Beast of Bodmin

May 28, 2023

Camel Trail and Bodmin Moor

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I've not been blogging many rides this year. I've actually been doing quite a few day-rides, it's just that given (i) their shortness and local nature and (ii) the fact that both our cameras developed faults and we hadn't bothered to fix them, there wasn't a great deal to write about. Still, I've been keeping my fitness up - and the Shift is in good nick, and indeed has a shiny new bike shed to keep it dry that I've built with my own unskilled hands - so what with the spectacular May weather (we have had three weeks of unbroken sunny days, and two more forecast to come - this would have been utterly unheard of in the Westcountry when I was growing up) it seems a shame not to go for some longer rides.

I'm still planning to do an international trip (Green Spain?) some time later in the year, but some more domestic admin - I've got a new and significantly better job (and moreover one that actually acknowledges I'm living in Cornwall) - has meant I've put off going away for a little while (don't want to disappear on holiday the in my first couple of months. But for now there are a huge number of extremely diverse routes just around Cornwall to explore.

I've been riding all over west and central Cornwall, but given how long the county is haven't paid much attention to the east, particularly the north-east which is pretty much terra incognita to me. Most prominently Bodmin Moor - a rather infamous tract of barren and desolate high land east of Bodmin - sticks out as a tempting target. My plan was to combine this with the - in contrast - extremely flat and family-friendly Camel Trail a rail-train that follows the River Camel from its mouth at Padstow via Wadebridge to Bodmin. Then I'd return via the Pentire headland. This would involve (probably in the morning, to avoid getting stranded) a crossing of the Camel estuary on the pedestrian/cycle ferry at the fancy resort of Rock.

Cheekily parking in the visitor centre of the excellent Sharp's brewery near Rock.

One downside to this route is reaching any point by public transport would be a bit of a pain - so (for the first time ever!) I decided to use the car to carry everything to a convenient start point near Rock. As such I don't have a bike carrier, but no matter - the Shift, without wheel and loosened headset, will fit in the boot if shoved with enough force. Rising much earlier than I was accustomed on Sunday, I drove out to East Cornwall, stopping only to fail to buy a pasty along the way (bakery was shut before 10.30AM).

It was over an hour's drive - Cornwall is long - and the country roads leading to the high-class destination of Rock were already busy with traffic as I reached them around 11. Rock is sometimes known as "Cornish London", and has a reputation as a destination for monied, and sometimes titled, visitors from up-country. I plumped to avoid trying to park in the village, and figuring I had two-wheeled transport realised I could park anywhere I liked. For some reason the empty visitors' car-park attached to Sharp's brewery, who produce some excellent local beer, appealed to me and I decided to stop there. Being a bank holiday the visitor centre was shut and there was just the slight hissing of the fermentors and vats behind to accompany me as I reassembled the Shift, slavered myself in factor 50 and drank as much water as I could. It was a hot day and the sky was cloudless blue, so I figured I'd need to watch my hydration.

Then I was off, on the short jaunt down the hill through the comically named villages of Pityme and Splatt to Rock harbour, where the ferry would take me across the Camel estuary to the larger town of Padstow on the western side.

There was quite a bit of traffic on the road, but aside from a slightly hairy incident with someone turning into the road without looking (to be fair they looked very sheepish in response to my "watch out!") and another cyclist having terrible trouble carrying a metal sheet (?) on his pannier rack who kept greeting the locals and almost dropping it, I arrived without incident. I'd just missed the ferry, but at this time of year they work two at a time and I could see the other already heading across.

I paid my £6 and bundled on with a gaggle of tourists. It really was quite packed, and I felt a bit bad about taking up space with the bike (tho I was paying double for it). After some good-natured banter with some of them ("it's the bloke with the bike that's the problem!" - me: "it always is!") we set off for the 10 minute crossing over the frankly azure estuary, filled with small colourful sailing boats.

I pity the fool that had to spend a sunny bank holiday in this lovely pub

Padstow. This photo doesn't really do justice to how rammed with grokels it was

Padstow is a picturesque old fishing village. For many years it has been progressively gentrifying, lead largely by the efforts of celebrity chef Rick Stein, who runs several (five!) restaurants in the town and school of cookery (largely fish-based, as would befit the location). Rick's influence in the town has lead to it becoming nicknamed locally "Pad-Stein". His influence seems to be pretty positive - but the placement of Padstow "on the map" has lead to a fairly massive increase in tourist numbers.

I'd last visited Padstow 25 (ouch) years ago as a teenager when we used to go on camping on holiday further down the coast - I remember it being comparatively laid-back. Today it was rammed, almost to St. Ives levels. Getting off the ferry I made an abortive attempt to cycle along the harbourfront, but there were far too many lollygaggers and kids about to do so safely. It could've been worse: someone was trying to drive down there. It was actually pretty funny to watch pedestrians completely ignore the car. Just zero fucks given.

I wasted no time in getting out of Padstow, easily picking up the start of the Camel trail by the prominent signs for bike hire. It was a relief to get away from the crowds, and while the rail-trail wasn't quiet - it's an ideal place for amateur riders and families, being extremely shallowly graded and entirely off road - I was impressed by how sensible even big groups with young kids were. I managed to (for me) speed along, following the banks of the estuary and river, with spectacular views over to the north side.

The start of the Camel trail, with quite the variety of bikes for hire - including tandems

The trail runs along the old railway like to Wadebridge, which is the lowest bridging point of the Camel. As is common, some of the spectacularly sturdy rail bridges have been left intact

The aren't many estuaries that are such a brilliant blue

Arriving in Wadebridge, this is the old bridge that would have been the lowest crossing point of the river. A rather virtuoso concrete modern flyover now takes the main road (A39 Atlantic Highway) over.

The Camel is the main river of north Cornwall, and only really major one draining north into the Atlantic (most others join the complex of rivers flowing south into the Tamar, the historical dividing-line between Cornwall and Devon). It rises far to the north of Bodmin moor (where I would be going), but due to this part of the world's hilly topography has to flow in a huge U-shape, at the bottom of which is Bodmin - the old Cornish county town and administrative centre. While now known for its beauty and the vineyards that cover some its slopes, the river hasn't always been so unspoiled - growing up we still talked about the Camel valley aluminium poisoning disaster, where a (frankly avoidable) screw-up at the water company lead to tonnes of aluminium sulphate being dumped in error into the drinking water rather than wastewater treatment. Soluble aluminium is really quite nasty, being associated with neurodegeneration - and local residents throughout the valley were supplied with this in their drinking water for weeks afterwards.

[To this day, the privatised water companies continue to perform similarly diligently throughout the south-west, only dumping raw sewage into the sea and rivers under exceptional circumstances, or (for example) whenever they feel like it. While becoming a scandal impacting the government nationally - it is felt particularly keenly locally in Devon and Cornwall, which have so much coastline and beaches].

I continued to make good progress - the trail has a great surface and is easy riding, and was a lot quieter beyond Wadebridge. I do recommend it as a quick and easy route for cutting into the heart of Cornwall, though it does suffer from the common rail-trail problem of just being maybe a tiny bit dull. With no navigation or hills to think about, it's easy for the mind to wonder.

The much quieter continuation of the trail coming out of Wadebridge

Charmingly, many of the (tiny) station platforms and signs have been left in place. Who used these stations is anyone's guess.

Coming into Bodmin the view was dominated by Bodmin Jail - now a fancy hotel.

In Bodmin, in contrast, on this bank holiday Sunday most of the shops were shut and there were just a few locals about. Spotting some fellow cyclists I figured at least this bakery was open, and I could get a suspiciously cheap (but pretty good) pasty.

Bodmin is a funny old place - while for several centuries it was the administrative centre of Cornwall, and has always been home to some of the major law courts in the County, it's now something of a backwater. About as far inland as its possible to get in Cornwall, rather isolated in its position by the moor, and with few distinctive tourist attractions it's a thoroughly un-touristed place. The high street was looking a little run-down when I wheeled my way down there, though understandably most shops were shut on this bank-holiday Sunday.

Having failed to buy a pasty earlier I was relieved to see one bakery open. Though they didn't have much left, the friendly lady running it could sell me a pasty for the almost suspiciously low price of £1.50. It actually turned out to be pretty good!

After getting quite confused by the one-way system in town (which bikes are exempt from - perhaps? The signs suggest they were, but I fear I may have annoyed a driver or two getting out) I started to winch out of town to the north. No more rail-trail gradients - this was a steep climb, that eventually spat me out onto the ring road (fortunately with bike path) and the junction with the A30. This is the main (read: only) highway that runs the length of the county. It actually bisects Bodmin moor, so I'd be crossing it again later in the day.

My aim was Cardinham woods, a pretty big tract of forestry commission woodland maintained as a mountain-biking trail. This pretty much filled the gap between Bodmin and the start of the moor, so seemed the perfect way through (even if I assumed I'd have to stay out the way of crazily-descending mountain-biker types). Weirdly, there doesn't seem a natural cycle route from Bodmin to the woods - so I'd plotted my own, through a farm and an obscure bridleway. After the peopled Camel trail and the town cycling in Bodmin it felt really good to get out on country roads and singletrack again.

This is more like it - part of the farm track north of Bodmin

Cardinham woods turned out to be really cool, a pretty amazing set of trails set in a surprisingly dramatic forested ravine. On such a beautiful holiday weekend I was well expecting the steep and technical slopes to be populated with gnarly body-armoured mountain bikers, but to my surprise it was basically deserted. I saw a couple of walkers and only two other bikers. This was probably for the best as I managed to get thorough (but pleasantly lost) among the multi-level and twisting paths, and spent a happy half hour traversing the woods before eventually emerging (after a few false turns) on the northern side.

Entering the woods were a friendly middle-aged couple on bikes. After letting them cross the bridge, I had a slightly comedy conversation with them about directions. They wanted to know if this was the way to the airfield (I think!) - this was genuinely puzzling to me as I was fairly certain there wasn't anything air-related for a good dozen miles. So I let them know I was a bit lost myself. They then proceeded to try to work out where I was going, and if it was the right way. I still have no clue where they wanted to go.

Most of the broader paths in Cardinham are totally suitable for a touring bike with reasonably tick tyres. Especially on the descent the Shift had no trouble here.

The bottom of the ravine, and an ancient (stone) clapper bridge crossing the stream to the left. Hardly anyone around considering what a beautiful day it was.

I had in fact left the woods pretty much exactly where I needed to be, and was then faced with a stiff-but-managable climb up to the village of Cardinham. At the top I noticed a prominent church, and decided to have a poke around the graveyard to see if I could find a tap and refill my emptying water bottles. Unfortunately they only had rainwater butts - good for the environment, less good for a thirsty cyclist, as I wasn't quite desperate enough to drink from those (yet).

It was a lovely spot though so I elected to stop here and eat my lunch.

Big Cornish cross in front of the Church at Cardinham. These are often very ancient (think 1,500 or more years old) and can be somewhat unorthodox in design, or even pre-christian carvings re-purposed following the Christianization of Cornwall in the 6th century. This one is clearly in two parts - I suspect the enormous lower part did not originally belong with the cross.

Cardinham turned out to be a Cycle-friendly church. I didn't really understand what this meant until I peeked inside (looking for water again) and noticed a bike festooned with ribbons. It turned out to be a memorial to a local member of the congregation who had died out riding.

After a quick lunch I pressed on - the next stage was surely going to be a challenge as it would involve serious climbing onto Bodmin moor. The moors are highest point in the county (up to 400m) and are notoriously desolate and exposed. The traditional east-west route has passed through them for many centuries (why? Because further south you hit Dartmoor, which is even higher, and below that you'd have to cross the Tamar with its huge estuary) and this wild stretch of land was infamous for banditry, smuggling (more on this later) and even uncontrolled weddings, thanks to the Knights Templar of all people.

Almost immediately I started to hit punishing gradient on tarmac. The groan I let out when I saw the 20% gradient sign was only partially compensated by seeing the 23% sign on the alternative route, which I'd almost plumped for instead. I am now (somewhat) used these sorts of crazy Cornish slopes though, and given the shady and empty lanes could pull myself up them at a leisurely pace.

The landscape opened up and with gorse and heather started to feel like moorland. I continued to the hamlet of Pantersbridge where the plan was to turn due north, up ancient tracks to the village of Warleggan, so directly attacking the ascent to the moor and emerging near Colliford reservoir.

I found the turn easily enough and merrily ignored the not suitable for motor vehicles sign. Unfortunately they may have as well written not suitable for any wheeled vehicles, and you might rupture yourself just walking up it too. It was basically a tunnel through arched trees (nice), with a 26% gradient over scree (not so nice). Riding would be totally impossible so I had the hottest and most exhausting half hour of my recent life pushing the Shift up it. To add to this lane-from-hell's satanic allure, at regular intervals were three or four dead magpies. I don't know what that means, but it can't be lucky for anyone.

I climbed above 200m like this, and when I mercifully hit tarmac again continued to climb through the isolated village of Warleggan to over 250. From here the country opened out again, and I could see the expanse of the surprisingly huge reservoir.

Very non-standard sign as I entered the moor

Unsuitable for motor vehicles you say? Piece of cake!

The sign really did say this (I haven't photoshopped it in)

Out onto the open moor above Warleggan. This is classic moorland heath terrain, albeit a bit greener than I'm used to on Dartmoor.

In the distance rises Brown Willy (no, really) - the highest point in Cornwall at just over 400m. Amusingly its name is a mangling of a Cornish phrase - although it really is quite brown. There's a Brown Gilly too.

Colliford Reservoir fills a large portion of the south of the moor. The road around its perimeter offers one of the few north-south routes over the moorland

I was pleased that I could access and ride across the dam at the mouth of the reservoir. The shortcut also mercifully saved me some more climbing.

The lane around the lake was empty and beautiful. I fear I didn't appreciate it as well as I might, as I was fighting the wind from the north-east and getting pretty thirsty at this point.

I made good progress around the lake, but the moorland plateau was bloody exposed, I was beginning to get a bit baked in the sun which even up here was driving the temperature to a summery 22 degrees - and I was fighting into the headwind from the north-east most of the way across. I'd drunk three-quarters of my water and started to get a bit water-obsessed, a sure sign I was becoming dehydrated. When you start looking thirstily at the reservoir (water, water all around but not a drop to drink!) or indeed puddles on the road you might just be in need of a little hydration.

I eventually came to my senses and realised it would be pretty stupid to head out onto the even more exposed and remote northern moor with so little water. Fortunately I dimly remembered that there was a pub or something in the middle of the moor, just off the A30 highway, and as I crawed into the hamlet of Bolventor - the only real settlement up here - I remembered that it was the famous Jamaica Inn.

This is a genuine 18th century coaching inn that provided a staging post in the tricky stretch crossing the moor. Much of the original inn still survives and operates as a pub/hotel/restaurant - but its fame largely derives from Daphne du Maurier's use of the inn in her novel of the same name. While there is quite a lot of artistic license in the descriptions of smuggling, wrecking, and general no-good associated with the inn, it's not totally fictitious and this was evidently a genuinely wild and lawless place for many centuries.

I was as happy to see it as any traveller would have been all that time ago. I staggered in to the (in contrast to the luminous sunlight outside) dark interior and ordered both a pint of beer and a pint of water. If I downed the beer too fast I probably wouldn't have moved from that spot!

The famous Jamaica Inn coaching house was a sight for sun- and wind-blasted eyes

Jamaica? I most definitely went of my own accord

A pint of water and of beer in the courtyard. I alternated sips, and poured the remaining water into my bottle before leaving. Excellent place.

After drinking up I left Jamaica Inn feeling much restored and ready to tackle what was going to be the most uncertain part of the ride - crossing the moor off-road. There are numerous tricky things about this, not least the limited access routes across the moor - large parts of it are owned by the Duchy of Cornwall and they've been historically resistant to opening it up. In practice there's in actuality very little to stop you taking to the open land - but I'd also found a long formal right of way that cut north-east all the way across the north moor.

Practically you'd be amazed to see anyone up there, let alone someone forbidding you access. More serious barriers are the trackless nature of the barren moorland and the uncertain surface. I hoped that nearly a month of zero rain would mean that boggyness would be kept to a minimum.

Up until 10 years ago, even the main A30 highway was only two lanes over the stretch of the moor. The replacement dual-carriageway is carefully graded and as a result fast and pretty awful to get near on a bike - one advantage of crossing the moor at Bolventor is there is a tunnel under the highway here, so there's no need to tangle with traffic at any point. Immediately after crossing under the road I was on a tiny lane that soon petered out at a gate with a formal bridleway sign. Then it was off into the moor.

The entrance to the north moor. There was surprisingly good signage indicating the formal right-of-way

The track started out gravelled and well-defined. "This is going to be a breeze!" I thought, for the second time in the day. First challenge was quite a lively ford. Always keen on a ford, I through the bike into it with vigour (the only real way - if you run out of momentum, you get wet) and cleared it without trouble.

After crossing a few gates I could see that it wasn't going to be plain sailing. The big obvious track disappeared completely, and I was left with a network of tiny tracks which almost certainly were made by sheep, and so (by their nature) don't go anywhere. The official track disappeared into a thick gorse bush, which would have been very painful to follow directly, so I picked my own path across the bouncy, rather thin grass.

It was actually perfectly ridable - if somewhat slow going. I had to gain height again as I made for the gap between two of the beacons obstructing the north, and this and picking my way between the tussocks meant I was only going about walking pace - but, now properly hydrated, it was a pleasure. The only other beasts (of Bodmin Moor, no less) were lots of incredibly disheveled sheep - some just laughable attempts at sheering - and a few semi-wild ponies in the distance.

As I got to the top of the saddle I passed above 300m in height, and any semblance of a path disappeared. It was like being in some vast trackless grassland - I could pretty much ride any direction I liked, and could make steady progress.

After a while a disconcertingly well-metaled track appeared running parallel, but strangely this did not shadow the bridleway - so I sadly had to leave it, and bushwhack off across country again. This took me towards a surprisingly steep little ravine, the moment after which I descended it a gaggle of sheep appeared on the horizon and stared at me with considerable menace, for all the world like an ovine ambush in an old western film.

Climbing up onto the moor any tracks disappeared. It was very green

Sometimes I'd pick up part of a path, but they'd nearly always peter out. I figured the paths were made by sheep and not humans, and given sheep have nowhere pressing to go and are notoriously dense animals, it probably wasn't best to rely on them

Coming over the saddle between the beacons it really was open country

A miracle! A metaled track! Just a shame it didn't head where I needed to go.

The way I came over the back of my saddle

The smooth grasslands were interrupted by strange ridges and ravines as I neared the edge of the moor

A curiously well-defined deep track - an old drover's road? And fantastic views to the north

Finally picking up the (rough) track off the moor

Emerging onto the tarmac on the north side of the moor I was surprised to see I was still over 300m, and that the network of tiny lanes that would take me west through a few scattered farms would barely drop below this height. No road in West Cornwall is much above 250m, so it was salutary to see how much higher this part of the county was.

I was still feeling pretty good and pushed myself up and down the now rolling terrain. The Shift had held up very well, but the brakes had taken a hammering over the moor - the back one was now all but useless and the front was emitting a slightly worrying clicking that usually meant part of the brake disc clip was caught in the caliper. After tightening them I had decent braking power so continued on.

I passed a really gorgeous meadow with a stream and pool where people were bathing - I think it was Penpont stream - that reminded me of a place called Spitchwick up on Dartmoor. Then I pulled up onto the high windswept plateau of Davidstow moor.

The more middle-aged I become the more I appreciate a good Wisteria

Heading west now, the low sun gleaming off the landscape

A lot of the farms had produce for sale with honesty boxes outside. I was quite tempted by this chutney, but couldn't be sure I'd have the energy to carry it back to Rock

Interesting old sign. There are many areas in England and Wales that are designated "commons" - but don't be fooled, this doesn't mean they belong to the people! Nearly all commons are owned by some other land-owner, and being a "common" simply provides a certain right (e.g. animal grazing) on local deemed commoners.

I think this is Little Rough Tor. But it might also be the back of Brown Willy.

Up here is a big tract of common land, a fairly enormous WW2-era airfield, and - most prominently - the largest cheese factory in Europe. The Davidstow factory largely manufactures cheddar - the universal English cheese - and produces something of the order of 9 tonnes of the stuff every hour. Unfortunately this impressive output has been coupled with some pretty egregious environmental pollution (including accidentally releasing a biocide that coated two miles of a nearby river in sludge and killed thousands of trout) - not to mention reportedly stinking out the few local residents. I was curious both to see this cheesemonger behemoth and to smell it for myself.

Out on the high windswept plateau. The name "Davidstow" is immediately identifiable to the British as the name of a very widely accessible mass produced cheddar...

Blessed are the cheesemakers? It was hard to miss the cheese factory, which is by far the biggest man-made thing in the landscape.

I suspect the wind was in the wrong direction, but as I passed the waste water treatment plants east of the giant factory complex (it is these that is the source of most of the pollution problems, rather than the factory itself) I definitely got a few unwholesome whiffs. Which considering the brisk easterly wind and exposed nature of the plateau was surprising. Not sure I'd want to live near this thing (though their cheese is ok. Not great, but ok).

I was still quite exposed to the wind as I crossed the airfield plateau so I was quite pleased to be able to take a sharp corner, heading south-east through the dense pine forest that's been planted up here. Unlike in most of Cornwall I was passed by a few drivers really hammering it along, though the passed me pretty safely. One oddity was a jeep towing a trailer - I jumped a bit when the trailer barked loudly at me, only to realise it packed (packed!) with maybe a dozen large puppies. Bizarrely, five minutes later the same rig passed me in the opposite direction. I can't figure out what was going on here - was the driver lost? Was he just driving his puppies from place to place on this God-forsaken cheese-smelling heath?

Finally I turned to the west and could begin a sometimes (given my sub-par brakes) hair-raising descent back into the valley of our old friend, the River Camel. This is the northern swoop of the river not too far from its source, and I crossed it not too far from the appropriately-named Camelford. Some steep climbs on the other side and I crossed the A39 Atlantic highway, on which I'd drive home later today.

Then followed some more typical Cornish roller-coaster rollers, which were pretty and enjoyable in themselves, but really started to take it out of me. My aim was the village of St. Teath, which I'd never even heard of before (and, it transpires, could in no way properly pronounce). St Teath turns out not to be the patron saint of dentistry, and the village a really charming place - small and pretty, but lively with cheerful young people even on a bank holiday evening.

I dearly would have liked to have stopped for a drink in one of the two pubs, but instead got my map out and considered my options. I was really getting quite knackered now and didn't want to do any more climbing if I could avoid it. My original plan was to have cut down to the coast at Port Isaac, but the necessary steep descent and (very) steep climbs up the other side made this less attractive. Instead I decided I head straight for the B road and follow that due west along the Pentire headland.

Good detail of the Cornish county crest. It's quite apposite, depicting a miner and fisherman for the traditional country occupations, and the bird on top being a Cornish chough, a once almost extinct beast that has been successfully reintroduced and now thrives along the coastline. The 15 gold coins are supposed to represent the ransom of a local nobleman (not sure why this is a particular point of pride). The crest is actually not of great antiquity, having only been invented in the 1940s.

The not so wide and mighty Camel, now we're near its source

Disappointingly pronounced St. "Tef". Cornwall is full of weird saints unheard of elsewhere. It could be worse, it could be St. Feocka (no, really).

I had some steep climbs out of St Teath, but these were unavoidable and at least afforded fantastic views over the now evening landscape

I yomped along the B road, which was nearly empty of traffic going my way. The grades were good and were mostly downhill anyway. After a few villages I stopped to consult my map again, and a kind fellow came across from his car to check I was alright. Since I only had a couple of miles to go this was easy to demonstrate - I don't think he had any idea I'd been across Bodmin moor.

Finally I peeled off through the last couple of villages around St. Minver. The vibe now turned to extremely prosperous as I neared Rock.

A rare sight this now - not only a red telephone box, but one with a working telephone (rather than library, defibrillator, toilet etc) within it!

.. though some of the patrons have been less than honest. I'm ashamed to say I stopped and openly chuckled at this sign for about a minute. There's just something intrinsically funny to me about not *stealing* the eggs, but paying a comically low amount.

I wheeled back into Pityme feeling, well, sorry for myself (or at least my muscles). The car was where I'd left it, and I rather arduously disassembled the Shift and got it back in the boot. As I was doing so, a fellow came out wearing high-vis and headed to tend the fermentors. I felt a bit sheepish for, um, rather cheekily using their carpark, but he was incredibly jolly about it. "We wondered who you were - ah, no problem at all!". Good man! I'd recommend Sharp's ale anyway but this has endeared them to me even more.

Today's ride: 94 km (58 miles)
Total: 446 km (277 miles)

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