Woodhall Spa - Hull - London - Middlesbrough - Sheffield

September 21, 2008

Woodhall Spa - Hull

Heart

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I woke up reasonably early, in spite of Sweary Mary's late night intervention. I learned a lesson though.I should have pitched the tent to catch the morning sun. The night was cold, just off ground frost and the grass around me was saturated with dew. The morning routine included a brief conversation with a Ford Mondeo owner while I was brushing my teeth. 'How many of you here?' 'About twenty-five.' Not exactly gripping the nation then.

I loaded the bike and rode out of the site via the lake, to see if I could gain any insights into model power-boat racing. I spoke to an affable man from Kent who told me had been introduced to the sport? by his father. I learned that competition is Europe-wide and that the top bananas are Italian.; those Italians and motor-sport.

I pedalled into Woodhall Spa and at the first crossroads was a café. Having been on the road for all of 10 minutes, I thought a cup of tea was in order. A good move this turned out to be, because also sitting outside the café were two early morning cyclists from Lincoln [evidently up a little earlier than me] out for a Sunday spin. They offered to escort me up to Lincoln on a disused railway cycle path, about which I knew nothing. This turned out to be part of the Sustrans National Cycle Route 1, following the course of the River Witham, hence the trackside sculptures.

Woodhall Spa, Sunday morning. Ray, left, Simon right.

It was good to have some company, for conversation, local knowledge and also for upping my pace a bit. Simon guided me east of Lincoln, [I could see it but never set foot in it] in the direction of the Humber Bridge., while Ray, who had a Sunday afternoon date, went straight up the trail back to the city.

More bike path sculpture. Ray took this of me.

Lincoln and cathedral across the fields.

After saying goodbye to Simon, I continued northwards according to his instructions and stopped in Sudbrooke for lunch. The rest of the afternoon was on quiet back roads in the sunshine until Wrawby, where I took the B1206 road to join the A15 to the Humber bridge. Between Wrawby and the A15, I encountered my first wold.

The wolds are a series of chalk ridges which extend from East Yorkshire into North Lincolnshire. They're not high enough to merit much attention from the outside world, but the gradients can be steep. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincolnshire_Wolds After three days of easy terrain, I was on the granny ring again, up and over the wold then a descent via the shoulder of the now quiet A15 to the bridge. The bridge, occasionally referred to as 'the road to nowhere' has a toll for motorists but is free to cyclists and pedestrians. The light was disappointingly grey and fuzzy so the views were less photogenic. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humber_Bridge

At the back of my mind was the thought that, as I was here, I might do some ancestral tourism. My maternal grandfather and grandmother lived here in the early 1900s and married here in 1909. On the other hand, I was looking for a campsite in Little Weighton someway to the north. This indecision might have been a factor in me finding myself on the busy and fast A63, Clive Sullivan Way* [of which more later], which, bridge notwithstanding, is the main thoroughfare into the city from almost everywhere.

I got off the A63 at the first opportunity, which seemed like a long time coming, into the western suburbs of the city. I asked a man if he knew of a campsite. He didn't so I resigned myself to looking for a B&B. 'So in what part of the city would I find bed and breakfast?''I live here, I'd never thought of that, but I think you should aim for Springbank.'He gave me directions. Hull is in competition with Middlesbrough as the worst town in England. Currently the pennant is held by Middlesbrough http://www.channel4.com/news/articles/society/middlesbrough+tops+worst+town+poll/921247

This news was greeted by Sky Sports' Soccer Saturday presenter Jeff Stelling in the following manner:

However, I was surprised at how pleasant this part of Hull was, with broad tree-lined avenues and large, comfortable-looking houses. As I got closer to Springbank, the streets became tighter and more urban.. Two middle-aged men were chatting in the street. I stopped again to check my directions. ''Ow faar've you come on that?' asked one.'From London.''Bloody 'ell. 'Ow long d'it tek yer?''Four days.'Nothing to be overly proud of here; they seemed reassured they weren't talking to a freak.

They kept me on the right track, with two useful pieces of advice, the latter of which I foolishly ignored. 'Yer want Sunnybank, it's off Springbank and yer want this end of Sunnybank,' they said, giving each other knowing smiles.

It was further than I expected and I was still out of the city centre. I was surprised how big Hull is. I turned into Sunnybank and then the wrong way, so at the wrong end of the street, I installed myself in the, seen better days, Sunnybank hotel for £20 bed and breakfast. Had I been travelling, as I usually do, with my wife, we'd have been staying elsewhere. I thought the knowing looks back down the road might have hinted at drugs or prostitution, but my problem in this place, was that my next-door neighbour was not quite the full shilling.

As I took my gear up to the room, he was straight into me. 'D'yer think I look alright? D'yer think t'lasses'll fancy meh?' Oh dear. I made some soothing noises, but it took a couple of efforts to convince him. Later, he hit on me for money. I said I' didn't know him well enough for him to be asking for a loan. He apologised and received a mild admonition from the proprietor, who had overheard.

I was hungry. I went out onto nearby Princes Way looking for food. It was very lively for a Sunday night. The pubs and bars were busy. I didn't fancy any of the restaurants, but you're never far from a Doner Kebab. That, a bottle of red-wine and football on TV would do. In spite of the mysterious provenance of their meat content and their reputation for gastric toxicity, I often find them hard to resist. My son, who spent part of last year in Moscow once asked at a local kebab stand, what kind of meat went into their doner. 'Normal meat,' was the answer.

I went back out, listened to music and chatted to locals in a couple of the bars until midnight closing. 'There's some Hull FC* players in here tonight,' one woman told me. 'So people'll behave themselves,' I said. 'The Hull lads won't,' was her answer. I slept well.

*Hull is unusual in the UK, in preferring Rugby League to soccer. The city has two professional, Superleague teams: Hull FC, generally supported by people from West Hull and Hull Kingston Rovers from East Hull. This predominance has been recently challenged by last season's promotion to the top flight of English soccer, of Hull City.

Welsh-born Clive Sullivan, played for both Hull RL clubs and was the first black captain of the Great Britain side.