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Land’s End to John O’Groats

Two swims (one at each end), one gear, no training!

I cycled from one end of the country to the other, with a swim at each end to raise money for the Broomhill Pool Trust.

I can’t remember when I agreed with a friend of mine that we would cycle from Land’s End to John o’Groats over the Easter holiday, but it seemed as if I suddenly found myself on a train to Penzance on a glorious Saturday morning at the start of April. I was hoping, perhaps rashly, to do it on my cobbled together single speed bike I ride to work on every day, and this daily commute constituted my only training, so it was with an air of apprehension that I orientated myself in bustling Penzance. Only one gear, and a ratio of 50x16 at that; just riding from here to Land’s End would surely test my resolve!

A dispiriting puncture early that morning on the way across London to Paddington hadn’t bolstered my confidence, but we arrived full of enthusiasm and sandwiches at Land’s End on a gloriously sunny afternoon. As part of my fundraising commitment I was obliged to have a swim. This proved more difficult than I had imagined and I had to walk quite some way north towards Sennon Cove to actually get down to the cold choppy waters for a brief and chilly dip.

First stop was Lizard Point, the most southerly point on mainland Britain, before we struck out towards Dartmoor. The unforgiving hills of the southwest lived up to their reputation and I had to resort to the single-speed equivalent of bottom gear (walking, or running) on several occasions. A glorious descent into Bristol delivered us onto gentler terrain and the old Severn Crossing took us to the charming Wye Valley, which we followed up to Herefordshire.

The border counties were a delight to cycle through, with rolling hills and bucketloads of rural pastoral enchantment. Almost imperceptibly we made our way into ‘the north’, the changing accents being more noticeable than the changing scenery. Through the industrial belt just east of Merseyside, then we felt as if we were set free into the Dales, but just as I was revelling in the undulating moorland of the Forest of Bowland, my frame cracked, at the base of the seat tube, just above the bottom bracket. All those vigorous hill attacks, legs and arms straining, had taken their toll on my old steel frame and I thought it was all over. I couldn’t pedal as every push of the crank opened the crack wider. It wasn’t all the way round the tube so I thought maybe if I could get it to a garage they might be able to weld it. Unfortunately this was one of the remotest sections of the whole trip so I had to walk and coast the best part of ten miles, my companion John patiently waiting at the tops of hills, to the village of High Bentham, where the owner of the local garage very kindly agreed to weld it for a fiver! Worried that the improvised repair wouldn’t hold, and acutely aware that we weren’t even half way to John o’Groats, we continued northwards.

We skirted Carlisle and the Solway Firth, but as we crossed Galloway I hit a pothole on another remote stretch of road and, would you believe it, my right chainstay completely snapped. Now the bike was unrideable because the back wheel simply twisted into the frame and ground to a halt. Fortunately John, in a stroke of genius, had brought a cable tie. The break was at an angle and just behind the bottom bracket, so I was able to secure the cable tie around both chainstays just in front of the back wheel thus holding the broken one in position. A large piece of pine bark from the side of the road served to stop the cable tie slipping forwards with the tapering of the chainstays, and this nifty if rudimentary repair seemed to hold the rear end of the frame and hence the back wheel reasonably secure. At the moment of this second disaster any slender hope that I might actually make it to John o’Groats had evaporated; but assuming that this new break could also be welded, my improvised repair gave me a new if yet slimmer hope. The only problem was that it was Sunday and we were heading to the west coast and the sleepy Isle of Arran.

By some miracle, the plastic cable tie and strip of pine bark got me through the rest of the day and the first few hours of the following morning. This was around 60 miles, although I did have to walk up a lot of hills. I found a garage in the village of Tarbert, back on the mainland at the north end of the Kintyre peninsula. Once again I was extremely grateful to the garage owner who had a go at welding my frame back together, and while it now looked pretty horrific he reckoned it would get me there. Trying to muster faith in my tortured bicycle I got going on Scotland’s hills, listening and looking for telltale signs of further frame failure as I went!

We now took a spectacular route up through the West Highlands, across Rannoch Moor and down through Glencoe - absolutely breathtaking in the afternoon sun. The Great Glen provided a route through the highlands, across Scotland effectively, past Loch Ness, and we emerged on the east coast at the Moray Firth. The final section up the dreaded A9 took us along a stunning but harsh piece of coastline, at the mercy of the north-easterly wind and, on this occasion, the unforgiving sun.

On Good Friday we arrived in John o’Groats, where we completed the official journey, and I had a quick swim near the harbour wall. (Was it me or was the sea even colder than it had been at the other end of Britain?) However, Duncansby Head felt more like the true end, with its amazing rugged seabird cliffs, and views of the jagged stacks, again battered by the relentless wind. With the wind behind us now, we just had time (before catching our southbound train from Thurso) for a detour to Dunnet Head. This conspicuous promontory is mainland Britain’s most northerly point, and another spectacular spot; truly awe inspiring in the dazzling sunshine and perpetual wind. It is at least as exposed as Duncansby head on account of its high peak that drops rapidly down to sheer cliffs, which themselves tower over the foaming rocks below; a fitting finale indeed, but I’m glad I didn’t propose a swim here!

This mammoth trip was purely for the fun of it. We took two weeks and ensured we didn’t pedal head down past everything our island nation has to offer. We enjoyed the splendour of nature, time with friends and family, myriad sights of interest and countless beautiful landscapes, not to mention a whole host of notable flora and fauna. We also sampled local delicacies in every county along the way, from pasties in Cornwall, and cream teas in Devon, through assorted cheeses and homemade Lancashire hotpot, to black pudding, haggis and whisky in Scotland. However, without any support vehicles the basic daily rations consisted of spaghetti and pesto, and this led to the inevitable ‘spaghetti challenge’ near the end of the trip: to eat (each) a whole pack of spaghetti and a whole jar of pesto at one sitting!

This ‘end to end’ journey is a unique way to experience Britain. We saw the landscape, people and weather change in a way you can only appreciate on a bike. I would recommend it to anyone, young or old, rich or poor, whether on a racer, town bike, mountain bike, fixie, tandem or whatever. It’s truly an experience of a lifetime.

Part of this adventure was to raise money for the Broomhill Pool in Ipswich. The Broomhill Pool Trust is working to re-open a much loved grade II listed lido in Ipswich.

To find out more visit www.savebroomhillpool.org

 

It is a crucial time for the Broomhill Pool Trust as they work with potential operators and the council to ensure that Suffolk’s biggest lido is resurrected as the much loved and inspirational facility it once was. Any donations will be gratefully received and will be a big help to the Trust in their valuable work. 

 

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