England's green and pleasant land

June 16, 2024

LEJOG Day seven: Preston to Grasmere

After 52 years, I've finally made it to the the Lake District. It's an area renowned for its picturesque landscape, a juxtaposition of swollen hills and placid lakes. A place you come for healthy middle-class family holidays, when the kids would really prefer the beach; or a luxury romantic break at one of the many spa hotels, perhaps with some hiking thrown in if that's your bag. But somehow, I've never been, and although it's a long way from home, I'm under instructions to size it up for future holidays.

For sure, it's been a beautiful day's cycling. Heading north from the tired greyness of Preston, Raven and I found the countryside opening up before us, as we plotted a route almost entirely through national parks. We started with the Forest of Bowland, which was unexpectedly light on trees in the parts that we encountered, but whose rolling roads, green fields and wide horizons were a wonderful way to start the day.

In the distance, some of the hills that we'd be skirting. The motorway bridges of earlier days felt like a very distant memory.

To our left, the bit that wasn't national park. You wouldn't exactly call it populous, though. This wasn't a place for agoraphobics.

It being Sunday, and a nice area, we definitely weren't the only the manandbike team on the road. The Castelli crew were out in force, timing sectors and hunting PB's as they sweated their way around the hills. At one point, I slowed, having heard a shout from behind, and thinking that someone was trying to hail me. Shortly afterwards, a gang of four cyclists headed up, barking a constant stream of loud warnings and orders to each other. I hadn't realised there was so much instruction required for this cycling lark. Finding that they were shouting at each other rather than me, I stuck to their rear wheel for a mile or so, to get a free draft uphill. Each to their own, and I have nothing but respect for these guys covering the miles: but as the commentary continued apace it certainly didn't feel like a relaxing way to enjoy the surrounding beauty. I last saw them on a downhill, where I dropped back, reluctant to hit the speeds that they were pushing towards. Anything over 30mph feels like a vulnerable place to me, especially when I don't know the roads. I want to end this tour in Orkney, not in casualty.

About two hours in, I approached the city of Lancaster, our intended coffee stop. It would have been possible at this point for me to fulfil a life goal... the downhill into town was through a 20mph zone, with a speed camera adjacent. There will probably never be a better chance to be caught on camera, waving triumphantly from my bicycle as I pass. On balance, I decided that I didn't need wanted posters and the risk of a police pursuit between here and Scotland - but Raven and I have the warm satisfaction of knowing that we definitely could have been outlaws if we'd tried.

The bridge into Lancaster, at the foot of aforementioned hill. See, not even a slightly blurred exposure. That's how good we were. If this kind of righteousness doesn't guarantee future sunshine, I don't know what will.

I'm unsure whether Lancaster might have caused me to fail in my challenge, because, now that we were being so good, we also walked up the pedestrianised high street to our café. I may now have to confess that I did the end-to-end except for fifty metres, a kind of asterisked achievement with minor reservation, but the coffee and cake were worth it. So I've made my peace.

Leaving the city, the scenery continued unabated. Through national parks at Arnside and Silverdale, and into the lake district itself. The roads were great, and although we found ourselves on the A6 for quite a long while, traffic here was sparse and considerate. Bigger roads do tend to cut through the hills more smoothly, with fewer climbs and drops, and this was very much the case for us. More than one cyclist passed us with a cheery "'ow do", and I'm definitely now reaching places where my accent marks me out as a stranger. When the GPS unit chirps "SUMMIT!" at me at the top of a climb, I'm no longer sure whether it's actually warning of an undefined hazard around the next bend.

We successfully avoided killer frogs on our route. Worth knowing that they're around if you're planning a tour in these parts though.

On the approach to the lake district. Fortunately, that's one hill we weren't going to be climbing today.

Lunch was scheduled for the first lake that we arrived at, Windermere. I understand that, if you're a pedant (nothing to be ashamed of) this isn't technically a lake at all: Bassenthwaite is the only lake in the area, all the others being "meres" or "waters". Apparently, meres are shallower. But it certainly looked like a lake; we weren't about to test its profundities, and it seemed more than enough for the several million Sunday daytrippers milling around like ants. The place was teeming. It felt right for us to stop at the Cornish bakehouse to buy a pasty, which I accordingly munched, waterside, five hundred miles from its spiritual home.

Bowness-in-Windermere. I think half of northern England had also arrived, in a search for Cornish delicacies. It took me quite a while to achieve this clear a view.

This was almost our end point. Ten more miles to go, and we slowed to enjoy the scenery and to take an occasional picture. I met a friendly cyclist on the top road, from a local club, and we rode together chatting amiably until I peeled off down a side road towards Grasmere, my final destination.

The hotel - most expensive of the stay - is lovely, and with free cake on offer at reception, they're obviously accustomed to catering to the hiking and cycling audiences. Raven went in the boot room, which is far more spacious and well-appointed than the name suggests. And I went for coffee, to enjoy the view. This evening I've been out for a lovely meal with a friend from Devon, who - in defiance of lengthy odds - had been staying a few miles down the road for the weekend. And now, it's about time for bed. Tomorrow will be a later start, and a shorter day in the saddle as we head to Carlisle. This is the half way point. And we're still going strong.

You'll see why I needed to pause for the occasional picture. If I wanted to be clichéd, I'd use the adjective 'brooding' here. I think 'damp' might be more appropriate.

My street! - the view from the café fifty yards down from the hotel. If you look carefully, that silver pillar in the centre, by the hedge, is a free track pump for passing cyclists. Nice.

It's not really about the numbers, is it? But I promise you, I'm not actually still in Devon posting a work of excitable fiction. Full route details at https://ridewithgps.com/trips/191305297

Today's ride: 65 miles (105 km)
Total: 480 miles (772 km)

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Lesley AndersonNot bad for a policeman
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2 months ago

Mark M.Your sources are out of date Ms Anderson 😉
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2 months ago