Day
2

PERRANPORTH

TO

LAUNCESTON

The next morning the weather was glorious. The view from the hostel wasn’t bad either. Below us the golden sand of Perranporth beach stretched away to the sea. Farther out at the western horizon was a large ship, seemingly motionless, at the point where the aqua blue sea met the cloudless azure sky. Gulls swooped and wheeled on the cliff faces, calling insistently to each other. Waves crashed rhythmically onto the rocks below and then lapped gently onto the beach. The smell of salt blew off the sea.

We sat in the tiny garden on the cliff top, sipping a cup of tea and playing ‘fetch the twig’ (we couldn’t find a stick) with Roxy, the hostel’s resident Jack Russell. Every time we threw the twig she charged after it at top speed, usually overshooting it by a few feet before skidding to a halt, wheeling about and then returning it triumphantly to our feet. She would then run about in small circles, beside herself with excitement, until the exercise was repeated. I loved her exuberance; Roxy was a creature that knew the only thing to do with life was to grab it by the scruff of the neck and give it a good shake. When we, somewhat regretfully and stiffly, mounted our bikes and set off, Roxy came down to the gate and gave her bottom a good wiggle in farewell. We waved her goodbye and headed off up the coast towards Newquay.

After agreeing to embark on this journey, I had quickly realised that I would have to undertake the route planning if we were going to get any done at all. Mick seems to think planning a route is completely unnecessary. I suspect he views it as some kind of personal failing, verging on cheating, if he has to consult a map during the course of a journey. His ‘method’ is to decide on a destination, head off in that general direction and hope he ends up roughly where he intended.

I had discovered this while walking with him in the Lake District. I foolishly assumed that, as Mick had been there many times before and I had not, he would be equipped with maps for the walks we were going to do. Not so. Too late, I discovered he had not brought one map with us. Instead he would start each walk by climbing the nearest hill, then look about, decide on the direction of the intended destination and then strike out, often ignoring footpaths altogether. On one memorable occasion, a mist descended and we spent many miserable hours walking around in circles under the towering bulk of Scafell Pike, before finally working out the way back to the campsite. As someone who can barely go to the shops without a map for reassurance, I found this very disconcerting.

‘Don’t you ever get bored of looking at maps?’ Mick asked one day when I had spent an hour studying a new purchase, a 1:25,000 map of the Mendip Hills.

‘No, I can look at them for hours,’ I replied, ‘and when I’ve finished I can turn them upside down and look at it all again!’

I knew that if we were going to have any chance of navigating the country without accidentally finding ourselves on the M5, I would be the one who would have to do it.

We had already agreed on the first major criterion: we wanted to avoid main roads if we could possibly help it. Cycling on main roads is horrible, especially for cyclists as inexperienced as us. For most of the country this would not be a problem; but the only obvious and direct route out of Cornwall was the A30 and this is the route many End-to-Enders take, particularly if time is a consideration. As we did not want to tackle the main road, and as we had up to a month to complete the trip, the other choices were meandering routes up the centre of Cornwall or the coast road up to Padstow, and then an inland route to Launceston. I opted for the scenic coast road. However, I underestimated how ‘lumpy’ this road would prove to be.

Yesterday’s hills were mere pimples compared with the ups and downs we encountered on the 15 miles between Newquay and Padstow. This section of the Cornish coast is like a roller coaster. I switched onto the ‘granny wheel’, the lowest gear, but to no avail; these hills were far too steep for either of us to stay on our bikes. Time and again we wearily pushed the bikes to the summit, remounted and rolled gingerly down the other side, clutching the brakes for all we were worth, rounding a small cove speckled with surfers only to be confronted with another fearsome gradient on the other side. The beauty of the scenery, with rolling hills and the blue Atlantic beyond, made it worthwhile, however, and despite the agony it was better than cycling up the dreaded A30. Well, that’s what I told Mick every time he complained anyway. By the time we reached Padstow, 30 miles along the coast from Perranporth, we were definitely in need of a rest.

Rick Stein’s presence is everywhere in Padstow. No wonder it has been nicknamed ‘Padstein’. Not only will you find his famous seafood school here, but there are four Rick Stein restaurants, catering for every budget, plus a delicatessen, a patisserie, a gift shop and a smart hotel offering bed and breakfast accommodation. Unsurprisingly, there is some resentment among local residents, who blame him for attracting smart city types to the town, hiking up the prices and making houses unaffordable for local people. On the other hand, there is no doubt his presence has increased the number of tourists who visit the town, bringing their purses and wallets with them. Eschewing any Stein establishment, we opted for tubs of cockles and whelks from the fish stall by the jetty, which were delicious and which we enjoyed whilst sitting on the harbour wall in the sunshine. After our seafood, we then repaired to the Shipwrights Inn, where we both had a wonderful pint of Proper Job from the St Austell brewery, an excellent IPA (India Pale Ale, a type of beer originally developed for export in the eighteenth century) which went down a treat; so well, in fact, that we felt compelled to have a second pint.

By now we both had a fairly strong desire for respite from hills, so we decided to turn inland and ride the half a dozen miles along the Camel Trail to Wadebridge. It proved to be a good choice. The Camel Estuary sparkled in the sunshine alongside the cycle track and the cycling was flat and easy going. It was great to see it busy with so many families out for a jaunt. We were enjoying it so much we were almost disappointed to reach Wadebridge, where we left the path and crossed the bridge that gives the town its name. According to the sign on the bridge, it was originally built in 1468 by the Vicar of Egloshayle, the Reverend Thomas Lovibond, which I thought a fantastic name. It was known as the ‘Bridge on Wool’ from a local legend that it was founded on sacks of wool, which seems to me to be an odd choice of material to stand a bridge on. Wouldn’t it get all soggy? Maybe there was nothing else suitable to hand…

Leaving Wadebridge, a steep climb out of the town ensued. We decided to break our rule of avoiding main roads for a short spell and headed straight down the A39 for a dozen miles to Camelford – as on checking the map I noticed the road followed the line of the River Allen and was therefore likely to be flatter than the minor roads on either side. Mercifully, I was right. Although the route was undulating, there were no major shocks until just before Camelford, when the road began the climb up to Bodmin Moor. At a pub somewhere near Camelford we refuelled with another pint of Proper Job. Mick thought the pub was reminiscent of the Slaughtered Lamb from the film An American Werewolf in London. Someone was eating a roast dinner with their bare hands and few of the patrons appeared to be familiar with toothpaste.

We were now in the Cornish interior, well away from the coast, and the scenery was very different. Cornwall is like a chocolate-covered Brazil nut. It’s sweet and gooey around the outside but has a harder, grittier centre. We pressed on, hoping to find a country pub and B & B further along the road. Neither appeared and we eventually found ourselves peddling wearily into Launceston. From the Camelford road, the entry into Launceston was an unbelievably steep hill down, followed by an unbelievably steep hill up. The town straggled messily up the hill, and as we wearily pushed the bikes up it I became determined not to return the same way, no matter what. We spotted a local man, swaying gently as he climbed the hill, and stopped to ask for directions.

‘Excuse me, good sir, do you know of any fine bed and breakfast establishments in the vicinity?’ we enquired.

‘Aaaarhghh urrggghhh ssshhhhwwwrrrrrrddddd,’ he offered in reply.

Gosh the accent was strong hereabouts.

We tried again.

‘Are you aware of any hostelries nearby where we may rest our weary heads?’

‘Uuuggghhhhh sssshhhhwwwrrrrrdddddd aaaarrrrrggghhhh!!!!!!’

As he finished uttering these sounds he took several steps backwards and staggered into a wall. We took his response to be a negative, thanked him anyway and continued toiling up the hill. By now it was seven o’clock and we began to wonder whether we would be able to find anywhere at all to stay. We wandered around what we presumed was the centre of town, but we couldn’t see any signs offering accommodation. Finally, Mick spotted a Salvation Army building and we wondered whether we might be able to get a bed for the night there. No need – one of the officers kindly walked us to the top of the town and pointed us towards Glencoe Villa Bed & Breakfast. We gratefully thanked him and knocked on the door. The proprietors were a kindly couple in their sixties and helpfully allowed us to put the bikes in their garage before booking us in. They asked whether we wanted single rooms or a double and we told them that we didn’t mind – Mick and I have spent enough time camping in tiny tents and cramped camper vans to be quite comfortable in each other’s company. We were given a room at the top of the house and were delighted to find the adjoining bathroom was huge, and furnished with every kind of bubble bath, oil, soap and other washroom accoutrements you can imagine. We were both desperate to soak our aching limbs; we had a brief fight for first use of the bath and discovered we would not both fit through the doorway at the same time. I lost the battle and in desperation tried to use the ‘if you were a gentleman’ – card which failed completely.

‘I’m no gentleman,’ crowed Mick triumphantly, locking the door behind him.

After we had both enjoyed a hot bath, we hit the town. This was not a pleasant experience. I cannot recommend Launceston for a night out; it lacks class, even by my unexacting standards. Groups of youngsters hung around the streets drinking super-strength lager or sped about in small cars with enormous spoilers, making as much noise as their twin-bore exhausts and sub-woofers would allow. A police car cruised the streets and an ambulance sat on standby in the main square. We spotted what were clearly a couple of tourists who had strayed here by mistake – they soon scuttled off looking rather scared. We ate a mediocre Chinese takeaway, sitting on a bench near the ambulance, and then supped an even more mediocre pint of beer in a dreadful pub. As far as we could tell, all the pubs in Launceston were dreadful. After that we called it a day and headed back to the B & B, taking care to avoid the boy racers on the way.

 

 

Stats
Miles: 56
Total miles: 103
Pints of beer (each): 2
Hills pushed: More than I can remember – loads
Instances of disgraceful ungentlemanly conduct: 1