RSF - The Off Road Cycling Club

The Adventure Starts Here

1991

“When my legs hurt, I say: ‘Shut up legs! Do what I tell you to do!’” — Jens Voigt, German cyclist

 

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With the wire fence on my left I went on to the spot height marked 592m and on towards the Wayfarer's Memorial stone. As I approached the area of the Memorial there seemed to be more wire fences which tended to confuse the issue, and an area of young fir trees too recent to be marked on my map. I chose a spot at random and got on to the other side of the fence and came out close to the Memorial at 12.06p.m. and settled down for dinner. As I sat content with my lot, a middle-aged couple came along. They were from Belgium and they wanted to know if, indeed, someone was buried behind the memorial stone’s plaque.
Evening gentlemen, you plan ning to sleep here to-night?” asked a friendly police officer. The beam of his headlights had picked out our bikes leaning against a bus shelter on the Hay to Glasbury road; inside, Brian and I were brewing up. From the warmth of his patrol car he listened as we explained that we were cold and tired but enjoying some supper before continuing our night ride. As it was around 1.30 a.m. he looked somewhat amazed but conveyed his best wishes and roared away. For a few moments we were in a deeper darkness, exhaust fumes filled our shelter and lungs, then the soup boiled over.
All my life I had never been camping, not even in the garden at home. I did not know what to expect. My first idea of camping was getting drenched in a tent overnight and walking up feeling unpleasant and wet, and having very small meals. But I was wrong. On Friday afternoon my dad and I travelled down from Eccleston to Pandy and after a pleasant journey we finally reached the camp-site at about 3 p.m. The site was about a mile up a no-through road, next to the River Teirw. We were the first there, so we pitched our tent next to a small embankment covered in ferns.
I had set off at 6.00 a.m. on the Saturday, from a village called Heskin, which is near the Charnock Richard services on the M6 in Lancashire. I also remember the dash along the A6, through Preston, Lancaster, Miln- thorpe to Levens Hall. Here, I turned left to cross the Lyth valley. I was glad to turn right onto the A5074, for this road to Bowness was a lot quieter. Near Bowness I headed towards the ferry in order to cross Windermere. I rode past the stationary cars, all waiting for their turn to board the ferry, and went straight onboard.
A notice on the gate said “PRIVATE ROAD - no right of way to vehicles” and had a big padlock on it, so I lifted everything over and went on my way. After 27 miles, at Lochan nam Bo Riabhach I was expecting to plunge into the heather, but the estate road continued in both directions, much to my disgust, and continued to Glut Lodge (GR 009370). I stopped at a ford here, which had obviously been made for use while a new bridge was being built. I now turned right (north east) on another estate road, which was much rougher, with potholes, rocks and at times deep, loose gravel. 
In our wanderings with Rupert (our tandem) we have, like many ramblers and rough-stuffians had a number of incidents concerning bulls. Our first encounter with the bovine species happened when we were returning from a cycle tour of Donegal. We camped near Bush mills... at the bottom of the field were some cattle which the farmer had assured us were ‘quoiet baists’. I leaned Rupert on an old stone gate post behind us before we retired for the night. In the early hours Nellie woke me to say she had heard our bike bell ring

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