Pedalling, Pirates and Pals…

The old prison at Bodmin.

Having left London later than I intended, I found myself forced out of the train at Exeter due to track outages where a recent storm, the worst since ’62, had laid waste to a good section of rail. There was a bus replacement service for folk with ordinary luggage but I had to saddle up and ride the 18 miles to Newton Abbot where I intended to re-join the line to Bodmin and find my way to waiting friends. It seemed a simple plan, but I was about to land myself in a world of difficulty and danger, largely as a result of breaking a few of my own hard-learnt travel rules.

Don’t let the tank get below half full. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, it was 6pm and I was hungry.

Make hay (or miles) while the sun still shines. I jumped into a restaurant to refuel and wasted the last hour of light.

Time spent on maintenance is never wasted. I came out of the restaurant to find my bike lights, which run off a wheel hub generator, were not working. But rather than fix them, I carried on into the fading lights with just a headlamp and a torch on the handlebar.

Avoid the main roads. I went straight for the main highway, thinking it looked the simplest route.

Know the lay of the land. I had no idea the 18 miles went up a huge set of hills.

If all else fails, wait until dawn. (There are more but you’ll learn them later)

As I climbed and climbed at a painfully slow rate up into the hills, clueless as to when they might end, my headlamp inexplicably stopped working. Fresh batteries did nothing to amend this and I was reduced to a fading torch mounted on my handlebar that cast barely enough light to make out the road surface in front of me. I had no back light and was caught out on a long section of the main highway for the area with no shoulder. Cars roared up behind me at 70 or more miles an hour, briefly illuminating the road before streaking off into the distance while I tried desperately to hold a steady line and not weave in front of them while climbing at 5-6km/h and hoping the reflectors on my luggage bags would suffice. There were no other roads to turn off into, no going back. It had become a dangerous and exhausting ride. I should have given up, trudged to the nearest trees, set up the hammock and waited for dawn. But this was my first ride of Round 2 across Europe and I wanted to prove I still had it in me and could take on the hills. I had friends waiting for me and didn’t want to look like a failure by not reaching them that night. I told myself it couldn't be too much further even though I had no idea. So I got stubborn, stupid and just kept riding and praying I wouldn't get hit.

It wasn't the right call. Even when the climbing finally leveled out I couldn't move fast because my torch kept dimming and I couldn't see the road in front of me. It took 3 hours of frightening night-riding to reach Newton Abbot and I rushed to the train platform just in time to see the train I needed shut its doors and roll away into the night, laughing at me as it did so. It’s fair to say I had stuffed up Day 1 pretty badly, but I’m a lucky boy with some wonderful friends. Texts and calls went out and some caring parents of a man I’d met on a previous visit, flatmate to my waiting friends, came and fetched me from the railway station and took me into their home. I felt like a right chump but didn't say no to a hot plate of bacon and eggs on toast and a cup of tea to warm and relax me. It was a situation I've found myself in so many times before, jumping  from cold, exhausting danger to plush, effortless luxury within an hour, unable to get my head around the sudden transition, why I keep doing this to myself and how I keep getting out of it...

The earth reclaims the engine room of a long abandoned tin mine in Cornwall.

The dawn brought fresh energy, cold rain but clear sight and a chance to move again. I rode through some beautiful parts of Cornwall, hilly but lovely country and enjoyed being greeted by friends at the end of the day. More came down the following day from London for a mixed farewell as myself and others prepared to leave UK and head our separate ways, but it was great getting a weekend together first.

 

Visiting Kiwis joining the band at the Tubestation church in Polzeath.
Brought my banjo and harmonica into the mix.

The world famous Minnack Theatre created such a beautifully romantic atmosphere...

That this guy proposed!
We were happy to cheer and only one immature person spoiled it by calling out "EnGAAAYged."

I carried on riding through more challenging country and with some small assistance from a train, so as not to keep a host waiting, I ended up in Penzance. Yes, that’s where pirates come from! Well, not entirely, but they’re happy to milk it for tourism so I was happy to walk around believing by their accents that everyone was really a pirate, disguised as modern people to try and fool me.

The Admiral Benbow; a pub, not a ship.

But it looks and feels like you're in a ship.

Because these aren't props. All the decor has been salvaged from the many ships that have been wrecked upon Cornwall's rocks over the past few centuries. These figureheads crossed oceans on the prow of real ships, guided by ancient and unlucky men.

We're not so different, them and us...

I like to think these two down the bottom are old friends and just having a chat.

There’s a poorly named online community I have recently subscribed to called “Warm Showers”. It’s basically couch-surfing but for people who travel by bicycle. Through this site, I had tracked down a willing host in Penzance by the name of Justin Goode. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I found a warm, delicious meal waiting for me and a man who shared many of my passions. I couldn’t have hoped for a better host and we quickly became firm friends as he guided me around the area, we feasted like kings, made music by the fire, swapped stories and philosophies, laughed plenty and enjoyed a mutual respect and sense we shared much in our journeys through life. He gave my bike chain and sprocket such a thorough clean it changed both shape and colour (from clumpy black to a sleek, grey skeletal look) and we learnt a good deal about tin mining, saw fish, dehydration and a range of other obscure topics that can only come up when you both love to talk a lot.

Justin and his steed outside his home, once an old bible chapel, now a funky loft dwelling.

I was humbled by the power of nature as we toured of the coast around Penzance and the neighbouring towns, looking at the recent storm damage. Half tonne blocks of granite from the coastal walkway had been ripped up and thrown high over the adjacent retaining wall and 100 yards down the road, whole sections of ancient stone path were swallowed up, lamp shades ripped off the street lights and windows smashed and houses flooded all along the usually safe, high seafront. 10 metre wooden spars as thick as 2 men that usually protect the modest harbour of Mousehole in stormy weather had been ripped apart by the surging ocean and taken for joyrides, leaving them smashed upon the rocks. The storm had come on Valentine’s Day with gusts over 160km/h. The local council had responded admirably since and was working hard in a huge clean-up operation, but nothing of the kind had been seen in 50 years and they were coming to terms with damage previously inconceivable.

The storm grabbed the half tonne granite slabs from the walkway down here...

And threw them up over the wall and 100 yards down the road.
The council has since stacked them in a tidy pile.

All calm now after the storm. The swan agrees.

After 3 days richly spent, I said a heartfelt goodbye to Justin and rode for Falmouth. There, I had been instructed to contact some friends of friends who I hadn’t met before but our reputations had gone before us and it had been decided for us that we’d all make fast friends.  Again, I was the sudden recipient of unimaginably wonderful hospitality as I rode into town and met fellow motorcycle and adventure enthusiast Nathan Ball, a brother from another mother who chauffeured me for the next 2 days and a score of wonderful people, Sam, Liz, Phil, Hannah, the Selwoods (too many to name), Anders, who hosts one hell of a steak night and more great and fascinating people who made me feel like I’d always belonged with them, like there was a Scott-sized space they’d been looking forwards to filling and I was just the guy.

 

Steak Night at Ander's' house.
Not a great photo, but a great memory, great people, great night.

That was an unfamiliar but welcome experience for me. It wasn’t enough to derail me from my plans, however, and I had to say more heartfelt goodbyes this morning with more difficulty than I’m used to before rushing to Plymouth and boarding the ferry to Santander, northern Spain.

And that’s where I sit now, typing away while the ship lurches and smashes through the waves and stormy weather, somewhere in the Atlantic, off the west coast off France. It’s dark out and we’re a quarter of the way through a 24 hour journey. My bicycle will be straining against its ropes somewhere in the hold deep below while I’m enjoying the immense space available to me, up on the 9^th floor of the largest vehicle I’ve ever travelled in.

Scariest garden ever. After I took the photo, the one with the staff turned and looked right at me.

A little county parish along a near-forgotten road where I stopped to refill my water bottles.

Mousehole harbour. Aptly named because it's small.

Just an awesome house you wouldn't find in NZ.

Two people being walked by their dogs stop to sniff each other's bums.