadn't really believed that I could make it this far. Just under a thousand miles in ten days of pedaling. But here it was and I had to face it. My preparation was simple - have lots of eatables. Have an extra couple of bottles of water as the first stretch went nigh on 40 miles over the moors with no real habitation. And it would be hot. And potentially a headwind to spice things up a bit.

My morning started at 6ish, creeping out of the hostel and getting on the road. The driveway that was such a challenge the previous evening whisked me to the gates in no time and I bumped my way along the track to the footbridge. If you are scared of heights do not take this route. The steps down to the bridge and the footbridge itself are built of that open steel mesh so beloved of industrial complexes, hung off the side of the railway bridge so there is no support underneath. You don't see the ground beneath your feet, just a lot of empty space and the river passing a long way below. There are also two flights of stairs to go down, a bit tricky in MTB shoes. Safely across I am now on the road to Lairg. The castle shines in the morning sun so I grab a photo - shame about the pylons in the way.

As I climb to Lairg the mist comes down. With a few early trucks I turn on my rear light. It is very misty over the loch at Lairg and I don't want to be unseen. Two lane gives way to single track with passing spaces, and very soon the Tongue road branches off and I am on my own climbing into the unknown. It really is quite cool, the dew is settling on the hairs of my arms as if on a spiders web. After a few miles I stop to put on a warmer jacket. After half an hour or so of continual moorland road this is starting to seem very samey. The scenery is beautiful - but it goes on for miles and miles, and my legs are not on the best of form. However, you don't get anywhere standing still so I sit on the bike and pedal, mentally resigned to just keeping on doing that for the next few hours.

The mist burns off with the sunshine. Past the logging sites and round the corner lies Crask and the Crask Inn. It is steeped in the tradition of travellers who may arrive at any time, day or night. The door is never locked as shelter may be needed. I lean my bike up outside, no need for a lock here as the sheep can't clip their hooves into the pedals, and wander in as breakfast is being served. I ask for tea and toast, and am seated next to Len and Vera, a couple who hail from Southampton but tour Scotland each year staying in the Crask. A friendly couple and good company. Toast and tea consumed, I settle up with Michael the landlord and am on my way.

A small rise and the rest is downhill. I catch a young lady who had passed while I was eating breakfast. She had not heard my bike so nearly jumped out of her skin as I bade her 'good morning'. After a brief chat I carried on ahead, less heavily laden than her. Alltnaharra passed, and Loch Nevay, a beautiful place. I had stopped to apply more sunscreen - it would be another hot day - and been surrounded by a cloud of midges convinced this was their one and only chance to eat in their lifetime. I drained my water bottle and refilled it from the spare in my bag.

The river Nevay is a classic trout or salmon river. A wide, stony gravel base with sweeping turns. The blue sky reflected in the water and a primary coloured contrast against the green of the forest, purple foxgloves and tan of the heather. It seemed that every lay by along the river had a landrover or two with fly rods carried on the bonnet. Plenty of activity on the river too. The church at Syre is constructed entirely of corrugated Iron sheet. It's red and white colours a distant echo of Sutherlands Nordic domination. And eventually, two hours from Crask this delightful and beautiful road runs out onto the main highway across the north coast of Scotland. Turning right you feel immediately that you have left a very special part of the world behind.

Turning right also brings you into the face of the rising easterly. 50 miles down, 55 to go into a headwind. But first, the climb to Bettyhill for lunch. It didn't seem as bad as I had been led to believe. Despite being fortified by lunch the road after it was. Deep drops to sandy beaches, then rising to cross the cliffs again. Having to pedal downhill into the wind. I passed Chris, a rider who had passed me at lunch, as he stood by the side of the road. No problems, just taking a break. We'd meet again later.

Melvich has memories for me. My wife and I stayed in the hotel here on our honeymoon in 1994 so I had to stop and take a look (and have a cup of tea, of course). In some ways it was a disappointment. Where there used to be a wide open peat fire in the centre of the dining room was now replaced by a couple more tables. The sign of progress I suppose. I also noticed that my train tickets had not been booked from Wick, but from Inverness. Grrr. That would mean a stop at Thurso station on my way through. Thinking pleasant thoughts is a good way to avoid noticing the unpleasantness of some of the time in the saddle, so taking my memories with me I set out again to grind past Reay, the now decommissioning site of Dounreay nuclear power station and on into Thurso.

I found the station and Gemma in the ticket office kindly sorted all my tickets and reservations. Only twenty miles to go. The first few were easiest.

Dunnet Head claims to be the most northerly point on the British mainland. I suppose a proper end to end should be Lizard Point to Dunnett Head - a few miles different at each end but going from the most southerly to the most northerly points. Anyhow, Dunnet Head is a large spit of land and it was taking some of the sting out of the wind howling across the North Sea. Once I passed Dunnet head there was no longer that protection. And as I got closer and closer to John O'Groats the wind seemed to get stronger and stronger, the bike slower and slower. Seriously tough. Seriously hard work just to keep moving. I00 miles in the legs today on top of a thousand in the last week. Finally, pedal stroke by pedal stroke I gained the T-junction, turned left and rolled down the last few metres to the tacky touristy bit. My final day had taken 11 hours.

To be honest it was a bit of an anticlimax. I exchanged pleasantries with a few people including the four Newcastle Uni lads who had arrived a bit before me, found a coffee, bought some postcards and stamps. and kind of felt a wee bit lost. Various other riders rolled in. Two chaps from Medway had completed the ride in six days. Two from somewhere else had ridden it in five. The official sign booth closed, as did the coffee shop. Another rider came in having ridden it in four days. He could barely walk. I was waiting for a group due to finish who were riding as 'the race against time' and who were scheduled to finish that evening.

Chris, the cyclist I had spoken to earlier rolled in. We swapped cameras to pose against the cafe sign. He apparently had left about the same time as me from Penzance, just taken a west coast route. The young lady I had last seen at Bettyhill rolled in. She must have had a long day and had taken about fourteen days to ride it in about 1200 miles. An impressive performance. I hung around for a while longer. Various groups appeared to take their leaving shot in preparation for an early morning departure the next day. Time was getting on, the group I was waiting for weren't arriving till much later and so I went to the youth hostel. I booked in and chatted to the lads there before hitting the sack. 1100 miles down. Only a few to go the next day to Wick.

And afterwards

Saturday morning. I have no food on me at all so the first stop is the cafe at John O'Groats for breakfast, then roll through to Wick to catch the train. I spoke to Simon, also catching the train with his bike, who had had a fairly torrid time of his end to end. His bike wasn't really set up for touring in comfort, he had broken spokes, sheared bolts, got horrendous blisters on his hands and been eaten alive by midges on the west coast. Despite that he claimed to have enjoyed it. The overriding wish for those who have completed it seems to be to take longer over it. It may not seem a very big island when you have just pedaled from one end to the other, but there is an awful lot there and two weeks is not long enough to do it justice in any way shape or form. The times I enjoyed most were when I could just stop and look at things, or chat to people and just enjoy the journey rather than the journey being dictated by the destination and schedule.

Many hours ensued sat on a variety of hot stuffy trains with all sorts of people. A total contrast to the isolation of Sutherland and a different sort of fatigue to that gained from hours on the road. And home. And wondering if it really happened or was it all a dream. But the suntan and midge bites are evidence for the former.