Pedalling Into the Drizzle: The Long Way Up
1,279 Kilometres – 29 Days
5 May - 7 June 2007
FLIP-BOOK
VOICEOVER
Cape
Town, South Africa – London, United Kingdom – The Preparation
Back
in Cape Town, I phoned several SAA offices to ask about flying with a bicycle.
The answer was always the same: the bike had to go as part of my checked
luggage. Judging by the quoted prices, I braced myself for an eye-watering
bill. My essentials weighed 25 kg, and so did the bike. I arrived at the
check-in counter with my bank card clutched in my hand, and almost laughed with
relief when it turned out to be a one-off charge, far less than expected. What
a weight off my mind.
Touchdown
in the Land of Footpaths
The
plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac in London at 6:30 a.m. Stiff, puffy-eyed, and
slightly dazed after a 12-hour flight, I was met by my friend Ed, whom I’d met
during the Tour d’Afrique ride. As it was still early, we had time to explore
the Chelmsford area where he lived.
A
much-needed walk took us through a pleasant, wooded area. I was surprised to
find such greenery on an island with such a high population density. In the
days that followed, I would discover that, despite being heavily populated,
Britain is threaded with more walking paths than anywhere I’ve ever been.
Later,
we ventured into the village to find a cycling map. I assumed it would be easy
find in a country so fond of hiking and cycling. Not so. We left empty-handed.
Into
the Drizzle: First Pedals North
In
any new country, I’m always impatient to get going; still, it was after midday
when we finally pedalled out of Chelmsford. Ed kindly rode with me, leading the
way along a rural path through Maldon, famous for Maldon Sea Salt. I was more
intrigued to learn that Maldon was the starting point for canalising two rivers
that led all the way to Chelmsford, a project that started back in 1797. It was
my first real hint that this trip north would be full of unexpected
discoveries.
We
continued through the historic market town of Colchester, which proudly claims
to be the oldest recorded town in Britain and the first Roman capital after the
AD 43 conquest. Despite it being May, the weather was wintry, and it rained the
entire day. The endless drizzle, however, made the countryside impossibly green
and picturesque.
The
villages we passed seemed stuck in time: streets of double-storey,
semi-detached red‑brick houses that looked as if they’d been plucked from a
children’s storybook. As a cyclist, it felt like riding through a dream, a
complete contrast to the open, dusty spaces of Africa.
We
scanned every shop for the elusive Sustrans cycling maps I’d seen online and
naively assumed would be on every corner. No such luck. We finally camped near
East Bergholt, between Colchester and Ipswich, and I realised there would be no
racing through such a beautiful, historic country.
Lost
Paths and Beauty Found
We
left East Bergholt shortly after 9:30, heading to Woodbridge via Ipswich. Our
route threaded through a stunning patchwork of woodlands, estuaries, rivers,
farmlands, mudflats, and heathland.
At
Woodbridge, we finally unearthed a cycling map. Ironically, it only added to
our confusion. It showed every tiny farm lane, and we were constantly unsure if
we were on the right road. Half the day was spent stopping, squinting at the
map, and turning circles. Progress was slow.
Towards
evening, we pointed our wheels towards Leiston, where the map indicated a
campsite. On arrival, we discovered that the caravan park didn’t allow tents.
The place was huge and deserted, but rules were rules. It still felt absurd to
be turned away with so much empty space.
We
moved on from Leiston through scenery so beautiful it was easy to see why this
coastline is part of an “Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty”. Village after
village tempted us to stop and explore. Riding straight through without
dawdling was nearly impossible.
The
weather was marginally better than the day before but still bitingly cold. It
rained all night but mercifully stayed dry during the ride. By evening, we’d
found a private campsite on a farm for a pittance—far better value than the
caravan park, even without a shower.
Ghost
Stories, Curry Chips, and Cold Winds
It
dawned overcast but clear and a quiet country road led us to Walberswick and
Southwold, two ancient villages on the River Blyth. The beaches are somewhat
stoney and some buildings were built from beach-gathered stone. We wandered
around, soaked up the atmosphere, and sampled the local brew before moving on
to Lowestoft.
At
least we didn’t meet Walberswick’s ghostly coach, supposedly drawn by headless
horses and driven by the murdered Tobias Gill, hanged here in the 18th century.
Lunch
was French fries drowned in curry sauce—apparently a local favourite and, to my
surprise, absolutely delicious.
By
late afternoon, we reached Corton, just as the drizzle began again. The weather
felt endless and grim. I wore every piece of clothing I owned and still felt
chilled. The saving grace was the abundance of cosy pubs, always warmer and
more cheerful than huddling in a damp tent.
Campsites
were a mixed bag. Some had manicured lawns, spotless toilets, and hot showers;
others were little more than a field with a basic bathroom. The prices
reflected the facilities.
Riding
the Fast‑Eroding
Coast
Being
May, the days were blissfully long, and it stayed light until around 9:30 p.m.
At least there was no frantic rushing to pitch a tent before darkness fell.
From
Corton, we drifted along the North Sea coast, stopping in Great Yarmouth where
I found an internet café. A cone of French fries in the town square powered us
all the way to Cromer, perched on a fast‑eroding coastline. Despite this,
Cromer remained a pretty seaside town with a lovely seafront, a pier, and a
lighthouse.
Cycling
in the UK was very different from Africa. In Africa, a loaded touring bike is
an event. Children run across fields to wave or beg, adults stare and ask
endless questions, and no one quite understands why you’d ride a bicycle
without being paid. In Britain, you’re just one more cyclist among many. No one
bats an eyelid.
We
stayed at an expensive campsite where the showers felt like a long walk away.
It started drizzling again, though we were at least able to get a hot cup of
soup and a bread roll down before the real rain set in. It poured all night.
Castles,
Estates, and Endless Rain
We
set off from Cromer in a drizzle that simply never stopped. Our first
destination was a station where Eddie planned to catch a train home, but on the
way, he changed his mind and rode on to Norwich instead, as it had better
connections.
After
saying goodbye, I aimed my wheels at King’s Lynn. Somewhere along the route, I
finally got my hands on a Sustrans map (Route 1, Harwich to Hull), and it
instantly made life easier.
The
rest of the day, I cycled past magnificent estates, crumbling castles, and
striking churches, all with histories stretching back centuries. The route was
well‑marked, the scenery glorious, and I had an excellent ride despite an
annoying problem with my gears constantly slipping.
Gears
Fixed, Spirits Lifted
The
campsite at Sandringham was pricey but well‑equipped, with laundry and a shop.
I took full advantage, which meant I only left quite late.
From
there it was a short hop to King’s Lynn, a substantial town with everything a
cyclist might want, including a bike shop where they finally sorted out my
gears. I also bought an odometer and a mobile phone. I briefly considered
staying at the hostel, but it was closed.
With
daylight stretching to 9:30 p.m., I still had plenty of time and pushed on to
St John’s Fen End, which had a lovely campsite complete with bar and
restaurant.
A
Hotel Surrender
One
of the first things I noticed in this part of the UK was the sheer number of
piercings and tattoos. It felt like everyone had six nose rings, and there I
was, feeling positively old‑fashioned with just one.
The
UK struck me as an endlessly fascinating mix of people. On the way to Boston,
Ed surprised me by driving all the way from Chelmsford to meet me. We had lunch
together before he turned back.
It
amused me how few people made eye contact on the street. Yet when Ed asked
around for a cyclist with panniers, they could tell him my exact time of
arrival and departure. There was clearly a bit of pretending‑not‑to‑notice
going on. LOL.
Soon
after he left, the skies opened and the rain came sheeting down. I gave in to
the lure of warmth and booked into a hotel at a painful price. It’s astonishing
what one is willing to pay when it’s wet and cold.
Boston
charmed me, not just with its long history but also with its position on the
Prime Meridian.
A
Flying Rack and a Boat Shop Rescue
The
next morning I reluctantly left my snug room. The rate was too high to justify
another night, so I pointed my bike towards Woodhall Spa, only about 20 miles
away.
Mid‑morning,
my rear rack gave way and my tent, sleeping bag, and panniers catapulted into
the road. Fortunately, it happened right in front of a boat shop. The helpful
owner reattached everything and tightened the screws so well that, fifteen
years later at the time of writing, that rack was still holding firm.
The
rest of the day was pleasant riding across the Fens and along rivers lined with
large boathouses. I quickly learned that British weather is almost impossible
to predict. One moment the sun shone, the next I was diving for cover from a
passing shower.
Woodhall
Spa turned out to be something of a misnomer—no spa in sight, just a few
dilapidated buildings. A cold north wind blew in a steady drizzle, and I
decided it was a sign to take a rest day.
Sadly,
the weather scuppered my plans to explore The Viking Way, a 237‑kilometre long‑distance
footpath that passes through Woodhall Spa.
Wrong
Turns and the Humber Bridge Rising
A
missing road sign sent me the wrong way until a kind passerby stopped to tell
me I was heading off course—proof that people do, in fact, notice you, even if
they don’t always make eye contact.
It
was also the first day I encountered any real hills in the UK. Unfortunately,
the weather was once again dreadful, and I didn’t spot a single campsite along
the way. I pushed on to Barton‑upon‑Humber, on the Humber River, dominated by
the 2.22-kilometre single-span Humber Bridge, an impressive sight.
It
was also the first day I shared a campsite with other cyclists. Despite the
gloomy skies, it turned into a memorable day in the saddle.
Mapless
Again on the East Coast
The
Humber Bridge is even more imposing up close. Peering over the edge gave me a
touch of vertigo. Once across, a nearby café provided coffee and muffins, which
helped.
Reaching
Hull also meant reaching the end of my precious cycling map. Navigation quickly
became frustrating again. Finding decent cycling maps in the UK turned out to
be much harder than I’d anticipated.
In
the end, I rode on trust and a vague sense of direction to the seaside town of
Hornsea, which offered little more than a seafront promenade and the ancient
church of St Nicholas.
After
only 48 km a campsite outside town gave me a place to pitch my tent and at
least sheltered me from the unrelenting, miserable weather.
A
New Map and an Accent I Couldn’t Decipher
After
the frustrations of the previous day, this one went much better. A shop in
Hornsea produced an excellent cycling map, and my spirits soared.
My
first stop was the charming market town of Beverley, where I grabbed a few
photos of the impressive Anglican church, built around the tomb of a Bishop of
York who founded the original monastery.
Cycling
into Malton felt like riding into the Arctic. At the sight of a B&B, I
caved in and checked into a room above a ground-floor pub. The locals in the
bar were friendly and quickly invited me to join them for a beer.
The
only problem was that their regional accent was so strong I barely understood a
word. After a while, I finished my drink and retreated to a quieter restaurant
in the town square, where no conversation was required.
It
felt faintly absurd to be in the home of the English language and yet find the
English almost incomprehensible.
ATM
Drama and Moorland Calm
I
didn’t leave pretty Malton until after midday. I’d finally found an internet
café, and then an ATM swallowed my bank card. Untangling that little drama ate
up most of the morning.
When
I did get going, my chosen route wound through timeless stone villages and over
high moorlands laced with rivers and valleys. I was in no mood for detours and
called it a day at Boroughbridge, a small settlement with an old well and a
main street lined with familiar terraced houses under red‑tiled roofs.
Devil’s
Arrows and a Brutal Headwind
My
first stop of the day was the famous three standing stones known as Devil’s
Arrows, recognised for their historical and cultural significance. They’re
believed to have once formed a row of five; the fourth was reportedly broken up
in 1582 to build the bridge over the River Tutt, and the fifth has simply
vanished into history.
Dating
from the early Bronze Age, more than 4,000 years ago, the stones may have been
used for astronomical alignment or by Bronze Age sun‑worshippers.
The
day began promisingly enough, but the stretch between Boroughbridge and Leyburn
turned into the toughest of the trip. A ferocious headwind tossed me around the
road; I had to pedal hard even downhill in my smallest gear.
At
the first sign of a campsite, I surrendered, especially as the next one was
much farther than I was willing to go. It turned out to be a blessing in
disguise, giving me time to tackle the never-ending laundry.
I’d
never imagined cycling in the UK could be this challenging.
Castles,
Coffee, and Kindness in Teesdale
Leaving
Leyburn, I found myself in a particularly beautiful part of the country, and
for once, the weather cooperated. No wind, no rain—just a calm, pleasant day.
I
stopped in Richmond, home to a magnificent Norman castle whose construction
began in the 1070s. After exploring its walls and views, I continued towards
Barnard Castle, another medieval fortress built between 1095 and 1125.
My
goal for the day was Teesdale, a typical British market town with a central
square and terraced houses flanking the main street. To my delight, the village
even had a campsite. The caretakers greeted me warmly, offered me coffee while
I pitched my tent, and their kindness was the perfect ending to an already good
day.
Over
the Pennines: A Day of 20% Pain
Although
the sun finally decided to show its face, the riding was extremely tough. The
road to Chollerford crossed the North Pennines, with brutal 20% gradients.
The
landscape, however, was magical: rolling heather moors, deep valleys, tumbling
rivers, hay meadows, and ancient stone villages. Progress was painfully slow. A
few of the steepest hills forced me to dismount and push.
The
road seemed determined to climb out of each valley only to plunge straight into
another. Eventually I reached Hadrian’s Wall, which I’d always imagined marked
the Scottish border. It doesn’t.
A
fellow cyclist pointed me towards a nearby campsite used by many hikers on the
Hadrian’s Wall route. The sheer number of long-distance trails in Britain made
me itch to trade my bike for hiking boots.
I
discovered I was now firmly on the Pennine Way, Britain’s best-known and most
demanding long-distance footpath.
Sun
at Last and a Change of Plans
In
glorious weather, I rolled out of Chollerford and soon reached a decision
point: head west or turn east. The original plan was to go to Glasgow to visit
my friend Esther, making the west the obvious choice. But the idea of exploring
the East Coast tempted me.
Before
I could commit either way, Ed tracked me down again, turning it into a short
riding day. We pitched our tents at Bellingham, a favourite stop for Pennine
Way hikers and cyclists alike.
Castles,
Coastlines, and Crossing into Scotland
With
Ed now travelling by car, it made little sense for me to pedal alongside, so we
loaded my bike onto the roof rack.
The
UK is a treasure chest of castles, and we passed and visited several, each one
more imposing than the last. Eventually, we crossed into Scotland, and I was
blown away by its beauty—dramatic coastline, rugged hills, and a moodiness all of
its own.
By
evening, we reached North Berwick and checked into a comfortable B&B. The
town charmed me immediately with its old stone buildings, narrow lanes, and
rich history.
Stone
Streets and a Warm Welcome in Glasgow
Late
the next morning, we left lovely North Berwick and drove to Glasgow, where my
friend Esther lives. Ed dropped me off at her apartment and then headed back to
Chelmsford.
Seeing
Esther again was wonderful. She was her usual warm, chatty self, and we spent
the entire next day talking. That evening, I got my first taste of Glasgow
nightlife: a lively pub, good beer, and plenty of people‑watching.
A
Pub, a Plan, and the West Highland Way
Somewhere
between beers, we decided to hike the West Highland Way. Esther has a habit of
owning at least three of everything, which made gearing up laughably easy. She
produced spare backpacks, sleeping bags, and all the camping gear we could
possibly need.
We
packed our bags with tents, sleeping bags, food, a stove, pots, and the rest of
the essentials. The West Highland Way runs for 95 miles (153.8 km) and was
Scotland’s first official long-distance footpath, threading through some of the
country’s most dramatic landscapes.
I
was buzzing with excitement and felt genuinely privileged to set foot on such a
famous trail.
Into
the Highlands with Packs Too Big
Early
in the morning, we caught a train to Milngavie, just four stops from Esther’s
place. To my amazement, half the train seemed to get off there, all clearly
intending to walk the West Highland Way.
I
hadn’t expected such a crowd, nor that nearly all of them would be carrying
only small daypacks. Meanwhile, our backpacks looked like we were heading for
an unsupported expedition.
The
first day’s walk was a gentle 12-mile meander from Milngavie to Drymen, along a
broad, well-marked path with virtually no risk of getting lost. We began
through beautiful deciduous woodland, crossing streams and skirting little
villages. Halfway, we ducked into a pub for lunch and a beer.
That
night, we camped on a farm about a mile before Drymen. Fortunately, it had a
cooking shelter—very handy when the heavens opened just as we arrived.
Conic
Hill and the Shores of Loch Lomond
We left
Drymen with a pleasant stroll through woods before the path delivered us to
Conic Hill—our first proper taste of the Highlands.
On
the way to Balmaha, we did what was fast becoming a habit: stopped for lunch
and a beer. From Balmaha, the route followed the shores of the legendary Loch
Lomond, and I could hardly contain my excitement.
The
views across the loch to the surrounding mountains were outstanding. The trail
took us past Ben Lomond and through ancient oak woodlands, every turn revealing
another picture‑postcard scene.
By
day’s end and 22km later, we emerged at Rowardennan, exactly where we hoped to
be. There was a hotel, a hostel, and wild camping. Esther chose the hostel, and
it felt like utter luxury: warm, dry, and comfortable.
Wild
Goats, Rob Roy, and a Night of Singing
Leaving
the hostel, we hoisted our backpacks and immediately felt their brutal weight.
Esther has a gift for packing the entire house plus the proverbial kitchen
sink.
The
young man at reception stared at her pack and asked if she knew about the
luggage transport service. Only then did we discover that hikers routinely send
their packs ahead by van.
It
took almost no persuasion. We handed over our bags and walked off carrying only
small plastic bags with snacks and daily essentials. Other hikers, used to
seeing us groaning under giant packs, stared in disbelief as we sauntered past.
Once
again, the trail hugged Loch Lomond’s shore through natural oak woods. I even
spotted wild goats clambering about the rocks. The area is steeped in stories
of Rob Roy MacGregor; there are so many tales it’s hard to know which are true.
The
path was hillier than in previous days, and I was very glad we weren’t hauling
full packs. We camped at Beinglas Farm, 22 km down the drag, which had a great
bar/restaurant and a cooking shelter—a blessing in the foul weather.
Later,
we walked across the river to a bar believed to be more than 300 years old.
Inside, a roaring fire and a massive wooden table set the scene for a memorable
night of singing and far too many glasses of red wine with other hikers.
We
had such a good time that I left my wallet in the pub.
Lost
Wallet, Found Bluebells
The
next morning, heart pounding, I dashed back to the pub—and there was my wallet,
still waiting. What a relief. By then, everyone knew the South African had lost
her purse, which was a bit mortifying.
With
the wallet safely recovered, we followed the route along the River Falloch past
dramatic gorges, waterfalls, and rapids. Eventually, we joined an 18th-century
military road, now little more than a narrow track.
The
hills wore a soft blue-purple hue and were carpeted with bluebells, making the
views even more spectacular. The trail passed “the King’s Field”, where legend
says Robert the Bruce was defeated by the MacDougall in 1306.
The
beauty of the day was only slightly marred by the arrival of the dreaded
midges—tiny, more vicious than mosquitoes, and seemingly everywhere. Esther,
walking in short sleeves, was soon covered in bites. They got into our hair,
ears, and even up our noses.
We
trudged on to Tyndrum and camped at a place called “By the Way”. In the
village’s famous Green Welly Shop, which stocks everything from food to hiking
gear, we finally bought ourselves small proper daypacks. Walking with plastic
shopping bags was not ideal.
Across
Rannoch Moor to the Shadow of Glen Coe
There
were two possible routes to Kingshouse, and local advice was unanimous: take
the longer one. The alternative was steeper and rougher, and you don’t argue
with people who know the hills.
Though
it was a long day (32 km), the path was mostly flat, weaving through forestry
plantations that were muddy in places. I finally understood why proper hiking
boots beat running shoes on this terrain.
We
crossed Rannoch Moor, which rewarded us with sweeping views of distant lochs
and numerous Munros (mountains over 3,000 feet). Descending towards Kingshouse,
the dramatic peaks of Glen Coe and Glen Etive rose around us. I could easily
imagine fantastic skiing and rock climbing here in winter.
We
camped wild at Kingshouse, where there were no facilities, and spent as much of
the evening as possible tucked into the warmth of the pub.
The
Devil’s Staircase and a Perfect Highland Day
A
relatively short walk (12km) took us to Kinlochleven through a landscape
crowded with some of Scotland’s most impressive peaks. It made me wish I were a
climber.
We
followed another stretch of old military road, climbing to the highest point of
the West Highland Way via the Devil’s Staircase. For once, the sun shone all
day, and the views were nothing short of magnificent.
In
Kinlochleven, we pitched our tents at MacDonald’s campsite. The village itself
looked as if it had been designed for a postcard and boasted a large indoor ice‑climbing
centre.
Beer
in a Ruin and the Final Miles
The
path climbed steeply out of Kinlochleven through woodland, rejoining the old
military road. In true Esther style, she’d packed a beer, which we enjoyed at
an old ruin. By then, the other hikers probably thought we were slightly mad—we
were forever stopping, laughing, and appearing suspiciously cheerful.
On
reaching Fort William, we didn’t, like most, head straight for the campsite.
Instead, we wandered through town in our hiking gear, searching for pizza and
beer.
Into
the Cloud: A Wet Climb to the Summit
The
next morning, we lingered in bed until about 9:30 a.m. The weather was awful,
and it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for climbing a mountain when the rain is
already drumming on your tent.
Eventually,
cabin fever won. We pulled on wet-weather gear and set off to tackle Ben Nevis,
Scotland’s highest peak. The trail starts at the Visitor Centre, and on such a
gloomy day, it was almost deserted. We saw no other hikers, which didn’t
surprise us.
The
fog hung low, and a fine, constant drizzle made for a rather joyless climb. The
path itself was less steep than I’d imagined, and I was struck by how quickly
the scenery changed from green, rolling slopes to a stark, rocky landscape.
On
the summit, even in mid‑summer, we found a large field of snow. We took a few
quick photos, shivered, and turned around, hurrying back to lower ground.
Seven
hours after starting, we walked straight into a cosy pub and celebrated with
hot food and cold beer. Mission accomplished.
Drying
Out and Dreaming of Ireland – Glasgow
After
our West Highland Way adventure, we returned to Glasgow and started plotting
the next one: a two-week cycle tour in Ireland.
Although
Esther already owned a bicycle, it had clearly not seen much action recently
and needed more than a squirt of WD-40. Once it had been properly serviced and
we’d found her a set of panniers, we loaded our bikes and were ready.
Esther
vs. Silver: The Toppling Begins – Glasgow, Scotland – Belfast, Ireland
Getting
to Ireland involved cycling from Esther’s house to Glasgow Central Station to
catch a train to Stranraer. That’s where the comedy started.
Esther,
unused to riding with panniers, toppled over—not once, but three times—between
the apartment and the station. I kept turning around to find her lying on the
ground, bike on top of her, legs waving in the air like an upended beetle.
To
make matters worse, all of this took place in peak-hour traffic. Unfazed by the
stares, she simply got up, dusted herself off, met their eyes, and announced
cheerfully, “Take three!”
From
Stranraer, the ferry carried us across the North Channel to Belfast, arriving
around 16:30—another busy time of day—and, right on cue, Esther managed one
more spectacular topple.
The
problem wasn’t so much falling off as falling over. Her bike was too big, the
top tube too high, and her legs too short to swing safely over it, especially
with loaded panniers.
We
laughed so hard tears were running down our faces, but somehow still managed to
ride the six kilometres north of the city to our campsite. By evening, she had
christened her bike “Silver”, as it bucked and kicked like a stubborn horse,
clearly not yet convinced about touring Ireland.
