Lands End to Carnon Downs – 44 miles
The day dawned blue, the first serious break in the weather for weeks. As we loaded our bikes, two vans were getting ready to support a group of twelve riders who were setting off to do the End to End in little more than two weeks. We felt happy, even a little proud to be independent, unsupported, and a little nervous perhaps to be carrying so much gear.
We cycled the six miles to Lands End proper, passing the little airport where planes leave for the Isles of Scilly, choosing which direction they land and take off depending on the wind. The air strip heads west to the horizon, offering a leap into the wide blue yonder. A little further, we stopped to take photos at an old chapel with a cross made of surf boards mounted over the main door. A very Cornish crucifix: we suffer and we surf. Amen.
Land’s End itself has been turned into a pastiche of every naff amusement arcade you’ve ever been to, by local business man Peter de Savary. Take a landmark that should be left to the heart and the Gods, with café and and ice cream van at most to supplement nature, and turn it into a gluttonous cash register – That seems to have been his business plan. Hey ho.
As we cycled up the grand front portico of the establishment some people clapped, mistaking us for JOGLE-ers rather than LEJOGers. Phil played along, giving a victory salute and whooping as we sailed in. Phil is a natural entertainer.
The famous Lands End sign has also been sucked in to the pervading fleece ‘em mentality. It’s chained off, and you can only have your photo taken under it by a ‘pro’ – one print gets sent in the post, £10, kerching. We had no choice. ‘What place do you want us to include on the sign?’ They asked. ‘Liverpool,’ Jules suggested. ‘What about ‘Pedalling Home’ – 1071 miles,’ I countered. So we went with that. Phil’s friend, Katie from St Just, stood just beyond the barrier and took more pictures. The mood was one of celebration, and trepidation. This is it.
We set off, Katie filming our departure on her phone, and retraced our route from the day before, down to St Buryan and then off to Lamorna. My phone, on which I depend for navigation and blogging as well as all the usual essentials – calls, texts, emails, bookings – was behaving very strangely. Some weird gremlin was sending the screen brightness to zero, constantly. So much so that it couldn’t be read unless it was in deepest shade. It was the fly in the ointment, but the ointment was rich and beautiful, thanks to the weather, thanks to the colours and proudly cranky little cottages of Cornwall, the mosaic of Mousehole tumbling down to its harbour under blue skies dotted with fleecy clouds
In Penzance were we cheered along the waterfront by Jools’s friend Gadj and party, who were staying in Cornwall. We ate pasties and drank coffee by the station, and I tried to fix my phone at the O2 shop, to no avail. The Gremlin had taken up residence, sent, we quipped, by Old Meg from St Buryan. On the long bike trail that runs along the beach between Penzance and Marazion my tyre appeared to be flat, but it turned out to be my unfamiliarity with Presta valves that was at fault. That Gremlin was a fickle beast. We floated by late August beach life, silhouetted by the sea, quietly shimmering, before turning north along tiny lanes that run parallel to the A30. I’ve driven that stretch of road countless times but now I was seeing everything as if for the first time.
Up near Hayle we chanced on a full blown gig racing regatta, with young teams from every part of Cornwall. It was like chancing on a bull fighting fiesta in deepest Andalusia. You couldn’t have hoped for a more faithful emblem of Cornish culture, not the chocolate box fantasy of tumbledown fishing villages full of second homes but the true one that’s lived day to day. I was happy to see it, and happy that Tim had seen it too. The boys and girls in their team t-shirts – Cadgwith, Lamorna, St Just, St Ives – had that special energy that a big community event allows, full of gossip and intrigue and belonging.
Camborne, the butt of so much in-bound snobbery, was a really intriguing place, with ancient mine weal houses by the dozen hidden away among the housing estates, and a centre as old and beautiful as any other Cornish town. Phil stopped to chat to a woman standing in a field, with her dog and two horses. She told us that there were many beautiful tracks for horse riding up on the moors above the town, but in recent years the small lanes were increasingly clogged up with traffic, and it wasn’t possible to ride her horse and trap along them anymore. We kept criss-crossing the path of another old dame on horse back, who gave us a smile and I joked that we should stop meeting like this. In the distance, beyond the weal houses and the estates, you could see the sea, but that Cornwall felt like it was a long way away.
Down from the uplands, we cycled along the Cornish Coast to Coast cycle path, through reed beds and old quarries. It was an unusual landscape, man made but considerate to nature. Then came a long climb to Carnon Down and Come to Good farm, our first night stop.
Sue the landlady explained that it had started as a Quaker-run establishment called ‘Come to God’, but God has relaxed into a simple ‘Good’ over the centuries. It made more sense to me. We were lead to the little camping patch at the back of the farm, past chickens, dogs, ducks and sheep. With the keenness of beginners, we did some post-cycle exercises before setting up our tents for the night. Tim acted as instructor, showing us new positions and stretches. Our aching limbs were soothed.
It was only a short walk up a rocky bridle path to the Punchbowl and Ladle pub, where were told that the kitchen had just closed, ten minutes before our arrival, and there was absolutely no chance of just rustling something up. Tim plotted his Trip Advisor revenge. We were desperate for food. Then Tim suggested ordering a takeaway from Truro. The idea seemed outrageous but we were outrageously hungry and the world righted itself when our curries arrived half an hour later. We ate with careless relish, as only someone who has been pushing themselves to their physical limit can.
Meanwhile I was desperately trying to upload my first blog post of the journey, only to be stymied by a series of ‘Cannot upload post’ error messages. The gremlin was still in residence. I tried to enlist the help of one of the women serving behind the bar, without success. She told me that was quitting her job in two day’s time to study Property Development in Cardiff. She was obviously very happy to be leaving her Cornish home.
We tried and tried but could not make the connection. “Typical Cornish Wi-fi,” she quipped. That phrase seemed to sum up her frustration with the place of her birth, and the frustration of some many others of her age, perfectly.
Andy Morgan
