DAY 12: The kindness of strangers

Chorley to Kendal – 57 miles

Chorley and Preston are blessed with a beautiful network of cycle tracks, superior to anything around our hometown of Bristol, which is supposed to be an especially cycle-friendly city. They undulated, new and smooth, through woods and secluded valleys, marred only by very annoying kissing gates which couldn’t have been designed with bikes in mind, especially those laden with panniers.

We had to heave our mounts on to their back wheels and then wheel them into the turning space, gripping the handlebars, before swinging the gate and wheeling them out again, backwards. Then Tim decided to lift his bike, panniers and all, straight over one of these offending gates. There was no impatience in the gesture, or desire to show off, just a practical desire to speed things along. Somehow, we’d forgotten what he does for a living, We were impressed.

Just before Preston, we crossed the Ribble on an old iron railway bridge. I had no idea that it was such a broad and beautiful river. Phil joked that his bike, a Ribble, had suddenly become all perky and responsive, like a horse that knows it’s close to home.

We cycled along the bank of the river and stopped for our obligatory morning coffee and cake at a place called The Beach Hut on Preston Marina. There was no beach, but there was a grand view of the Albert Edward docks, huge, rectangular and empty, with its vast gantries for unloading container ships, and views of Preston city centre in the distance.

I know that post-industrial decline is a stubborn fact of most northern cities, but I still couldn’t work out why such a huge expanse of dock land should be totally devoid of cargo ships. Perhaps the majestic Ribble is too small for today’s freighters. Whatever the reason, there was a sadness in all that empty expanse of water. I thought about the new local government model known as Prestonomics, which is, apparently, a way of building virtuous loops in the local economy that allow money made locally to be reinvested locally.

Perhaps Prestonomics was partly responsible for the fact that we were all charmed by Preston in some vague and intangible way. Or perhaps it was thanks to a woman called Alice. She was sitting with her partner and her two rescue dogs – two long-limbed whippety type things – outside the Beach Hut while we were drinking our coffee. Naturally, with dogs present, Phil had to start a conversation and Alice soon enquired about our journey. When she heard we were raising money for refugees she offered to contribute, but Phil said she shouldn’t feel obliged. As we were leaving, she stopped Jules and handed him £20. ‘I insist you take it,’ she said.

It was a fine example of one of main blessings of travelling in what I’d call a ‘vulnerable’ or ‘open’ way – walking, cycling, back-packing, anything where you’re not cooped up in your own protective bubble. And that’s the kindness of strangers.

We approached Lancaster through its immense university campus, along smooth cycle tracks that meandered between the gleaming new campus blocks, the whole area strangely empty. Then we glided down towards the historic centre on roads choked with school-run traffic, and pavements crowded with groups of children in their uniforms chatting excitedly to their friends and parents about their first day at school, clutching paintings or masks or school books. In the old town, we found a sun-soaked square with places where we could sit and drink coffee and eat cake. I liked the feel of Lancaster, antique in parts, clearly loaded with history, but manageable in size and unpretentious. Tim put it on his steadily lengthening list of places he plans to come back to sometime in the future.

The route north of Preston tressed itself in and out of the roaring M6, with the Penine hills rising bare and proud to our right. Jools has a theory that the English landscape is more or less the same until you cross the Ribble. Then, if you’re travelling north, it becomes wilder, bleaker, emptier and grander.

In line with our now established principle of avoiding hills wherever possible, we had opted to swap our original route through the Forest of Bowland up to Ingleton, and stick to cycle paths that run along the flatter landscape nearer the coast. Though the Forest of Bowland is reputedly a place of fabulous beauty, I’m glad that we travelled the coastal route, along miles of canal tow paths that were wider and better surfaced than usual, with awesome views of the wide sweep of Morecombe Bay to our left, everything bathed in the mellow light of the golden hour. We had a close encounter with a swan that had taken up position on the tow-path to protect his harem of brown females, navigating gingerly yet speedily past this arrogant Alpha male one by one, giving it the widest possible berth. I chatted to a woman walking her dog, who told me that Storm Ida was coming. Thankfully, Ida never materialised.

Past Carnforth we climbed steadily into the foothills of the Lake District, and were regaled with that awe-inspiring combination of fine sunset and British hill-country, when the sky opens and softens and colours quiver in the stillness. Halfway up a challenging incline, we heard a chorus of honks above and behind us, and were stopped in our tracks by the sight of a hundred or more geese, flying in an immense V formation, crossing the clear blue sky before us. I stared in wonder then snatched my phone and caught them just as they were beginning to grow faint. That’s always the modern dilemma: stare in wonder or snatch and grab.

Just as we were coursing over the highest point of the day’s ride, Jules, who had been keep steady tabs on our stats, announced that we had reached the halftway point of our journey – 536 miles from Land’s End. We stopped to take pictures before gliding down into Kendal.

Outside the Travel Lodge, we were accosted by a big chunky bloke with an accent that was indecipherable to our ears. It later turned out that he was a plumber from Stoke on Trent, who had been working for months on the refurbishment of the hotel. His mate, who was shorter and fatter, with an easy going grin and unflappable strength about him, asked us where we were going, and when we told him where and what for he handed over a fiver for the fund. The kindness of strangers.

We joined them both, and their foreman, an affable guy from Northern Ireland, for a drink in the hotel foyer and talked about what it was like for them to work long months away from home. The chunky dude from Stoke then gave us his assessment of our team. ‘I reckon you’re the one who goes quickest up hills,’ he said, pointing to Tim. ‘You’re the one who rides out front and does the navigation,’ he said, pointing to me. ‘You’re the one who’s always at the back.’ That was Phil. ‘And the you’re one who’s great at organisation.’ That was Jools. His insight was uncanny. We asked the receptionist to take a photo of us all together. As a chance encounter, it had a lot going for it.

The streets of old Kendal were strangely empty, but The New Inn was full, mainly with men watching England playing a World Cup qualifier against Hungary. We ordered drinks – mine the usual arrival combination of coke with ice and a pint of bitter – and stayed long enough to see Harry Kane score his stupendous goal. Later, we stumbled on a large Thai restaurant, luxuriously appointed with Buddha statues and ornate fake gold leaf light shades, packed with diners on two floors, and ate a sumptuous meal.

Our appetites sated, we slept soundly, our bikes propped up against the walls of our rooms. There’s something comforting about sleeping with your bike in your room.

Andy Morgan.