Lands End to John O'Groats

13 -29 June 2001
17 days    1100 miles

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Prologue    Entering a dream

The following is a nearly-faithful transcription of the journal I kept during the ride. Re-reading it, I find that sometimes I come across sort of grumpy. This is not my intent so let me be clear: This trip was magic. For weeks afterward, I was in a dreamlike state, reliving the trip in my memory. There is nothing else that I have done that has had nearly the impact on me. And I have hiked (alot) in the Grand Canyon and other fetching places. I have seen a total eclipse of the Sun. I have traveled in 30 countries. Nothing else compares to this trip.

With only a couple of exceptions everyone was helpful, friendly and all of the other Boy Scout adjectives. The British did themselves proud and I love them every one. I will do the ride again as soon as I can convince my wife that she can do without me for a month. My only hesitation is that I cannot see how a second E2E trip can come up to the level of this one and I don't want to taint the memories. The trip was altogether amazing. I hope you enjoy my account.


10 June 2001     Chaos at check-in
Depart:   Little Rock

I flew TWA because they had a good fare but also because they didn't charge for a boxed bike if it was the only piece of checked luggage. My two panniers were my allowed carry-ons. The check-in was chaotic and frustrating because an earlier flight had been cancelled and the agent was dealing with those passengers instead of getting the fresh ones checked in. Arriving almost two hours early - ordinarily plenty early at a modest airport like Little Rock's, this being before Sept 11 - I was finally checked in only 15 minutes before boarding.

My journal entry on the flight over says, "I hope the bike made it."


11 June 2001     Zen and the art of biking with no bike
Arrive:   London Gatwick

It didn't.

Thus, my decision not to make advance room reservations for the trip was vindicated. Since I had to wait a day for the next flight, I would have had to contact each and every inn or B&B to delay my arrival time by a day. I know some people do reserve rooms in advance, but I was (almost) always glad that I had the flexibility to stop when and where I wanted. A fixed have-to-be-there-tonight schedule would have been an intolerable albatross.

We flew right over Cornwall on the descent into Gatwick. It was clear, clear, clear. Not for the last time I grumbled over the prospect of missing a good-weather day of cycling if my bike missed the flight. How long could the good weather hold? After all, this is England.

The TWA agent was nice, but firm. I tried my best to convince her that the airline should fly my bike to Penzance when it came in on the morrow, so I could go ahead and take the train and not lose as much time. I thought they owed it to me, given the debacle in Little Rock. She disagreed. The best they could do would be to put it on the same train I would take if I waited for it to come in tomorrow. This would give me a day in Penzance with time for St. Michels Mount but I had little faith that the bike would actually make in onto the train and both connections. It was an easy decision to wait for the bike.

I spent half of today waiting for the non-arrival of my bike: there was a second flight from St. Louis that might have the bike if it had failed to make the transfer there. I was pessimistic that it had ever made it onto my flight out of Little Rock. I was right.

While waiting, I changed my train reservation for tomorrow.

The second half of the day I took my usual jet lag nap and did some reading and writing. On major trips of any kind I keep a journal and writing it takes about two hours each day. It can be a problem finding the time to write on a busy day, but not this time, this day.

I stayed at the Amersham B&B, one of those places that exist nearby - four miles in this case - in order to accommodate overnighting airline passengers like me. Barry Martyn, the presumed owner, picks you up and delivers you back the next day, all included in the thirty pounds. We discuss Tony Blair's recent election - he is against it - on the short 4-mile ride. For dinner he recommends "The Greyhound Pub" just down the road, the site of the World Cup in marbles. Perhaps not the equal in significance to "Ye Olde Course" at St. Andrews, but satisfying in its own way. You see the round concrete circle, which is covered with sand for the games. It's the one in the parking lot. It was an OK meal with veggies but the Lemon Chicken was dry.

Guests don't have much room to roam in the Amersham. The living room is off-limits because the family uses it, or at least it felt off-limits to me. The shared bathroom is quite nice with both shower and large tub. But that's it.

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12 June 2001     A tremulous beginning, a faithful companion

London - Penzance - Lands End - Sennen Cove

I had breakfast with a young couple from Indianapolis. We talked about McVeigh and their first-time driving in England, which they start today.

Back at the airport with time to spare I shopped around for a luggage strap to let me carry my two panniers over the shoulder instead of in each hand. After several unsuccessful inquiries my last chance was a luggage store. She had one but had to go to the storeroom to get it. It was perfect, made all the more so because she gave it to me! Things are beginning to improve.

My bike's flight was due in at 9:30am and the next train for Penzance would leave at 10:32am. My reservation was for a later train but it would get into Penzance almost two hours later and would be too late to do any biking at all. I really did not want to miss the train. If I caught the 10:32 train I could make it to Lands End instead of Penzance and get a jump on tomorrow's ride. At 10:20, still no bike. Then at 10:25, bingo!

Dragging the bike box behind me in a mad dash - OK, slow drag - to the platform, I just made it: the train was a minute late in leaving and that made the difference. Off to Reading where I change. There is just enough time to call a couple of B&Bs in Sennen Cove to arrange for a room at "The Olde Success Inn." Just the right name for the beginning of the actual ride.

It wasn't always obvious where to store my bike, still in the box. On the advice of the ticket agent I had bought first class tickets because it would be less crowded and more room for the bike. Well, it certainly was not crowded: I was pretty much the only person on the car. But of course there was no room for the bike. The food cart lady was the first of a succession of people to tell me I should have put in the Car D or some such. I wondered where they were when I was boarding and was looking for a place to put it. In any case it was in the way of her cart. At my suggestion she agreed for me to lay it down on the opposite-side table for four. I liked being able to keep an eye on it.

A British train is a lousy place to get a GPS reading. First, you see only half of the sky at best. Second, you spend a lot of time under a canopy of trees. When I finally did lock in on a signal, I was interested to note that we were traveling at 100 mph.

Arrival at Penzance was pretty much on time at 4:45 pm. The actual biking begins at Penzance, fifteen miles east of Lands End, which is as close as you can get by train. No one objected when, right there in the train station, I began to reassemble my bike, which had been carefully boxed in pieces by Richard Machycek of Arkansas Cycling and Fitness in Little Rock. It would be up to me to repack it at the end of the trip, but for now I hoped I had not left some essential tool at home.

I immediately set to work. This took 1 ½ hours when all of the little accessories were finally reattached. Then more time to get dressed and organized for the road. Dressing was complicated because they closed the restrooms at 6:00 because of vandalism. So I took the legs off of my pants-convertible-to-shorts and just changed into a cycling jersey. Sounds simple but the job of packing panniers and getting dressed took 45 minutes so I didn't get on the road until 7:00pm, 2 hr 15 min in all to get ready.

The former castle-abbey of St. Michel's Mount, rising spectacularly just off-shore, beckoned but it would have to wait for another day. The plan was to follow the bike trail to Sennen Cove via Moushole, wherever the bike trail was. Of course, the TI was closed by then so I asked a couple of kids on bikes where the trail was. They said, "Follow us."

Soon I was on it and soon the bike trail became a road and soon the road sign said, "Road closed." So it was back to the A30 toward Lands End. Already I was on an A road…with only two digits! It was not a bad road, not too busy, quite pretty, but not along the coast as I had planned.

Nonetheless, I soon found myself in an olde English mood, ready for cycling between the hedgerows, through the roundabouts and on the wrong side. Passing "The First and Last Inn in England," I knew I must be getting close.

My attention was divided between the scenery, the traffic and my GPS receiver. I had spent countless hours programming the entire route into the GPS to help me navigate through the chaotic maze known as the British road system. Lands End was the first of 600 landmarks that were supposed to lead me to John O'Groats. If it was off, every landmark would be off, my time would have been wasted and I would probably get lost and end up in Cleveland.

Click here for information about the GPS, waypoints, and how I programmed them.

Happily, when I arrived at Lands End, the GPS was "spot on," as the British say. "Lands End" itself is an ill-defined point so I was not concerned that it seemed to be a tenth of a mile off. Most other waypoints were more accurate.

I quickly learned also that the arrow to the next waypoint switched automatically after first giving a warning like, "Turn within 200 feet." My hours of work were justified after all.

The GPS was to be a faithful companion for the next two and a half weeks, confidently pointing the way at each intersection. The only times that I missed a turn were when I thought that I knew better than it.

Before Lands End, however, I turned off and went dooooooowwwnnn to The Olde Success Inn, a loooooooong steep downhill, which I will have to come back up. Over the next few days I would learn that this hill was not all that unusual.

I got to the inn at 8:00, checked in, unloaded the pannys, then headed up up up and back on the road onto Lands End. The hill was as challenging as I had imagined…and this without loaded panniers.

The weather all day had been overcast and semi-threatening but now it cleared off with only a few clouds, promising a good sunset which, according to my GPS, would occur at 9:32.

I missed the standard starting point where most people get shot. Instead, I went around the big hotel right there on the point, sort of in its backyard overlooking the sea


As I stood at Lands End, the omens were good. Shafts of sunlight filtered through fair-weather cumulus clouds and reflected off of a calm sea. According to the friendly Aussie who took the mandatory picture of bike and me, minutes earlier an orca had leaped from the sea and soared Shamu-like through the air. I wanted to stay but the inn quits serving dinner at 9:30 and it was almost 9:00.

Turning around and mounting my bicycle, I began to ride east. All of Great Britain lay before me. Duncansby Head, a few miles beyond John O'Groats and the farthest point of Scotland, was 1100 road miles and 17 days to the north.

A few months earlier, in Little Rock, it had seemed like a good idea to bike the length of Great Britain. Now that I was there, I wasn't so sure. The island was large and I was small. What was I thinking?! Why had I thought I could do this? I'm sixty years old, for crying out loud! There was nothing to do but start pedaling and assume that math would not fail me, that the miles would add up, eventually adding to 1100.

Soon I was back down at the pub, in time for dinner with minutes to spare. The lemon sole with fresh veggies was absolutely wonderful, which confirmed the old rule to eat the local food.

Storing the bike was always the same and always different. The host always knew exactly where to store my bike but each bike-place was unique. It might be in a hallway (Tiverton), a storeroom among kegs of beer and other essential foodstuffs (Padstow), or a greenhouse (Oban). In Auchiltibuie it was in Mary's art studio among her paintings. All night - a very windy night - I imagined my bike falling over, thereby activating the usual rule: "if your handlebar puts a hole through it, it's yours."

I called Ann, finally getting through after several tries. This phone card seems to work mainly "in principle." (But it worked fine the rest of the trip.) It was great to talk to her. She is having a ball with the grandchildren.

Sennen Cove is a pretty place, not far off the main route but much lower - it's a cove, after all, right at sea level. Sennen itself is actually on the main road, not as nicely situated but would be a fine place to stay.

At the point itself I forgot to note the distance to home and to Duncansby Head as I had planned to do as a measure of progress. (I would find that although I would generally get closer to DH each day, the distance to home was little different at beginning and end. Actually, I will be 109 miles closer to home when I finish than when I start, 4303 miles vs 4194 miles, such is the geometry of a sphere .) In fact I realize that I don't have DH entered into the GPS because I ran out of room for the last hundred waypoints. I entered it manually by reading the coordinates off of the map.

Fifteen miles today. Pressure is falling.

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Day 1      Wednesday 13 June 2001 -- From smart to stupid

Sennen Cove - Padstow

I started the day smart and ended up stupid. The smart part was my decision to walk up the Sennen Cove hill…not so smart really, a no-brainer. My lowest gear is 27 inches. Those who advise something in the low 20s know what they are talking about. The stupid part was deciding to press on to Padstow when I was already pretty tired at Newquay.

What I did not know was how tortuous those last ten miles from Newquay to Padstow were going to be. From the map you can see that the road crosses several streams in that ten miles. Streams are rarely the high points along a road. In between the terrain was much higher. In those ten measly miles I must have crossed five streams. It was great going down but the Second Law kicked in and I had to pedal up the other side. Or walked most of the time. This compares to once - not counting the Sennen Cove hill - for the other sixty miles. And Robert wondered why I was worried about hills!

My route today is along the north cornish coast instead of the more direct route through central Cornwall, both for scenic value and to avoid busy highways, using C roads when possible. If no C road is available, I use B roads. Only when no other option is available do I use an A road, and in that case the more digits, the better. Thus, A5237 is preferred over A 324, which is definitely better than A20 or, heaven forbid, A5. Traffic was light, the views spectacular, and the hills steep and numerous. Clearly, the highway engineers - if you will pardon the expression - built the roads by asking, "Where is the nearest ridge?" and then went straight for it, no switchbacks allowed. From the ridges the roads always headed straight downhill to the deepest vale. And so on.













Although I expected it, I was nonetheless surprised how much time I spent cycling between hedgerows. Nancy had wondered what I would do if I met a tour bus. How would I get by? It never happened. The photo at right shows a typical hedgerow, cozy but not affording much a view of the countryside.





The cornish coast reminds of the northern California coast but with less vegetation. Sheer, dramatic cliffs fall away to a blue-gray sea far below. The road follows the coast but passes close enough for a cliffside view only a few times today. It is not one splendid view after another, but when you do get a clear view, it is superb. Generally, the coast can be described as hilly, usually rolling hills, not too steep except for one in the morning where I walked it.





Zennor, where D. H. Lawrence wrote "Women in Love," was pretty and inviting but I pass it up, reluctantly, because St. Ives is tugging and I zip on past almost before I know it.










A little further on I stop for a photo of what I assume is some kind of old church. More stupidity. Back in Little Rock, I did a "Google" search and found a photo of the same building taken from almost the exact same position. It is a pump house for removing ground water from one of the old tin mines that dot the countryside in Cornwall. These mines were an important economic force in the 18th and 19th centuries.

St. Ives beckoned from my childhood. It was picturesque from afar, disappointing up close, touristic - like me - to excess, at least along the waterfront, which was lined with shops, every second one selling cream teas, for crying out loud. A poor fellow is trying without success to sell "boat trips to see the seals today." He never lost his good cheer but I don't see how. "What seals?" I want to ask. Why would I want to see them. Why today?

I spent most of an hour there and tried lunch-on-my-own: beef jerky (very tough) and a Milky Way. At least I got rid of some weight. My panniers are really too heavy making the bike almost, not quite, unstable. I am thinking about what to jettison. Too many books (4), I know. Maybe the spare tire? The repair kit is pretty heavy but can't get rid of it.

Further along, St. Agnes is a prettyish town but I don't stop because - I admit it - I really want to get to Padstow as a kind of test of whether I could do this. I had estimated at St. Ives that I would get there about 7:00. So I focus more on scenery than towns, stopping at good viewpoints. I must say that, because of the novelty of the first day with everything being new and my trying to settle on a routine, I do not really experience the country today as well as later on. Getting to Padstow was never far from the front of my mind.

I notice that, instead of being branded, the cows have ID tags stapled to their ears. You decide which is more humane. I suppose they are Jerseys, which produce the famous cornish cream. An occasional herd of sheep.

There is more traffic than I expected, more than a car/minute, but my lane-maker worked very well, except that it is not braced against running into the occasional obstacle which will bend the metal bracket on the end. This is a design flaw which I fix with a binder clip. Back home I will make a permanent fix, a more satisfactory fix by a simple alteration that, however, requires a hacksaw. I failed to bring a hacksaw with me.

The GPS has been wonderful despite what seems to be a systematic waypoint offset of about 1/8 or a mile to (about) the east. I'll check this later after I pass some intersections where the waypoint is more definite than a town. But otherwise it is a great aid, or more properly the map was an aid to the GPS. I am able to navigate uncertain intersections just by following the arrow pointing to the next waypoint. I made a few brief wrong turns but mainly because I ignored the GPS indication. In many ways it had been more useful than the map while actually navigating. There is no need to orient a map: the GPS map is automatically oriented N-S and the direction arrow is automatically oriented with respect to the bicycle. Did I say that the GPS has been wonderful?

An exception occurred just east of Mithian where the road forked ambiguously into two choices. The GPS arrow pointed between them. The map seemed to show a 4-way intersection so where was the fourth road? A campground symbol on the map partially obscured the intersection making interpretation difficult. A very helpful gentleman stopped and we pondered over this for the longest time. He decided that we were somewhere else from where I knew we were - I knew which route had taken me there - and announced, "This is the road, I'm sure." Well, I wasn't and I finally decided that it was the other way and that the missing fourth road was up that road 1/10 mile or so. I implied that I would take his suggestion, waited until he was out of sight, then took the left fork and soon came to the missing road I was looking for. Voila! This was the only time I was uncertain of the route for the entire trip.

At Newquay I decide to take the direct route along the coast instead of the more roundabout bike trail that I had entered into my GPS because I wanted to get there! The original route could hardly have sapped more of my energy.

Riding on the A3075 at rush hour was no fun at all. Fast traffic and lots of it. I am encouraged to avoid A roads even more rigorously. Around Newquay even the B and C roads were busy at rush hour though.

Today, I saw no other long-distance rider, i.e., with panniers, except possibly for two riders in the distance behind me topping a hill (What else?!). Those ten miles impressed me with one ungodly steep hill after another.

When I reached Padstow, I had pedaled for 70 miles and had climbed 6000 feet of hills. More than a mile straight up. My legs were noodles.

Before I knew it I was down at town center at the docks, the lowest point in town, which means that I will probably have to go uphill once again to find a B&B. Of course the TI was closed. Why do they close when you need them the most? I know the answer, but I still needed to find a room and the sooner the better.

But I had no energy to find any of the nifty B&Bs on my list and instead stopped at the first hotel I came to, a very ritzy-looking place, too ritzy-looking. I was so tired that I almost took a room even though the price was about three times my nominal ouch-point of 30 pounds. Seeing my predicament or my clothes, the nice receptionist recommended the "Old Shippe Inn," which was much cheaper, nearby and downhill, back at the dock area, and even called them for me.

When I went back out to my bike, my blood froze. A few miles before getting to Padstow I had stopped to phone a few B&Bs to find a room. When I didn't easily find my list, I decided to continue without phoning. Now, I find that I had left my waistpack lying loose on top of the rear rack. The waistpack had my passport, credit cards, cash, phone card, plane tickets - in short, my trip!! Wow! I have never done anything like that.

The guy at "The Olde Shippe Inn" was very helpful, even carried my panniers up to my room after we stored my bike in their pantry among the foodstuffs: veggies, pies and cakes, you name it. Then it was straight to their restaurant where I had another excellent fish dinner and my first creamy bitter, which seems like a contradiction of terms. For dessert they offered fresh strawberries and rich cream, which I order because I knew Ann would. Not the same as having her along, though.

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Day 2      Thursday 14 June 2001 -- Tintagel! Ah, Tintagel!

Padstow - Holsworthy

Yesterday, it threatened rain but didn't. Today, it threatened rain and did…but never hard. I started with my rain cape, then switched to my Ultrex jacket and pants when I got chilled and the wind blew.

The wind blew from the east, not good because (1) I was riding east, and (2) an east wind means a low to the west which portends bad weather. So it rained.

The Iron Bridge over the Camel was closed at Padstow so I couldn't take the bike trail out of town. This meant more climbing.

I made two navigational mistakes, one in leaving A39 too soon in heading toward Tintagel, then again in leaving B3314 in descending to Tintagel, both times because I did not trust the GPS.

But as a result I passed through Trewarmett, saw a pub, was hungry, and figured it would be better than eating in touristy Tintagel. I was right, I'm sure. I had carrot soup and bread - both homemade - and enjoyable conversation with a couple from Kent. We discussed Cornwall, Bush and Blair, agreeing on most points, especially about Bush. We encountered each other again on the trail to the ruins at Tintagel. Coming in out of the rain as I did, I thought the meal was wonderful, also cheap. . I found the experience to be typical of stops in unheard-of hamlets on no-name byroads.

Tintagel, a-legendly the site of Camelot, was worth the side trip, a wonderful setting. I parked in town - for free as usual, a good feeling - and headed for the ruins. Hiking the half-mile from town to the ruins was challenging because of the steep ups and downs, made wet and slippery by the light rain, which explains why the tour busses don't let people hike there, as Nancy reported. Nancy could have made it easily, but not one in ten on a tour bus. There are lots of stair steps.


At the ruins, which are perched on a prominence jutting into the Irish Sea, I had the feeling of being suspended in space. Even on that misty day the view along the rugged coast was dramatic with colorful foxglove constrasting beautifully with the gray mist.

The ruins are really ruined so considerable explanation is needed to interpret it all, if you can take your eyes off of the view. The signs leave no doubt of the connection with Arthur, i.e., pure poppycock!

Tintagel is one of the "English Heritage " sites. I made the mistake of stopping to examine the map showing the location of the various sites and the nice, energetic lady guide pounced. She asked about my route and then thoroughly pointed out all of the fantastic sites I would pass right by and be able to get a steep discounts with my membership. It would be the height of stupidity NOT to buy a membership at 20 pounds if you asked her. If you have something to sell, something impossible to sell, I can recommend this lady.

She asked that I send a card from John O'Groats, an idea that somehow never occurred to me, but now I am trying to think of who else to send a card to. Certainly, I will want to send cards to all of the skeptics: Bill, Pete, my kids.

By the time I got to Boscastle - a very long steep descent - I decided I had seen enough cute coastal towns. I was ready to head toward Devon, i.e. east, so I deviated from my flight plan and by-passed Widemouth, staying on A39 until exiting toward the east.

The road up from Boscastle was a steady climb for four miles. There is a kind of arrogance in planning a trip like this one. You can handle the hills and distance just fine when you are doing it in your imagination. Today, I decided to take the short, less scenic less demanding route even though it was not - heaven forbid! - programmed into my GPS.

Finally, it topped out and I stopped for a Milky Way and photos, one of the countryside, now partly in sunshine, and one of a private drive advertising a dairy (clotted cream and such) with a huge oriental rug in the driveway at the gate, apparently a welcome mat of sorts. But just beyond the rug there was a sign that said, "Private property. No admittance." Not very welcoming after all. Later I would realize that the rug was saturated with antiseptic solution to ward off foot-and-mouth. I would see many other examples.

Entered Devon at 6:38 pm. The terrain is more rolling, less steep and the route takes me through tiny villages, often pretty, on nearly one-lane roads but little traffic, just like I imagined it. Still pretty hilly at times with steepest descent-ascent yet down into Templeton Bridge. I almost had to walk the bike down, could barely make it up, walking.

I stopped in Holsworthy at the King's Hart Inn/Pub, directed there by a Boy Scout, who else? Wonderful hot tub bath. Dinner of plaice stuffed with mushrooms; good enough but not the equal of the previous two dinners. Too far from the coast, I suppose.

I asked the waitress about the origin of the town's name. She supposed it meant "worthy of Harold." Which Harold, I wondered, the arrow-in-the-eye at Hastings Harold? They didn't know what I was talking about, allowed as how it was embarrassing for visitors to know more of their history than they did. Especially embarrassing if I know more!

I have been observing an interesting cultural phenomenon. At every pub where I have eaten on this trip and others in the UK. There are tables of men, often two, maybe more, having dinner, not just a drink. Are these men bachelors? If not, why are they not eating at home? Whatever the demographics of these men, what do their counterparts in the US do? Where would you find them? Is this unique to the UK, a kind of offshoot of pubs? I don't recall seeing this kind of thing in the US, at least not so commonly. Certainly, the ones here seem to have a good time, enjoy each other's company.

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Day 3      Friday 15 June 2001 -- Rain and a lousy bike path

Holsworthy - Taunton

I woke up feeling about 50%, weak and a weak stomach. After breakfast I could hardly walk up to my room. I slowly got better but it stayed with me the whole morning, really until a late lunch. What was that?

It was raining as I left Holsworthy, quit raining for awhile, then started again as I made the final run to Taunton. Today would be the rainiest day of the trip, not really bad, but I am glad that the whole trip was not like today. I would not have enjoyed it nearly as much.

Mostly a travel day - aren't they all? I wanted to make more distance today after averaging only 60 miles the past two days so sightseeing was not on my mind, but I wouldn't have done much anyway with the rain. Rain shrinks your world remarkably so you might miss the Grand Canyon even if riding along the rim road. I found my mind focused on the road, the traffic, the rain and the mechanics of riding.

For a 2 o'clock lunch I stopped at Nomansland because with a name like that I couldn't not. Soup and bread then, "Where does the name come from?" Incredibly the owner was unsure but said that apparently there was some inferior land that no one wanted around about somewhere. Maybe, but also the kind of explanation that someone might make up as a guess.

SusTrans is obviously on drugs. I was looking forward to the bike path from Tiverton to Taunton, even more so when I saw the sign for it, a bright shiny new sign: "Tiverton to Taunton Parkway." A "parkway," no less. The path was excellent too, asphalt. The asphalt ended in about 100 feet. There was a sign pointing the way onward. Then another sign - ambiguous - and that was it. I looked for the next sign for maybe 30 minutes, trying every street, path, whatever.


Finally, I just set the GPS to "GOTO Taunton" and followed the arrow. In a few miles I came upon the T-T Parkway. It seemed to be merely a footpath. Must get better, I told myself.


It got worse. It went right beside a beautiful canal where people were walking, fishing, birding, everything but biking. Lots of ducks, but no bike trail worthy of the name. In fact this was a poor excuse for a walking path. There were sharp rocks, large roots clear across the path, gravel, grass. No place for a loaded touring bike with 32 mm wheels. I couldn't enjoy the admittedly pleasant view for watching what tire-ending obstacle I might next hit. Occasionally, one walked across disinfectant pads under bridges.

When I could finally get off, after maybe five miles, I had no exact idea of where I was, not really. I knew the lat-long but that was not a great help. For once I was lost. I reverted to following the GOTO Taunton arrow and soon I came to the A38 which I followed into Taunton.

I called ahead from Tiverton and made reservations at the Salisbury Hotel in Taunton. While lost, I called again and extended my arrival time. For that reason I passed up two inviting B&Bs with evening meals about five miles short, in the rain. I almost stopped but decided a commitment was a commitment. That was a big mistake. When I finally got to the hotel at 8:45, there was no place on the premises to eat or even nearby. I was not happy about bathing and then having to go out again, in the rain. I passed a McDonalds and KFC and stopped at the first actual restaurant I came to, an Indian restaurant. Thanks to the Indian rsnts, which were often the only real rsnts open after 8:30 or 9:00 pm if I arrived late and hungry. The service and food was always good and well appreciated.

Still no encounter with another End2Ender. I must be off the usual path, or maybe there is no usual path. (Later, when I mentioned this to my son, he asked which way most people biked End2End and I said, "The same way, south to north." "There you are," says he.)

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Day 4      Saturday 16 June 2001 -- Glastonbury, where everything is true

Taunton - Chew Stoke

Easier exit from Taunton that from Holsworthy! Just followed the A36 signs. A bike trail offered itself but one look - a gravel path - and I went on. Later there was a nice asphalt path paralleling A36 so I tried it. Within 100 yards first I brushed against a stinging nettle or something - really painful, still painful as I write this at the end of the day, and second a huge mechanical something was right on the path cutting the brush . So returned to the relative safety of A36.

It started raining hard, or at least it seemed hard to me. Rain really slows you down. At 11:30 after two hours of cycling, a neat-looking shop advertised "ice creams." All they had was three kinds of ice cream bars. Not what I had in mind at all but got the strawberry one. While I was wasting time with this, there was a spell of no rain. About when I was ready to leave, it started raining again. I waited until in slacked off then left.

The sky began to brighten as I pulled up to historic Glastonbury Abbey. A freshening wind and blue sky peeking through low gray clouds signaled the beginning of good weather that would last until almost the end of the ride.

As usual, I headed for the most visible landmark, which was a church, reorganized my search, found the abbey, then circled the block looking for the entrance. Parked against the back wall of the car park. Going up to the ticket counter, I realize that I've been had. The vaunted English Heritage site pass was not valid at the abbey. It can be used at the Glastonbury Tribunal, whatever that is. It merely said "Glastonbury" on the map of sites back at Tintagel.


Glastonbury Abbey, steeped in myth, is forever linked with Tintagel by the Arthurian legend. Some believe Glastonbury to be the site of Avalon and that Arthur and Guineviere are buried there. Indeed the remains of a man and women were found in 1191, but - as skeptics have noted - this happened fortuitously just after the abbey had lost its royal support and had to begin to raise its own funds. Whereas the commentary at Tintagel pooh-poohs the Arthurian connection, Glastonbury seems to encourage it. There is a marker on the abbey grounds that announces, "Site of the ancient graveyard where in 1191 the monks dug to find the tombs of Arthur and Guineviere." No maybes there.

Legend also has it that Joseph of Arimethea arrived soon after Jesus's crucification, bringing with him the Holy Grail. Grail hunting is a favorite activity in the area. The Holy Thorn Tree just outside of the visitor center is said to be a cutting from the tree that grew from Joseph's staff when he thrust it into the ground.

On firmer ground the site's earliest ruins date from the 5th century, hinting that Glastonbury may well be the site of England's earliest church.


The present-day 12th century ruins soar skyward, making one wonder at the splendor of the original.

Glastonbury was a turning point both for weather and for my attitude toward hills. Even though my route mostly avoided the moors of Dartmoor, the Pennines of England and the mountains of Wales and Scotland, there were still 63,000 feet of uphill. This is more than two Mt. Everests! In the Tour de France, Lance Armstrong climbed only 61,000 feet and he had two rest days! Lance might have been faster.

After Day One - 70 miles and 6500 feet climbed - I was exhausted. If that was a harbinger, I was in trouble. But at Glastonbury, after four days of on-the-job conditioning, my legs quit worrying about the hills.

Despite the physical challenge, over 4000 people cycle End-to-End each year. Most are younger than my 60 years, but not all of them. At Shrewsbury I met two elderly and and portly gentlemen, who had recently done it. One was a dead ringer for Col. Sanders and had cycled the route twice.despite looking like he could not make it around the block. The British are always more fit than they look.

For lunch (2:00-3:00) I opted once again for soup and bread, some really excellent tomato/basil soup, lots too. When I finished, the weather seemed to have improved. The wind was from the north, which was entirely predictable as I was rounding the corner and was about to start cycling in that direction.

Quickly to Wells, where I am undecided about visiting the cathedral, turn right off of A38 into town, soon decide to skip the cathedral (partly because I don't find it easily), and try to take a direct route back to A38, violating one of the basic rules of navigation, namely to make sure that when you reach the river that you know whether the airport is left or right, that you never try to come out right at the airport.

This refers to an episode in Earnest Gann's Fate is the Hunter where he is flying across the vast reaches of the Amazon rain forest to an airport on a river. His plan is to first fly to the river and then look for the airport. He forgets the rule above and tries to dead-reckon directly to the airport. When he gets to the river, he is low on fuel and the airport - the only one within hundreds of miles - is nowhere in sight. As Fate stalks him, he has to decide which way to turn. He is really low on fuel and will only have this one chance. Arbitrarily, he turns right (as I recall)…and in a few miles the airport shows up straight ahead.

But I forgot the rule and tried to navigate to rejoin A38 right where the lane that I wanted to take branched off and so I didn't know whether the lane intersection was right or left. Following Gann, I decided "right" and headed up the longest steep hill of the day (trip?). After about a mile uphill all the way and still no turn-off, I knew I was wrong. It was painful to give up that altitude gained with such effort.

At the bottom, again, it took some time to decide on the correct lane - "The Old Bristol Road" - and it was exactly where I had come out of town 30 minutes earlier when I rejoined A38. I should have been more trusting of the GPS, which correctly showed me at the intersection all the time. I had decided a one-lane road could not ever have been the main road from Wells to Bristol.


Another steep uphill as I ascended the Mendlip Hills once again, this time too steep to ride at one point. At the same time I was unable to get a satellite signal for 1-2 miles because of the dense canopy of trees. There was an otherworldly feeling with the rest of the world shut out, as if in a scene from The Lord of the Rings.

On the ridge the cycling was extremely pleasant and the scenery likewise. Going down the other side Chew Lake presented a nice picture. At the lake there were lots of Canada geese - or at least that's what they resembled - ducks and a swan, all being fed by some old geezer.

At this point I had gone only 40 miles but my planned 50 miles would take me into Bristol and who-knows-what, so I stopped at the first B&B/pub in Chew Stoke, "The Stoke Inn, " with a sign that announces, "Now a B&B, enquire within," which I did. It was good to stop early for once.

I was in and out of the rain cape all day, even after lunch when it never actually rained, usually guessing wrong as to when to wear it and when not. It was not a good day to try to dry my socks and jersey from yesterday.

The inn seems to be a meeting place for the town. Very crowded, very noisy as the evening came on. It is, of course, Saturday night. By 11:30 when I went to bed, it had quieted down.

Good service for dinner. They even took my order at the table and let me pay at the end. I almost felt like I was in a real restaurant. I thoroughly enjoyed all of the activity and the "hail fellow, well met"s.

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Day 5      Sunday 17 June 2001 -- The trip takes over

Chew Stoke - Hereford

One week since leaving Little Rock. It seems much longer.

It was mighty hard to get out of bed. I'm wondering: Are my legs giving out? I don't feel up to cycling. Breakfast calls. I don't feel like eating either.

Today, I sacrificed Tintern Abbey to the Great God, John O'Groats. Tintern Abbey was on my must-see list so I stopped briefly, took a photo, but quickly left. At that point I realized that I was compelled to get to JoG, despite my pompous claims to the contrary before starting on the trip. The idea of completing the trip to The End seizes control, beyond one's own control. Today's 70 miles helps to balance yesterday's 45.

After a great deal of stateside planning to avoid the direct A road into Bristol, I am now undecided about whether to use the planned route. By this time I have decided the A-roads are not as bad as I thought, especially on a Sunday morning. So I started off on the roundabout route, changed my mind after a few miles, and changed to a course to intercept the shorter A-route. This involved a lot of climbing that would have been unnecessary had I not waffled.


Finally, the River Avon hove into view and what a mess it is! Ugliest river you could want to see. Gray clay banks (or perhaps "grey" since they are English banks) that slope down to equally unappealing water. It is hard to tell where one starts and the other stops. Appears to be a river of mud. Zero vegetation.

On the other side a bobby asks whether I'm here for the circle ride around Bristol and I can indeed see the riders down by the river. He offered to direct me to the route but I declined. Never miss a chance to lose an opportunity, I say. Only a little later I realized that they had blocked off the A4 for this ride. I'm guessing that, since the route followed the river, the ride would have been level and would have quickly taken me to the Severn Bridge. Instead, I mule-ishly followed my preplanned route through Bristol…or rather mostly followed it. The GPS waypoints were only so-so, not accurate enough to point out the turns I would need on the city streets so I followed the map and got lost only once. I used the GPS to point the general direction, a method that would become quite useful in a few days.

The "City of Bristol" has a small town look and feel, at least the part that I saw does. Fairly hilly. It took two hours from the Avon to the Severn bridge. It was a great relief to see the sign for the "Severn Bridge Parkway" along the north side of the bridge, two miles long. I understood that there was indeed a cycle path there, but it was good to confirm that fact.


And what a bike path it was! Truly a parkway. It was an enjoyable ride across. For once there was no navigation to be done and no cars to dodge, only two illegal motor bikers. The river looked like it could develop some strong tides - huge flats - and it does. Too bad the phase and time were wrong. I would have loved to see the tidal bore.

Stopped at St. Albans for lunch. People stopped eating when I walked in. The place was filled with families in Sunday dress and there I was in my spandex. I tried to call Dad to wish him a happy Father's Day late but the phone in the restaurant was apparently not on the BT system and my card did not work. I stopped at Tintern Abbey long enough to call him. He seemed to appreciate it, wondered how I was doing.

Biking along the Wye River was pretty and flat. The descent into the valley was steep and long and was portentous of the climb to come, which was more than a mile of up, all in granny gear. The GPS was 0.3 miles off at the point where I left the A road, the waypoint being displaced to the east. At the other end of this uphill climb, the waypoint was similarly displaced 0.2 mile (at the left turn). I cannot figure out what is going on. Someday I will recheck those points, probably. This was the greatest inaccuracy of the trip. I am sure that my map calibration is better than that, a lot better. I suspect the algorithm for converting the British grid to lat-long is buggy. But why were other, nearby points OK? A great mystery.

Whatever, the ride this afternoon was a lot of fun and the GPS returned to its accustomed form. There were not so many hedgerows so I could actually see the countryside, pretty fields and enveloping tree canopies. I rode mostly on backroads, sometimes on extremely backroads. Once a car stopped and asked where they were. They picked a moment when I actually knew. I felt better as the day went on. Despite a hilly 69 miles I felt strong at the end.

At Hereford I stopped at the first place, a pub B&B, and got the "it's only you, is it?" treatment. Only a double was available. It's 7:30 so what are the odds that they will sell out? Slim, I would say. A fie on the Salmon Inn, especially because the lady directed me to "many B&Bs" and I found not a single one in a wild goose chase that I did not relish at that hour.

Wandering around, I ran across "The Linderhurst House," no answer, so I started to leave and was trying to decide which way to go when a lady came to the door. It was a good choice, cheap and a real tub bath, run by Mormons. The only (slight) downside was the 15 minute walk to town for dinner, at an Indian restaurant, well appreciated.

Today, I had my first wreck. I flew down the already-mentioned steep grade into the Wye Valley getting up to 45 mph. That was not the wreck but should have been. Later, as I was toiling up out of the valley at minimum controllable speed - about 3 mph - I was distracted by a noise and found myself heading for the lefthand hedge row. Bang. Or was it "ping"? Whatever, I toppled over on my left side into the brush, soft landing, onto more stinging nettle. Make a note to myself: Don't do that again.

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Day 6      Monday 18 June 2001 -- The Longest Day

Hereford - Nantwich

Sunshine! A nearly clear sky. Coolish, but just fine. The best weather so far.

Nice after-breakfast conversation with the father of the wife about his visit to the US, including Utah, of course. We also talked about "Hampshire, Hereford and Hartford.". He prepared an excellent breakfast and was the only person to offer a second helping and to stay and talk.

Following his directions it was easy getting out of town. I started pedaling and then kept on, stopping now and then for a photo. There were more chances to see the countryside - rolling hills of green, sheep, cattle, smells of manure, signs advertising "well-rotted manure," lanes that sometimes are little more than two ruts (not quite that bad but a poor bike path).

The frustrating thing is that you struggle up a steep hill then have to brake all the way down the other side because the surface is too bad for any speed or the there are blind curves or usually both. I kept thinking, "Careful! This could be where the trip ends." So I am careful.

No actual stop until Shrewsbury (3:30 pm) where I follow the signs to the abbey. I have a 3-scoop dish of ice cream just across the street, my first "meal" since breakfast. As I'm leaving, a fellow comments on my bike, "quite a load," he says. He and his friend, the "portly gentlemen" mentioned earlier, and I have a long chat about E2Eing. Should have taken a photo, a thought that I always have about five minutes too late.

They gave me directions - typically too detailed - on how to find the road to Wen. At my request they repeated them several times, each time condensing them more to the essentials, until I could repeat them faithfully, and it worked fine.

Surprisingly, getting through Wen was the larger problem because the road to Whitchurch was not marked. At Whitchurch no B&B was to be seen so I decided to continue with some misgivings. At Wensbury a B&B sign with arrow caught my eye. I soon lost the trail and had to ask at the local pub but then found it a little out of town. I was sure there would be room because it was so hard to find. Well, the nice lady had three guests, all full up, and very apologetic. At this point I had logged 85 miles and was ready to stop.


Six more miles to Nantwich where I got the "double only" look and directions to the "Railway Pub" which had an overpriced bunkhouse, barely functional. The only plus was that I could keep my bike inside with me. No hot water in the lavatory because it was not connected, I discovered. Nice looking building from the outside, though.

Dinner at an Indian restaurant because everything else quit serving at 8:30 and it was 8:45. Enjoyed the almost-too-spicey meal. I had indigestion much of the next day and decided to lay off Indian for awhile.

Ninety miles today, which would be my longest day. Not by choice, though it would have been nice to have a century day, I think, maybe.

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Day 7      Tuesday 19 June 2001 -- A meal to remember

Nantwich - Clitheroe

Lousy room last night, good breakfast although ordering eggs with "runny yokes" didn't work. Maybe "runny" has a different meaning in British. These full English breakfasts really do stay with me. I can go all day with nothing else and still be strong at the end. Today, I will do 70+ mile with only a small cone of ice cream and wasn't even very hungry at the end of the day.



The ride today was through gently rolling country starting out in the Forest of Bowland (photo), very English, pretty.









The small photo at right shows a typical scene with a downhill to be savored. It was at about this point that I first began to feel that I belonged here, that I was in control and would finish the ride. I think it was the elevated, godlike view that did it.







I missed a few good photos because I passed them on downhill glides, too fast to stop and reluctant to climb back up, probably a bad decision. The first was a wonderful rural scene of cattle lying down in a pure green pasture, the very definition of "pastoral," I suppose.




Another was a sign that said, "Warning: Steam for the next mile." Forewarned is forearmed, but what was I being warned against? Perhaps, the British use "steam" where we right-thinking Americans use "fog." This happened at the same time as another photo-op as I paralleled a canal where a barge was barging along, the pilot having his morning coffee. This is the first time I have seen an actual barge on an actual canal and it was picturesque, looking like it was designed by Disney. By the time I stopped, it was gone.


I have learned that the variety of road signs is greater than in the US. "Elderly People" showing a couple with advanced dowager's humps is seen more often - or less often, depending on how you think about it - that you would think.

Previously, I have been slowed down by hills. Today, it is towns. I was averaging 13.5 mph before hitting the maze of lanes around Leigh and Botton. Coming out the other side I was down to 12.5 mph.

As mentioned in the "Equipment" section, just about the only car that has come too close was a "Stephen's Driving School" car. He immediately stopped for gas, too delicious an opportunity to pass up so I pulled over and gently complained. He responded as if this happens all of the time and he's tired of hearing about it.

There is a tailwind today, which is the reason for starting south and going north. The weather is threatening too. It seems that one has a choice: nice weather and a head wind, or rainy and a tailwind. Coming south it would be all good or all bad. Probably better this way. Probably. Maybe.

On the way into Clitheroe I passed a "Farm house B&B" then a little later a Hotel-Pub (on the left, in case anyone cares) where the room was the right price but the guy looked and acted like a car mechanic, which is fine but not to run a B&B. So I said that I wanted to look around some more and he predicts that "I'll see you later" like it wasn't just a manner of speech. I continued on into town and phone the B&B I had passed. They were full. Still, I was glad to have come into town, which had a nice authentic feel to it, worth revisiting some day when I have more time.

Back at the hotel-pub the guy grinned. The room was excellent, especially because it had a wonderful tub.

Dinner was the best of the trip, absolutely wonderful. There was an Italian restaurant next door to the place I was staying, and I had marinated chicken with artichoke, plus veggies. It was not only the best meal of the trip by far, it was one of the best meals I have had in a long time. I only wish Ann had been here to share it. She would have enjoyed it also.

The owner is from Sorrento based on my overhearing his comments to a couple at another table. He suggested that they visit Positano sometime, a recommendation with which I heartily concur. Both of our visits there were fantastic experiences. The view from the cliffside inns seems unreal, not to mention the drive along the coast to get there.

I have been on the trip for one week today, 458 miles traveled since Lands End, farther than the Natchez Trace trip last year, my only other long tour. Elevation gain so far is 27,200 feet, not quite one Mt. Everest.

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Day 8      Wednesday 20 June 2001 -- A day of superlatives

Clitheroe - Glenridding

Best weather so far (after an uncertain start), highest elevation of the trip (Kirkstone Pass) and strongest wind yet, a headwind all day. Did not gain quite as much altitude as Day 1, which surprised me. In addition to Kirkstone Pass there were two no-slouch passes in the Forest of Bowland and the road from Kendall to Windermere (A591) was one long uphill grind (with headwind). I thought it would all exceed the first day. (I deviated from the planned B road route to speed things up.)

The scenery was the best yet, not least because you could actually see it. Hedgerows have become less and less of a problem and were pretty much absent today. The sheep and cattle - especially the sheep - gave a kind of tranquility to the passing scene.





For the first time I had to ride through a pool of disinfectant, in the Forest of Bowland. At Kirkstone Pass, a popular hiking area, a guy was reading and manning tubs of disinfectant at the trailhead. It seemed that you had to walk through all three tubs, rather like Developer, Stop Bath, Fixer.



This morning I stopped a couple out walking and we had quite a discussion about the F&M problem. I told him that a women had told me yesterday that the farmers - her father is one - think that the government has introduced the virus into the livestock in order to drive the farmers out of business, a kind of modern day "Clearances" in effect. But the husband of the walking couple thinks that no one is in control of anything: there are too many loose ends to control even if you wanted to. People go where they are not supposed to go, etc.

Today, I stopped for an actual lunch at "The Union Jack" and had a chicken salad and ice cream. When I resumed biking, I was cold. The wind was the root cause. I am despairing of finding a Mac to upload my last three routes, the ones along the north coast of Scotland, and to download the tracks I have saved so far. I tried two places today and both reacted as if I were a Martian.



This was my second time in the Lake District, but I'm just skirting the edge today. The views are what you would expect, Wordsworthian. It was one of those times when you just cycle, take in the view and enjoy every moment. Surprisingly, I could see the lake (Windemere) only once, briefly, as I approached the pass and looked down the valley to the southwest.

The climb up to Kirkstone Pass was not quite as bad as I feared, even with the strong headwind. I had marked several points along the road as waypoints, where the map indicated very steep grades of 1 in 7 or more. They all came up right on schedule so I knew when I reached the really steep parts. Of course, my legs knew it as well, but it was comforting to know that these really were the steepest sections. I nearly had to get off and walk at the very steepest - it seemed vertical - but it was a very short stretch and I got past it by standing and grunting a lot. As I approached Kirkstone Pass, the wind became very gusty, very strong. Several times I was almost blown over. The pass is at 1500 feet which is only about 1000 feet above Windermere so it's not a huge challenge.

The map showed an inn at the pass and sure enough there it was, the Kirkstone Inn. I wished I had not already made reservations in Glenridding on the other side because it was a spectacular site and would have been a good spot to overnight. I inquired about a room anyway and they had one for 35 pounds, which was more than I wanted to pay. But the prospects for a spectacular sunset were good so I had a half pint while the bar lady went to ask the manager whether she could get a lower price. She could - 30 quid - but the answer to my next question was the wrong answer…8:30 for breakfast, too late, so I thanked her and continued.

It took 45-50 minutes to climb up and 4-5 minutes to descend, using the brakes a lot. Going down was a terrible waste of potential energy, which - if parceled out - could have taken me through 40% of the uphills tomorrow. I sat straight up to use air braking to take some of the pressure off of the brakes. For once I had to slow down for cars ahead of me. I felt cheated when I had to climb over some small hills at the bottom.

At the Fairlight Inn, which took a little finding as it was not right on the road as I understood it to be, the owner was sitting and sipping out front, quickly pointed out eating places, had me put my bike in the restaurant part of the house and very quickly I was situated, not en suite but fine.

Dinner "The Travelers Rest" ¼ mile up the street, including "The Old Speckled Hen" ale and fried prawns. Enjoyed the meal.

For the first time I saw a pair of bikers with panniers headed the other way. They were coming fast down the first hills of the day and we could only yell greetings. Apparently, I am not on the beaten track and may never actually make contact with other E2Eers.

The mountains I came through today looked a lot like the Rockies above treeline, except that there were no rocky outcroppings.

Ann says that she, Susan and Sharon have redesigned the room addition. (which we had given up on because our original idea was impractical to add on). It sounds like a good idea because it would blend better with the original.

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Day 9      Thursday 21 June 2001 -- Scotland! and the Summer Solstice

Glenridding - Thornhill

A low stratocumulus layer clouds all day, allowing only a couple of minutes of sunshine…until I reached my B&B, when the sky cleared completely. Last night's host, Ken, says it's supposed to be warm over the weekend, meaning about 70. Today, it will be 54-62 and windy. At 54 I was chilled and eventually put on my windbreaker on top of the three other layers. The wind was relentless, out of the north when I was going that way, from the west when I turned that way, or at least it seemed so. If it acts like winds in the US, it will shift around to the south tomorrow and weaken.

Ken got me off to a slow start by aiming me up into the hills west of Ullswater instead of along the shore as planned. He said it was beautiful that way, but I wanted to see the lake and should have stuck to my original plan. It wasn't that pretty anyway.

At Carlisle I began some serious Mac hunting. First, a Staples. "No" but one of the clerks told me where a computer shop was, Tidy Time, and on my route, too. "No" but he suggested another place that I never could find. He would not call the other place to ask if they had Macs. Why not?

As I was leaving Carlisle, I saw a sign for the "PC Superstore." Had to backtrack in the righthand lane, but they had iMacs!. But not hooked up to a floppy or Zip drive, the two media I had taken with me. In hindsight I should have burned a CD. But my GPS interface cable isn't USB anyway. At least Macs exist in the UK. Now, if I can only find an older one . . . .




At 2:11, I enter Scotland. The pubs quit serving at 2:00 so it was 3:00 before I found a café in Arran to get a chicken sandwich.




Rolling countryside at first, then rolling-er. Pastoral at times. And always a stiff headwind. I stopped once to lower the seat about ½ inch, lube the chain, and rest, not necessarily in that order of priorities. The cold/cool wind took something out of me.






I passed a wonderful-looking old church and cemetery at Mouswald and was so taken by it that I made the wrong turn just after. No matter: I had been undecided which way to go at that point when I was planning and soon was back on the planned route.

My plan was to start looking for a B&B at 70 miles or 6:00 which came first. They came at the same time but no B&Bs in sight. A nice-looking hotel was full as was a pretty B&B a mile further along the road. Finally, two miles before Thornhill, I followed the signs to a home B&B. I was ready to quit riding - 80 miles into a strong headwind - and, hoping that I would get yet another rejection, I led off with, "I have biked 80 miles today so that I could spend the night with you," now that I think of it, probably not the best thing to say to the nice housewife who answered the door.

But she and her husband, Mark, were a very nice couple and the warmest of hosts and invited me to sit for tea and conversation, just perfect for me at that time. They say that I am the first guest they have had this season, which is surprising given how many filled-up B&Bs I've encountered. It was a small sign.

Their daughter, 3.5 year-old Kim, was entirely engaging. She had lots to show me and to tell me. It was, in fact, hard to keep up my end of the conversation. Later, she would come up to tuck me in.

I might have been ready to quit riding but the only place to eat was Thornhill, another 2 miles. Mark said "one mile" but their B&B sign said ½ mile to their place and it was ¾ mile. I think they put the sign at what seemed like ½ mile. (This will seem like nit-picking to anyone other than another physicist.) Mark offered to take me to town and pick me up again afterwards and I accepted with remarkably little argument.

On the way into town we talked about haggis. I told Mark that I had tried it some years ago (on the N coast) and had not liked it much, OK at first but then an unpleasant, greasy aftertaste.. I suspected that it was stale. Indeed, the waitress had said that it was all they had left so it certainly was not fresh. Sometime later, British friends said that I should have followed it with a scotch chaser. Sounds like a good idea to me, except why ruin the scotch?!! Anyway, Mark suggested ordering it as a side dish, which is what he does. That way, it is not an all-or-nothing commitment. Terrific advice.

There were two pubs recommended by Mark. Their displayed menus were a bit more classy and restaurant-like than the typical pub. One listed haggis but it was the entire meal.

In the event I went to the other place - Georges Hotel (or Inn) - because I liked the menu better. I had an overfilling meal of chicken korma and then made a big mistake of having dessert. A mistake for two reasons: It hardly left me time to phone Ann before I was to meet Mark and 8:45 - he was right on time, then I woke at night with a very unsettled stomach, twice. Took Tums both times and by morning I was OK.

I tried to call Roxanne twice. No answer. I have had Chelsey, her chocolate lab who they had to put down a couple days ago, on my mind and wonder how Roxanne and the kids are doing.

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Day 10      Friday 22 June 2001 -- Brief encounters

Thornhill - Corrie (on Arran)

Today, I learned -

1. What a fried haggis patty tastes like,

2. What my lane-maker sounds like when a truck hits it, and

3. That it's farther to the Androssan ferry than I thought.

Breakfast was bountiful and early. One of the advantages of a private home B&B is that they are more flexible about breakfast time. My hostess slipped in a fried haggis patty and it was tasty, not even requiring a scotch follower.

It sounded like my tire had picked up a load of gravel and thrown it into the rear rack. It was a loud racket and the second time it happened (on the A76 north of Sanquahar) I stopped to see what was wrong with the bike. Was a spoke broken and hitting against the frame? Nothing looked out of place. Then I noticed that the end of my flag pole was worn. Twice someone had come close enough to hit the flag! I am beginning to wonder whether the flag is an aid to safety or an invitation to try to hit it. (For the record this never happened again.)

Almost before I started, I stopped in Thornhill to phone for room reservations in Lochranza on Arran. I tried place after place, all full. My final call: Dave said it would be easy to find a place in one of the unlisted B&Bs when I got there. If not, he would "find a place" for me. So I relaxed.

I exited A76 at Thornhill using the GPS to great effect in finding my way out of town and to the C road that parallels A76 on the other side of the river. It was different and beautiful and, once up the initial hill, easy and pleasant cycling. The castle was closed, apparently because it made the farmers nervous to have so many cars driving through. I rode through an evergreen forest unlike anything I had seen on this trip. There was some logging going on, fairly unobstrusively.

Before long, I met up with two guys, one walking his dog and the other cycling. We talked about my route - I "had chosen well" my sticking to the backroads, the weather - "coldest spring they could remember" but warm the next few days which was "good," and the other cyclist's bike. He had had it custom made. "I told the man to make a mountain bike like he thought it should be made. 'I'll be back in a week to pick it up.'" Very pretty machine, too, and I should have taken a photo. We rode along together for several miles until out paths parted. This was his first outing since hernia surgery.

Still later I met a retired guy just cycling wherever he decided. He had stopped at an intersection trying to decide which way to go when I overtook him. His wife had been sick for a year and a half but was now recovering and this trip was her reward for his taking care of her.

I have looked for more Tums or such to replace my diminishing supply. I'm almost out after last night when I woke up almost sick. I clearly ate too much. This probably explains why I am apparently not losing weight, judging by the fit of my clothes. I thought it was impossible to replace all of the calories burned in biking 70 miles per day but apparently I can. Maybe I'm just a super-efficient cyclist. I've decided that my "morning sickness" - indigestion - does not mean that I'm pregnant but probably is due to my beginning to cycle immediately after a huge breakfast. Not much to be done about that.

I arrived at the Androssan ferry dock at 4:45, about two hours later than I had estimated. About 45 minutes of that was due to the two conversations. In any case the next ferry wasn't until 6:00. This will put me in Brodick at about 7:00 with a 15 mile ride to Lochranza, or about 8:30. Pretty late. Dave's place is a mile or two further. Would like to get close because he is said to have great food, whatever that means. Since I was first on the ferry, I'll probably be last off.

I was. For the record the ferry's speed was 16.8 mph. Along with the other cyclists I was off at 7:10. I headed north, most of the others south. I had planned to take the road up and over the middle of Arran to the west coast, then up the coast to Lochranza, as described by Martin Wittram in his web site. Given the late hour, I decided I shouldn't take the time.

At Corrie I stopped at the Corrie Hotel, cheap room, bath down the hall. But I'm ready to stop - 75 miles today. I thought it was going to be 60-65. Importantly, I made it in time for dinner, served until 8:30.

First equipment failure. The support plate for my bar bag broke in four places, still usable though. I might have carried too much weight in it for some of the rougher bumps. Yesterday, there was an unexpected rough bump or two coming fast downhill.

I'm thinking about taking the flag off.

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Day 11      Saturday 23 June 2001 -- Ancient Dunadd, posh lodging

Corrie - near Oban

I did not take it off, but I did keep in vertical. There is less traffic now.

On the road by 9:35 hoping not to miss the ferry, not knowing when that is. There was a pretty good climb out of Corrie, not my preference just after breakfast but not a problem. The ride down the other side made it worth while - a long smooth fast ride all the way to Lochranza. As I approached the dock, I could see the ferry approaching . Oiled the chain while waiting in line with the cars.

Talked with two other cyclists who were over for the weekend. Oddly , when we went to disembarked from the ferry, one of the cycliests had a flat. One wonders whether some rascal let the air out while we were topside. We all believed the forecast of a sunny day but it was determinedly overcast, turning into light rain in the afternoon, then clearing in the evening.

It was easy cycling and pretty, pretty scenery, which even the haze and rain could not do much to dull. The weather did produce views along the coast that were only so-so but the glens and hills made up for it, would have been spectacular in sunshine with blue skies.



This ride through the Mull of Kintyre is famous for its many ancient sites and I stopped at two of them. The first was Dunadd, a very ruined hilltop fort dating from the fifth century. (Good website at http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/kilmartin/dunadd/) It's a scramble to the top at places but not bad. Great view as you stand there imagining an approaching army. The fort is strategically placed on the very top of the high hill with steep sides that would make a direct assault difficult indeed. It would be easily besieged, however. Very grassy top - I could wish for such a lawn. There was the ubiquitous pan of disinfectant at the trailhead where you were supposed dip your feet.



There are several carvings and inscriptions there according to the guidebooks, including a foot print carved into the granite that was presumably used for ceremonial purposes when a new king of Dalriada, the ancient kingdom of Scotland, was crowned. The new king would step into the depression. If the shoe fits…. I could find the footprint easily, in fact almost stumbled over it. Allegedly, there are some even older carvings there but in the typical British way, they don't say where.

Some more dipping a little further on for a burial cairn and some standing stones. But the path to the stones was closed due to F&M disease. I suppose nothing is excessive when it comes to defending against the spread of the disease, but this seems a bit much. There is no disease reported in Scotland at all and this is pretty far from England, plus if you've dipped your feet, what is the great concern? I'm not complaining given that this is one of only two places where my plans were thwarted due to F&M.

So my earlier plan to stay at Kilmartin to explore the antiquities in the area sort of vanished and I decided to go on. No place in the inn at Kilmelford: one B&B was full, no answer at a second and the hotel claimed to be full, although I doubt it. Why have I become so cynical? Well, the bar guy was neither helpful or sympathetic. I think he didn't want to sell to a single. I suppose that if you start looking at 5:30, you cannot expect immediate success.

The time was approaching 7:00 as I approached Oban so I had given up on finding a place before there and was just enjoying the scenery along the loch, when out of the blue (gray?) comes an estate-looking hotel, the Knipock Hotel. Very plush inside but a Julie Andrews double offered a room at 1/3 off due to the late hour, just within my pre-decided limit, 40 pounds. This was the first time I encountered a sensible pricing policy of "better a discounted fare than no fare at all." Plus, she was a very nice lady. Put my bike in the greenhouse.

Dinner was…unusual. First, I immediately felt underdressed in my casual convertible-to-shorts pants and Tevas. I was confirmed in this assessment when, as I started to go into the dining room, a very formal looking-dressing-speaking gentleman intercepted me and directed me to a large, formal sitting room with fireplace and all the accoutrements. Here, I was told, you could order a pre-dinner drink to sip while you perused the menu, which consisted of one prix fixe meal (either 3 or 5 courses) with about three alternatives for the main course. So you order when the same guy comes around and then sit and drink and think English club thoughts until he comes to take you to your table. No looking around for your choice of tables either.

The guy was scandalized when I asked for a recommendation of a scotch. I figured he could suggest a good local one, but he said, apparently shocked that I would ask, "WELL, sir. We have over 200 (or did he say, 300?) different scotches!" Apparently, he did not know where to start. I decided on Jura scotch - not special, but fine.

For dinner I started with mushroom soup (wonderful!), then salmon hollandaise (good) and vegs, finally a crepe filled with vanilla ice cream. Oh yes, an excellent gewürztraminer. I wasn't that much underdressed compared to the others there, and no one jeered.

When everyone else had gone, I had a nice conversation at the nearest table with a couple from Glasgow.

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Day 12      Sunday 24 June 2001 -- Hail fellow! Well met!

Oban - Ft. William

The maitre'd who was a bit of a stuffed shirt last night, was much more relaxed this morning, full of talk. It was still clear, however, that I had my table, the same one as last night.

He told me that a film crew had been filming on the premises the night before and would resume today. Since they had to wear the same costumes today, they had to be washed and dried overnight. Washing was easy, but drying was not. There were no driers and it has been raining so they had a real problem. This is Scotland, after all, not the best place to hang clothes to dry. He thought the whole scene was hilarious, the question of whether they would dry out. Clothes were apparently hanging everywhere (but out of my sight). Ho ho ho.

It seems I take longer to eat than most people. I am the last to leave and the first to arrive. Or is it the other way around?



Oban was more interesting-looking than I had been led to believe. The waterfront looked like all waterfronts should. There was a swarm of brightly-colored boats and buildings along the waterfront, a combination of colors that made a very pleasant photo, as you can see.

I considered taking a tour of the distillery but, not seeing it, I continued cycling after stopping for Tums and batteries.

A funny thing happened on my way to Ft. William. Several waypoints up and down a loch were shown on the display but they were not included in the Oban-to-Ft. William route. Apparently, I failed to include them when defining routes, although I cannot see how this would have happened. Then, when I got to the last route waypoint before the omitted ones, I found that a new bridge spanned the loch at that exact point creating a shortcut that cut off the same waypoints that were excluded from the route. Somehow the GPS knew this! It's almost enough to make one believe in paranormal phenomena. (Those who know me know that I'm just kidding.) Then a little later the GPS omitted some needed waypoints, showing that it is merely human.

A red letter day! I finally met a couple of End2Enders, an English couple from Derbyshire. They started on June 5 0r thereabouts, are camping and are doing about 50 miles per day. Their remaining route is more direct than mine, but we both go through Bettyhill. We exchanged addresses and as usual I forgot to take a photo.

Got to Ft. William at 4:00 and went directly to Dalriada's B&B - just like the ancient kingdom of western Scotland. She knew exactly how everything would work, then we talked about Clinton and George W. She thought Dubya to be a nitwit, a mouthpiece. On his recent European trip, according to her, he didn't know who any of the key European players were. Maybe he thought he was still in Texas. It is, after all, thought to be a big place.

By the time I got down to the main street, most of the shops were closed but I did make it to "West Coast Outfitters" in time to be told that I would be an idiot to try to hike Ben Nevis in my Tevas. Maybe I will decide to test their theory. Weather is supposed to be decent tomorrow, not great, but about as good as it gets.

After a lot of figuring and changing my mind, I've decided to forego Ben Nevis in favor of the longer coastal route north of Ullapool. My schedule will probably not allow both.

Talking with Ann, I can change my flight reservation a day or two earlier for $150, which is her suggestion. Two days earlier won't work, it seems, because the overnight from Inverness to London doesn't run on Saturday night. I will check on a non-overnight train that will get me there Sunday. I assume TWA will have my bike box on Monday or Tuesday as well as for Wednesday when it is scheduled.

Mrs. Dalriada's hospitality seems a little in the cold to me. Friendly enough but not a very desirable room up in the attic without even a sink, plus there were better rooms available, I'm sure, not like she was fitting me in.

Dinner at the Crannog Seafood House was excellent, said to be the only decent meal in town. I had parsnip-curry soup, followed by char on a bed of sweet potatoes. I asked for and got a dollop of haggis sampler on the side. Unlike my first experience in 1994, no bad aftertaste. If not exactly good, it was not bad, sort of like oatmeal is "not bad" for my taste. Actually, I liked it better than oatmeal.

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Day 13      Monday 25 June 2001 -- A beautiful, but frustrating, day

Ft. William - Muir of Ord



Mrs. Dalriada recommended - no, "told" - me to take the bike path along the Caledonian Canal. Then, I remembered that I had had an email exchange with a Ft. William ranger who said that the path was not suitable for road bikes with loaded panniers and sure enough it was dirt and gravel. I am sure that the B8004 road was the more scenic anyway, being a bit higher with good views of Ben Nevis and the canal itself. A boat came through, providing additional color.

The best weather of the trip to date. Too bad so much of it was on A82. Met a couple from Devon doing E2E south. They warned me about the Big Hill when leaving Drumnadrochit, but then nice easy downhills to Muir of Ord. I was also told about the hill by a worker at Urquhart Castle - "1 in 6," he said.



The castle was not very interesting, OK, but just barely. I forgot to ask whether the English Heritage pass was valid, but did get a senior's price. I also got a flat tire, a slow leak, that I discovered as I was leaving the castle. The flat was the least of frustrations on an otherwise beautiful day.

First, there was the enormous effort to make a train reservation, which took 1.5 hours and included my old phone card giving up and my new one not working, and finally resorting to coins, ran out, and the agent Dewey called my back. Dewey was great. For awhile there was a big problem because he could not get a bike reservation on the Inverness-London segment. Then, at more cost he was able to route me through Glasgow arriving Monday at 7 am.

All this was too bad because I was feeling good after a nice soup and bread in Fort Augustus, and after making a room reservation at the Lattimore House in Muir of Ord. I had worried about waiting so long to make train reservations but since Ann wanted my to come back earlier than planned, I had to wait until she could work out with TWA when that might be. Now it look like for $150 extra for the flight and $75 extra for the train, I can get home a day early. Ann now questions whether it's worth the extra for the train. Life would be a lot simpler to stay with the original plan.. I think I'm just going to try to go standby. I'm also going to see whether I can get my bike boxed in Thurso.



The flowers along the road between Loch Ness and Muir of Ord were amazing: expanses of foxglove, entire hillsides in "full broom."

When I finally got to Muir of Ord at 7:45, having pumped up my tire every few miles, I found that my hostess, Mary not know how to give directions. She's one of those people who think that it's obvious how to go because she's been doing it all her life. So I took a wrong turn in trying to follow her directions to her house even though I could just about see her house from the phone booth where I called her.

Then, as a coup de grace she told me about two places to eat both "a five minute walk." Well, 15-20 minutes is more like it. I should have taken my bike, slow leak and all. Next, the favored place quit serving at 8 pm, not the 9:00 that she had said…and it was 8:40 when I got there after a hurried bath. I was upset because the other place does in fact close at 9:00 and it was now a long walk and my right shin was bothering me. I got there in time and had a non-rushed meal of haddock.

I called Ann on the way back to the B&B and found that TWA had been uncooperative.

I think I strained something in pedaling up the steep 1-in-6 hill. I was determined to make it without walking and just barely did.

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Day 14      Tuesday 26 June 2001 -- Superlatives fail me!

Muir of Ord - Achiltibuie

Breakfast with an English couple from near Newcastle. Pleasant couple but not relaxed. Probably said the same about me.

Didn't get away until 10:10 because had to fix the flat, actually just changed the tube: I have two spares. It was a challenge. Those Continental tires have a thick stainless steel cable for a bead so it doesn't stretch at all. The lousy plastic tire levers that came with the patch kit were almost useless but I did eventually get the tire off on one side. The greater challenge was getting it back ON. Here, the levers just would not cut it so, contradicting the advice given by everyone and the orders on the tube box, I used a screwdriver to pry it back on. No harm done. It was the only way. When the tire popped back in was a high moment. I found a small, sharp piece of gravel that had been caught in the tread and worked its way through to the tube. I should have been more diligent in checking for such things.





When I left, there was a low, dark overcast, gloomy. Once again, Mary had directions problems. I asked just to confirm what I thought the way was, but she very confidently told me something else. When I said, "But I thought …," she corrected herself. She has a mildly autistic son so no doubt has more important things on her mind.




As the day went on, things got better or better, both the weather and the scenery. First, stop was a photo op at a long-name river gorge. The signs suggested you walk up-gorge to a bridge which gave a view directly down the very deep and narrow gorge. I went down-gorge to a viewpoint that let you actually see the waterfalls directly under the up-stream bridge.





Cycling was pleasant and scenic along a series of lochs and connecting streams, continuously from Muir of Ord to Ullapool, including a situation most strange. The first half of the morning I'm cycling upstream and the second half downstream. The water flow changed directions at the highest lock, which had streams flowing out of both ends. Beforehand, looking at the map I expected it to be all downstream to the sea. It was as pleasant cycling as there is with no steep upgrades and some wonderful long downhills on the latter half.





Stopping at the Aultguish Inn for tea and Danish, I celebrated a good set of tires. Leisurely and relaxing. Life is good.

I met a cyclist from Belgium who has been cycling since April and had several months to go. He suggested that I not bother going to John O'Groats! He recommended Cape Wrath instead, a side trip that I hope to be able to make. Obviously, he does not understand the importance of my finishing the route.



At Ullapool (above) I went directly to the TI and got good info about the road to Auchiltibuie, also the warning to call ahead for a room because "the situation is thin there." I called every B&B I could, was handed off from one to the other, and had just about given up when Mary King, artist, vegetarian and California refuge, had a room, bless her heart.

Then I called Dad and wished him a happy 96th birthday. He has been following my route - at least what he thinks is my route - on a map.

I asked around and got directions to a computer store where the guy was very helpful in trying to solve my data upload problem. He had a PowerMac at home but wasn't sure it was wired up. I probably could have worked something out except that there wasn't time. It was 4:30 and I needed to be at Mary's art gallery in time for dinner at a nearby pub. It was a sometimes hilly 26 miles.

The stretch out of Ullapool until the turnoff to Auchiltibuie was almost unrelentingly uphill into a stiff headwind…or sidewind which made the downhills treacherous if I let the speed build up. I hate to use brakes. That 9 miles took 70 minutes, but everything got better after turning off.

Well, almost everything. There was a fresh, loose layer of gravel for the first ½ mile. I envisioned new sharp gravel looking for weak spots in my tire again, plus the footing (tiring?) was unsteady as the gravel was so loose. If it had continued, it would have taken me forever.



Soon I was back on the old, solid surface and the cycling was great, the scenery spectacular as I cycled along Loch Lurgainn. Flowers were abundant, each one making me think of Ann, she loves flowers so. The yellow-flowered bush is called "broom," I learned from the lady at breakfast this morning. Lots of purple-ish flowers, what looked like foxglove, indeed was foxglove, growing wild along the road, and at least one group of heather in bloom.



I passed a lone lamb looking like a tourist . . . lost.

I got to the B&B about 7 pm but would been a good bit earlier except for stopping so much for the view and for photos. Mary's friend Alan showed me in and soon I was showered and off to the pub ¾ mile back the way I had come.

There was one table for four left which I took. Soon a couple came in looking for a vacant table and I offered the other half of mine. We had good dinner conversation. They were from SE England and had been in Auchiltibuie last year too, had bought one of Mary's paintings. At one point the lady asked whether my wife was a scientist too. I had told them nothing about me. I was impressed. More paranormal goings on. Everyone has heard of Little Rock, as they had, but often they cannot say in what context.

Back at Mary's I joined Alan, Mary and a couple of friends for tea and conversation. Very pleasant end to a pleasant day.

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Day 15      Wednesday 27 June 2001 -- Wind! Haze!

Achiltibuie - Durness

Woke up during the night and heard the wind. A portent.

Mary's vegetarian breakfast was great. Wonderful omelet, lots of cereal choices, fruits. No sacrifice there.

Alan was leaving to set prawn traps when I set out at 9:45. Off like a herd of turtles. The wind was a real nuisance, also because it made a hazy day, the scenery did not show its best face, but no rain. The vaunted scenery over to Lochinver was over-rated, though very worthwhile. It was fairly hilly but not too much to enjoy the view. But anytime I headed east, right in the face.

At Lochinver the first thing was to get a room at Durness. I don't know where the idea came from that no one is visiting Scotland because once again it took a long time to get a room. Of course, when I did finally get to Durness, there were lots of "Vacancy" signs. But I was not going to pedal 55 miles of hills without knowing that I had a room at the end. A good decision because I arrived late, tired and cold.

When I eventually succeeded, it was only after the nice lady, Joyce, said, "No, I'm afraid I have nothing." Then, "What am I saying?!! Yes, I have a single." It appears that "No" is automatic. Anyway, everyone was very helpful and offered additional phone numbers to try.

There is a nice "Bistro Café" in Lochinver where I enjoyed soup and bread (What else?), but felt in a hurry in order to get to Joyce's by 9 pm and have time to stop for dinner before, to avoid backtracking. This urgency was caused by the time it took to find a room. I also talked to a bike shop in Thurso about boxing my bike. They will have a box for me but I'll be on my own to box it. I can do that.

Although the haze took the edge off of the scenic effect, it was still a marvelous and memorable day. The ride over to the A894 from Lochinver was right into the stiff wind and then I was immediately greeted with a two mile steady uphill grind. Of course, there was a corresponding downhill glide to compensate. The prospect was so appealing that I stopped for a photo of the road leading down into the valley. It was one of the best downhills because it was not too steep, just seemed to go on forever. I have been averaging 10 mph in such up-and-down country even including photo stops of which there were many. The day had a surreal feel to it with the wind, haze, clouds and mountains.

I saw more people fly fishing today than all of the trip up to now. Sometimes in streams but often in small lochs in the high rolling plateaus typical of the north coast, a kind of hummocky landscape punctuated with lochs.

As the TI lady in Lochinver said, there was no place to stay on the A838 between Rhiconich and Durness, in fact no house even, or any kind of building at all. My kind of country.

The wind caused several mountains to have motionless hats of clouds. These were caused by the extreme updrafts when the air hit the mountain, rose up, cooled and condensed its water, then reversing the process on the way down the other side, warming up and evaporating. So the moisture in the clouds was always changing but the cloud maintained its shape and position. At ground level the wind was easily strong enough to produce whitecaps, meaning that it was at least 25 knots.

On the way to Joyce's I stopped at the Smoo Cave Hotel for dinner in Durness and had venison stew - good. As fate would have it, the bar-woman was Joyce's niece who I had talked to before ("No vacancy") and who had given me Joyce's number. She called Joyce and told her my situation, when I would probably arrive. Joyce's place was about a mile beyond the hotel.

Too bad - it's about 5 miles past the ferry that takes you across the mouth of the river to Cape Wrath. The road to the cape is another 11 or 12 miles so if I ride my bike, the whole trip is 35 miles. How badly do I want to go to Cape Wrath? It will depend on the weather tomorrow and how I feel.

After a quick shower - almost warm enough - I joined a group of Italians and a UK-er for tea and biscuits in the very comfortable living room. The Italians were here because one of them - a physician - was attending a meeting in Glasgow where a "famous" center for rehab surgery, which I had never heard of, was being closed. Being a physician, he dominated the conversation in a preening sort of way so that no one said boo to me, or hardly to anyone, until he retired. But the tea and cookies were great. Then his sister (good English) and her parents (no English) had a good talk about the usual topics: where we are going, where we've been, where we are from. I was pleased that I understood it when the mother asked me which part of the US I was from.

This was easily the most tiring day except the first day, the only other time that I was really tired at the end. The bed felt mighty good.

No chance to call Ann today. I hope she does not worry.



Our host, Johnnie, had just finished shearing sheep when I got there so I guess I know what he does for a living. The house is right on the beach, a real sand beach. Somewhere around, there must be the famous Smoo Caves.

Today, I learned the frustration of having to pedal downhill.

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Day 16      Thursday 28 June 2001 -- The north coast in sunshine: Perfection

Durness - Melvich

This is a gorgeous day with the wind behind me. How does the toast go:

"May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face…."

Well, you can skip the rising road part.


Long parting conversation with my hosts, Joyce and Johnnie. He wanted to know what I thought about Bush - the usual question. After I told him, he agreed. He volunteered that he thought Clinton had done well despite his personal foibles. In short, they were wonderful, warm, perceptive hosts. After leaving, I went back and they consented to having their photo taken. (Johnny looks a wee bit sleepy.) In turn they gave me one of their postcards showing their B&B and asked that I drop them a card from the US. I'll do that real soon.

A 55-mile day planned for today, a day as anticipated as any, except maybe for Day 1. I take it easy and enjoy the view to the max. And they were the max. First, there is Loch Eriboll itself, what the Norwegians would call a fjord, the deepest in the UK. When I start around it, I am 60 miles, straightline, from Duncansby Head. After an hour - halfway around - I am four miles farther away. Another hour and I am a whole ½ mile closer than when I started around the loch/fjord.

But it is worth it. Loch Eriboll affords many photo-worthy vistas. Not bad in the hill department either, pretty easy pedaling for the most part.

A major inspiration for my westerly route was Martin Wittram's account that he posted on the internet. In fact, I took a print-out of his text along with me - no small praise given my reluctance to carry an unnecessary gram. In my opinion his was the most interesting and literate account on the web, and I read everything I could find before starting. Far more than others, he writes about his non-biking experiences, making it more than an account of miles traveled, flats fixed, and rain endured.

In his account, when he arrived at Durness, he kept on going even though it was getting late, "Don't ask me why," he wrote. He stopped a few miles further at a B&B sign and became fascinated by his host, Dave, and his story. It was "the best evening of this trip," and encouraged others to stop for the night. I would have given it serious thought had I not already wilted when I got to Durness.

As I ride along the SW side of the loch, I try to figure out which of the four or five B&Bs would be Dave's. The first one seems to fit the description but is uninviting: the sign said, "Rooms by appointment only." Doesn't sound like the Dave that Martin described but the house is down close to the shore, which is what I remember. But I am not remembering well because the next one is "The Dawson House" and that is the name. I know because I looked it up. I feel better. Dave had not become a snob.

At the other side I have my usual soup and bread at Tongue, where I also phone Ann. She had spend a lot of time with TWA, finally finding a helpful agent. So now I have a phone number for TWA and the knowledge that presently there are 23 seats available on Monday's flight and similarly on Tuesday's. I have arranged for the bike shop in Thurso to have a largish box for me - my bike is a touring bike and is longer than most - so now I will try to reschedule my train so to arrive at London Euston at 7 am with boxed bike so maybe I can get to Gatwick and get on the standby list. This means, of course, that I will have to give up my shopping spree in Inverness on Monday - my original train had a long layover there. Sorry, Ann.

A little past Tongue I notice that the camera batteries are low. I am in danger of running out as I have only four left, which is what the camera takes, and the GPS will be needing a couple before getting to JoG. I certainly want a complete track for the trip, especially the first and last parts, else no one will believe I did it.

I stop at the first shop I come to. She doesn't have AA batteries but she does have lots of info and answers. "How can it be that there are not many visitors when it takes 45 minutes for me to find a room?" Because you are a single. "Why don't people want single roomers?" It's not worth the trouble. You still have to remake the room for half the income. "Why are all of the B&B managers women?" Because the men have fulltime jobs.

She suggests using my current hostess to find the next B&B. I had thought of this but figured it unlikely that they would know about places 70 miles away. In northern Scotland though, they might. This lady knows about both last nights B&B and the place I will stay tonight, although I don't think she knows the actual people. But she does know about a one-computer cybercafe in Thurso - Swanson's, I think, a take away on Prince Street. She is a fountain of information.

At Bettyhill, I get my batteries - Make a note: batteries purchased in remote stores will probably not last long - and apple pie with Orkney ice cream made only by a small outfit actually on Orkney, imagine that! It is very good. Also a pot of tea. The British do know how to make tea.

My hostess tonight is the cold, formal, efficient opposite of Joyce and Johnnie. This is a no-nonsense woman. Within two breaths, I am completely informed and settled in, an immaculate house inside and out, but I am afraid to comment on anything for fear of being pronounced "wrong." For the first time there is a breakfast order form to fill out. Not bad really because you have a choice. I order haddock and By Golly it is there the next morning. Good too.

Don't remember what I had for dinner at the pub across the highway, but afterward I had a long, interesting conversation with an English couple at another table. Amazingly, I can remember nothing of our conversation. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the bump on the head I got the next day when I am actually writing my journal. (More later on the bump.) But it was a good, long conversation. I'm sure brilliant things were said.

I do remember that for dessert I had ice cream with Drambuie. Terrific. The barman said, "I thought you would like that." What did he mean??!!!

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[Thurso] [The Trip Home]

Day 17      Friday 29 June 2001 -- The sound of one head bonging

Melvich - Duncansby Head - Thurso

The oddest day of the trip, with a bizarre finale that I'm still shaking my head over.

It started innocently enough. As has happened on several mornings I awoke to rain which ended about breakfast time. My mental preparations for riding in the rain were put aside, happily. The 15 mph wind was southerly so, given my easterly course, it was not much of a factor. The road was mostly gently rolling. All-in-all a fine day for cycling.

Very soon, I sew a rather large runway. In the US I would have called it a WWII airport because of its wide, concrete runways. Off to the east stands the control tower. Closer still and I see some objects on the runway…cars! There are parked cars on the runway! Do the planes know this?!! Whom should I notify?

The control tower is now a visitor's center for the Donnreay nuclear plant, an experimental fast reactor designed to use ordinary, abundant U-238. The old unused (obviously) runway is now the parking lot for the reactor workers.

Technically, the reactor was successful according to the exhibits but was turned off in 1994. The locals were not happy about that but - not to worry - there are many years' work involved in removing the waste and returning the site to its original condition.

I cannot get an answer as to why it was shut down beyond "a combination of things" and the suggestion that the government didn't want to fund it anymore. Probably its various problems had something to do with it, encouraging the antinuclear movement. There was leakage into the ground water and around the local castle, which much have been an absolute nightmare, politically and every other way. They had to replace the contaminated soil including that around and under the castle. There was also a chemical explosion in a well where wastes were being stored. Gazowee!

I made the mistake of telling them that I was a physicist so they would not spend a lot of time on the basics. Instead, I think they were intimidated into silence. When I asked questions about the history of the facility, the guide had a deer-in-headlights look and his lips were visibly quivering. It was a strained conversation to be sure.

According to the receptionist the locals are happy with the plant, and were from the beginning. They were clearly devastated at the announcement of its closing. It was one of those "Where were you when" kinds of things.

The terrain becomes flatter and fairly featureless as I continue towards Thurso, but not unattractive. I have always liked unusual topography in desolate areas (not that this is desolate, but it ain't London either). I cannot help feeling/knowing that there's nothing between me and the North Pole except water, frozen or otherwise. As I approach, I see Thurso's beach, said to be good for surfing (but not by me).

Thurso at noon, 25 min to visit the TI and to stop by the Wheels Cycle Shop to confirm that they have my box, then off for Duncansby Head.

Some cyclists have complained about the ritualistic need to cycle on out to JoG and Duncansby Head. Granted, it's not the most scenic part of Scotland, but still very nice and excellent cycling. If a one doesn't like to cycle, my suggestion is: don't do the E2E! For crying out loud.

Passing the turn-off to Dunnett Head, the northernmost point of the mainland, I decide to do that on the way back. With hindsight I should have done it first.

About halfway there, it begins to rain lightly so I cover up with my rain cape. The quartering headwind becomes more of a factor as the cape now acts like a sail. But it will be a tailwind on the return, right? The weather was odd. It hardly looked like it could rain at all. There are a few very light showers out at sea toward Orkney, plainly visible on my left.

With a couple miles to go, the road comes to a "tee" and I slavishly turned left toward JoG until I noticed the GPS pointing behind me. Checking the map, I see that sure enough the road to Duncansby Head jogs right so I turn around. It begins to rain a little harder. A half mile from the "head" the road turns left and the wind is at my back. I sit up straight to let the wind fill my sail. The wind and a slight downhill meant no pedaling. Suddenly, I saw it. Unbelievable.

Totally unexpected, a cattle guard appears in the road. The ones here have large spacing between the grates and are rough on a bike above 6 or 7 mph. I am going probably 20. I fumble for the brakes, hampered by the cape. Finally, getting my right hand free, I apply the rear brake, the one you don't want to apply alone, certainly not on a rain-slick asphalt road, newly finished, nice and smooth, slick. The wheel skids and - in slow motion it seems - I go down on my left side. Smart thinking: protect the derailleurs.

Physically, it happens in an instant. Mentally, a long sequence of thoughts rush through my mind. Mostly though, I just can not believe that this is happening only ½ mile from the End with 1100 accident-free miles behind me.

Then I hit the pavement. It is a six-point landing. Left knee (a really excellent raspberry), left hip pointer, elbow (slightly), shoulder (hard), knuckles of left hand (still firmly gripping handlebar), and head. My head bounces very nicely off of the pavement. The helmet does its job. Only a momentary headache. Not even dazed. Without the helmet I would be in the hospital for sure, or worse.

Time for assessment. Which first, bike or me? All of my parts seem to be working. Not much pain, which I take for a good sign. More importantly, my steed is undamaged except for some abrasion of its own, the lefthand barend shift lever.

On the ride out to Duncansby Head I had been working on the steely-eyed glint of all End-to-Enders as they near THE END. Now, that glint is gone. I wobble the last half mile to the Head, wondering what else the E2E gods have in mind for me.

Let's suppose that the final steep downhill and uphill were not prepared just for me; probably others have encountered the same. But how do you explain the sudden downpour that started in the last 1/10 mile? It rained with more intensity and the wind blew with more force than at anytime on the trip. Bruised and battered, and now wet and cold, any idea of looking for puffins - they would have to be within 20 feet to be visible - or taking a photo of the scene or of me at the finish - there is no one else there and it wasn't worth ruining my camera - is not even considered. I make a few mental notes of time, distance and total ascent, then mark the point on my GPS and head back.


Back at The Fall the rain stops as it begins to clear from the West. I turn and take a photo of Duncansby Head. I am wet, cold and depressed. My goal is to get warm, dry and feeling as good as 15 minutes earlier. This is not easy. I cycle right past the JoG post office with its post cards that I had intended to mail. Then down to the so-called town where a pot of tea does not help much. I call my vet-daughter, Sonya, to let the world know that I made it. She was at work and sounded busy.

What did help was to put on my rain jacket, get on the bike and pedal. Slowly, ,my physical and mental conditions improve. By the time I return to Thurso, everything is fine.

My room at the Waterside B&B is ready and it is available for both nights; when I called, they could give it to me for tonight only. The hostess suggested the library a couple blocks away for free internet instead of Sandra's Take-Away with a fee. The library's one internet terminal is fully reserved until 7:30 unless the 6:30 appointment doesn't show. I could use it until she comes, if she comes. Quickly, I send the same message to everyone on my trip list that I had set up before leaving Little Rock. Then, all too soon I am gently kicked off as the appointment has come.

Very nice but cheap (discount with B&B card) dinner at the Station Hotel, close to the train station of course. Back in my room, no journal writing as I lick my wounds and watch Wimbledon tennis.

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[Thurso] [The Trip Home]

Day 18      Saturday 30 June 2001 -- Bike boxing

Thurso

Spend the morning packing my bike. I have to cut the box down to size - they took me at my word that I needed a large box - and should have reduced it even more by taking the fender off. The box is clearly larger than the one I used coming over. Will it fit into a London cab? I mostly remembered all of the tricks Richard showed me when he packed it in Little Rock.

The afternoon is a time to look for a present for Ann, including a long hike to the Caithness Livestock Breeders (!!) building that is supposed to be The Place to buy woolens. It is closed.



On the way to get my tickets at the train station I hear bagpipes. The piper is standing outside of a church playing until bride arrives in a fancy antique car. The groom's fancy car was already there. The bride is the minister's daughter and the groom is Italian.

Good thing I got my tickets today, an arbitrary decision: the ticket office is not open tomorrow, it being Sunday and all.

Dinner at The Central Hotel where the seafood casserole was good but the most notable thing was the usual two guys at another table discussing the expanding universe. They left before I had a good opportunity to speak to them. I wondered what their angle was, where they got their information which, from what I could hear, was quite accurate.


Day 19      Sunday 1 July 2001 -- 200 years of Anglo-American relations ... shot to pieces

Thurso to somewhere between Glasgow and London

My B&B host gives me a ride to the train station, solving that problem, bless him, no payment accepted, thank you very much. So I am there 1.5 hours early and spend the time talking to a couple from near London about a 2-week hike they took from Ft. William to JoG. Very beautiful but no walk in the park. I can believe both.

I see them again at Inverness where we change trains to Glasgow, and where apparently I left my like-new Ultrex rain jacket in a café when I stopped for soup and bread. At least I cannot find it now as I wait for the sleeper to London. I hate that as much (or more) for the incompetence as for the actual loss.

Big surprise! When I arrive in Glasgow I find that I am at the wrong station for the London train. I'm at Queen Street station but my train leaves from Central Station. The good news is that I can quit worrying over whether my box will fit into a London cab because it fits (barely) into the Glasgow cab which the driver says is exactly the same.

While pushing by bike box around the station - it was a lot easier to push than carry - a young supercilious guy with his bike in a very small hard case with wheels came up and said, "Here's a better way to carry a bike." What cheek! I could have slugged him. Instead I said, " My bike would never fit in that case; it's a touring bike. Plus, it would have cost more than 100 pounds to store the case at Gatwick for three weeks, you SOB!" Except that I left off the last part.

On an up-note I gave up on being able to leave my albatross box at left luggage because they have lockers only…until a station-police looking guy said to take it there and the attendant would keep it. He even asked (told) another guy to help me with it and the guy said he would meet me back there at 10:30 with a trolley in time for my 11:15 train. He did, too.

This allowed me to eat at an actual restaurant. The most appealing item was lasagna, and it was only after pretty much finishing it that I realized that it contained beef and I had promised Ann that I would not eat beef. It was not all that good, either. My last real meal in the UK and I forgot.

The guy comes with a motorized trolley, for Pete's sake, and takes me right to the baggage car, which I would never have found on my own. Soon I am in my seat in the only sleeper coach where a young lady comes by putting seat reservation tags on each seat. She predicts that it will get ugly because there are always people who buy tickets without a seat reservation but all the seats are reserved. It is good, she says, that my card has my name on it, just to remove any doubts as to whose seat it is. I covet that card.

But one has to wonder about a train company that sells more seats than there are seats, especially one that leaves at 11:15 pm. The prediction that things will get ugly never materializes, to my knowledge and relief. I took a benedryl, fell asleep and snored so loudly that the guy next to me was gone when I woke up at Euston station. It was great.

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[Thurso] [The Trip Home]

Day 20      Monday 2 July 2001 -- Boxing the Bike redux

London - Little Rock

The day of truth! Will my bike box hold together? Will I get a seat on the plane? No and Yes.

True to my record of leaving things behind, I leave my water bottle and shortbread on the train. I was asleep when we arrived and claim that I was still in a daze. I do remember my bike, however.

Which did fit into the cab. At Victoria I just made the Gatwick Express so I was at the TWA counter by 8:20am. Since it was TWA, there was no one there and it went zip, zip, zip. Before I knew it, they were cutting the box open and removing the carefully packed bike to disinfect the tires! "Are you going to disinfect my feet, too?" then, "Don't require that this make sense, we just have to do it." It was all good natured. Then the bike and box are returned and I get to rebox the bike, not as well as before either. But at least I'm through lugging it around!

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Epilog

Who is nice and who is not

It's time to rate the cars and trucks and busses on how nice they are to cyclists.

#1 - The clear winner, the best, is the Ford Focus. The Vauxhall is a reasonably close second. Both always waited to pass until they could cross over to the other lane and pass properly.

As already mentioned, the absolute, hands-down worst was any blue panel van, full-sized. They had to be blue. I never saw one move over even an inch, and they never slowed down. Never.

Of course, everyone else was in-between. Volvos started out almost as bad as blue vans, but as I moved north, they became more like Mercedes, variable but mostly "fine," meaning that the center of the car is right of the centerline when passing me.

Tour busses were all over the place, with all of the intended double meaning. Two-thirds were fine, one-third not.

The actual worst was the small, no-paint truck that clipped my flag as it passed.