Six appeal...

Er, wow!

Shock and awe as the total donated by the Saga's sensational supporters continues to rise...

Many, many thanks.

David Hart (Head of CPAS Ventures and Falcon Camps) tells me that the amount raised so far underwrites the cost of an entire camp.

And I hope readers will forgive me for having the comparativley weeny figure of £231 currently at the forefront of my thinking.

Meanwhile: Hurrah!

Back in my own back yard...

Home at last...

Saturday's train journey from Thurso to Leamington was a few hours longer than planned - but all things considered, one's grateful to be able to travel such a long distance in such a relatively short space of time - and without pedalling.

Relaxed on Sunday with a 30-mile ride over to Stratford and back in glorious sunshine and genuine heat.  Cycled without a fleece for first time in weeks...

Wonderful welcome back today at work. How kind.

And the total-so-far is above....

You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?

That extra £80 is going to come in, isn't it?

Thanks and thanks again to all the wonderful people who have supported the ride with such kindness, humour, generosity and practical helpfulness.

Hurrah!

I was glad...

Early start to take the wee ferry from John o'Groats to Burwick, across the waters of the Pentland Firth.


A corrugated, windy ride northwards up the chain of islands linked by the wartime Churchill barriers.

A brief stop at the extraordinary Italian Chapel, two Nissan huts transmogrified by Italian prisoners of war into remarkably beautiful place of worship.

And then a descent into Kirkwall and the great sandstone cathedral becomes a magnet pulling me to the end of my journey.

And on arrival, emotion surprises me...

But only briefly - back on the bike and pedal against the wind to the narrow, flag-stoned streets of Stromness and the cruise-ship ferry back to Thurso.

The wind drops, and the evening light bathes the vast cliffs of Hoy...

Whoosh...

Well, I had to wait a long time, but finally it arrived - a strong, friendly and so-welcome tail wind.

The remaining miles to John o'Groats were a skim and a whoosh, long segments where I was travelling effortlessly at 25mph. Armstrong-esque. Absolutely no credit to me. It's that west wind.

And then J o G, marginally less tacky than Land's End - and packed with cyclists and leather-clad bikers.

I think I am looking reasonably happy in the 'official' snap - note Falcon Camps on the signpost.

Wonderful email and Facebook messages come pinging in via the extremely intermittent signal.

And I'm here.

Phew...

(Confused? Probably - I get the date wrong at the start of the podcast.)

Coo

North from Altnaharra down the Naver valley to Betty Hill and my first glimpse of the northern coast of Scotland.

Empty beaches, towering cliffs and the northern ocean stretching away - next landfall Iceland.

Early arrival at the splendid Strathy Inn and a walk out to the lighthouse at Strathy Point - and an extraordinary panorama of the northern coast.

Later an in-depth discussion in the inn's bar between landlord and two friendly bikers on the benefits of Avon 'Skin so Soft' as a near-miraculous midge-repellant.

Middle, near the top

A clear, still warm day for my entry to what feels like the 'north beyond the north' - the wild, empty lands of Sutherland.


Leaving Lairg, I see a burdened figure striding ahead.

Ray O'Connor from Macclesfield is nearing the end of his epic end-to-end walk, which began on 9 April. He hopes to reach John o'Groats at the weekend. Respect!

(Our chat beside the narrow road was punctuated by the roar of two passing Forestry Commission juggernauts, one laden with timber, the other empty.)

The bait pulling me north was the prospect of a lunch stop at the renowned (among end-to-enders) Crask Inn. Possibly the loneliest inn in Britain, in terms of wilderness location.

All was quiet when I arrived. A hand-written paper on the door read: 'Closed for funeral business. Open at 4.00pm'.

And so on to the hamlet of Altnaharra, nestling beneath the vast shoulder of Ben (I'll find out which Ben as soon as I can...) - and a night of indulgent luxury in the Altnaharrah Hotel, which caters for the upmarket fishin' and shootin' market. Forgot to pack my tweeds.

In fact the hotel is delightful - not snooty at all.

And my bathroom is, at this stage of the ride, only one step this side of paradise...

Fisherman's friend?

Across the beautiful Black Isle (couldn't be greener) to Cromarty to catch a ferry - that wasn't there...


The old ferry, it turned out, had gone west. The new one was still on its way up from Southampton.

Problem.

I'd already cycled 25 miles. Without the ferry crossing I'd have to return almost to the start, changing an easy 55-mile day into a slogggish 85-miler.

Then the lady at the cafe said: 'You could always ask one of the fishermen to take you over...'

Blown away...

Well, I joked about Waterloo. I think Dunkirk would have been nearer the mark...

I woke to a definite drop in temperature. I changed into cold-weather gear and set off up Glenshee, the north wind getting stronger all the time, discouraging when your route for the day is due north all the way.

I had to get off and push for the final approach to the summit where the hurricane was shooting road grit into my face. Hard to stand up.

The ten miles to Braemar were slow and blustery, downhill against the wind.

And I knew at that point that, against this wind, I hadn't the reserves of energy to get through the next 30 miles of big ascents and descents to Tomintoul, my stop for the night.

So I had to make a decision.

I dropped in to the Braemar Tourist Office. No public transport link to Tomintoul. My only real option was to skip a day and get myself to Inverness. A bus was leaving in twenty minutes.

And so here I am in Inverness. No longer a genuine End-to-Ender, but I know I made the right decision.

The bus journey (via Aberdeen) had its compensations: friendly drivers, bizarre overhearings (you don't want to know what happened to the eight-year-old boy as a result of a couple of visits to Disneyland).

Should have taken snaps at Aberdeen - you'd have thought it was January.

Picture: Word for the week here in Inverness.

Finally facing...

A short day today, only 35 miles, taking me into the Highlands to the Spittal of Glenshee.


Out of Perth past the ancient Palace of Scone to Blairgowrie and a delightful pause at The Wee Coffee Shop (plus a far-from-ancient scone).

Then up and up towards the ski areas of Glenshee (the Valley of Peace) scene of a long-ago bloody inter-clan battle.

And tomorrow... The highest ascents of the ride...

Perth-fect day

A microscopic amount of anxiety had me up and on my way today just after 6.00am.

Thanks to a brilliant map (so brilliant that cartographically challenged moi couldn't go wrong) I was out of the city and on my way to the Forth Bridge with minimal stress and traffic annoyance.

Over into the Kingdom of Fife, a couple of mis-directional problems in Inverkeithing and Dunfermline.

Then on into the broad beautiful countryside pictured about.

Arrived in stylish Perth just after 3.00pm.

And the real cycle people at JM Richards took my bike in for an impromptu service and check-over - nae worries.

And now... the Highlands.

Please note - from now on it's possible that internet access may be patchy. So, if you are a podcast listener, please accept my apologies for hiccups in the schedule.

Benissimo!

Yes, that is the total-so-far, raised by the amazing supporters of this wacky project.

And where better to celebrate than Edinburgh's legendary Italian grocery and eatery Valvona & Crolla, well-known to foodies and fans of Alexander McCall Smith's novels.

A million thanks and more to everyone who has helped get us this far - financially, and in terms of push-behind-the-pedalling motivation!

The V&C cafe is filling up. Nearby two young orchestral musicians are discussing (earnestly) their feelings about Mahler and Beethoven.

Another cyclist has arrived...

Clean sweep

My first glimpse of the Firth of Forth and the great city of Edinburgh....


From remote silence and solitude to the hurly-burly of this glorious capital city...

Remote retreat

I'm learning not to be too surprised by what I encounter on my journey.


So I wasn't too taken aback to find myself enjoying soup and toast in the cafe of this long-established Tibetan monastery.

Bagged

A pause on the busy A7 to savour the northern shift in to Scotland. Where's passport control?

The landscape opens out and soon I'm pedalling up the Eskdalemuir Valley, where one sees another vehicle perhaps once every ten minutes.

Turning a bend I spot a brown stuff sack on the roadside. Hmm, somebody's going to miss that.

Ten minutes later a Land Rover overtakes, stops and the driver waves the said stuff sack in my direction: 'Is this yours?'

How kind, but I'm obliged to deny ownership. The gentleman turns his vehicle around and is gone.

Five minutes later a cyclist approaches and stops me. 'Have you seen a brown stuff sack?'

He's a fellow End-to-Ender, John, and the bag contains his waterproofs.

I tell him what I know.

John continues in pursuit of the Land Rover and the stuff sack, asking me to update his two cycling pals who are waiting up ahead.

Five minutes later a white van approaches, pulls in and the driver (agricultural, green wellies) flags me down.

'Your friends want you to get back to them right away...'

I explain that I'm not John - and tell her what I know.

She continues in pursuit of John and the Land Rover - and the stuff sack.

Wondering how much more like The Gingerbread Man this can become, I huff on until I meet John's pals (top).

And I tell them what I know.

Great guys - they're doing LEJoG at a scary daily average of 85 miles. They're concerned for John - he's the 'weakest' of the trio. And he's over seventy. My impression back down the road had been of a spry fellow possible a year or two my senior. We part on cheery terms.

Another eight miles up the valley I stop at the local Tibetan Buddhist monastery (What? There isn't one in your neighbourhood?) and enjoy delicious soup and toast in the eye-poppingly colourful tea room.

As I'm leaving the trio arrive. No stuff sack, but they are confident that they'll get it back eventually.

We muse on whether local people 'down south' would have taken so much trouble over a missing item.

Half an hour later, I'm puffing along when the guys overtake me with a cheerful greeting - and are gone, zooming up the next ascent.

NB They have a support van, and carry no more than bare essentials on their bikes.

NB+ Don't expect me to be cycling at that pace - and over those distances - in twelve years from now - with or without a support vehicle...

Out of Eden...

Low on miles, high on moisture, today's gentle ride took me from the wooded lanes of the Eden Valley to the not-too-busy streets of Carlisle.


Excellent early coffee break at the Village Bakery, Melmerby and a chat with a splendid senior motor cyclist who extolled the twin joys of post-60 biking and free bus travel - presumably not undertaken simultaneously.

My last full day in England.

Tempted...

Into Yorkshire for my first 'major' hill climb up Dent Dale and to Garsdale Head (1750 feet).

Huffing up beautiful Dent Dale (think 'Postman Pat'), I pause to take a snap, unintentionally causing two-car mini-jam. The driver of the car behind me overtakes, stops and lowers window to address me.

I'm braced for my first traffic-related, er, rollicking.

Instead I see the cheery face of my former vicar Bill Merrington (top), now resident in Bournemouth, who just happens to be passing this way.

Coffee stop at Dent.

Then the climb begins. The first section resembles the side of house and I'm obliged to push - hard.

The pushing continues until I reach Dent Station, on the famous Settle to Carlisle line.

Hmm, I could take a ride all the way to Appleby, my destination for tonight.

As I'm wrestling with my conscience, two walkers (plus dog) come alongside, engage me in conversation and so we continue up the slope, higher and higher, and, for my part, the effort diminishes as we chat.

Thanks, Steve and Stef Ottervanger (and Bruce) - you boosted my spirits far more than you may realise.

Then, the summit - and the reward for not wussing out down below. Vast vistas, clear air, cloud shadows, birds calling...

Biscuit to banquet

Traversing big cities, such as Preston, with bike is not one of my major skills. I've a knack for finding the least attractive route possible.

But, that achieved, the day got better and better.

A chance meeting with James and his dog Dan led to me having two companions (one cycling, one running) along the splendid cycle track that took me along the Lune estuary, past Lancaster and on up the valley, the wide countryside opening up in the afternoon sunshine.

Lunch stop at the totally terrific Pudding House Farm Cafe, Cockerham. Worth a detour. 

While buying an ice cream, I enjoyed a slightly Alan Bennet-ish encounter with a senior lady...

Tea stop at busy Kirkby Lonsdale, then on to my accommodation in the tiny village of Barbon - in Cumbria.

Edgy

One of those 'necessary' days when you're in between the big, spectacular sights and sounds....

North over the wide expanse of the Manchester Ship Canal on a small toll bridge ('No charge for bikes, love.')

All the time I seemed to be in the gaps between places, suburbs, industrial estates...

Chatted with a pub landlord who wanted to tell me all about his establishment's resident spooks.

A pause for a haircut (£4.50) and then on to the top-notch Parr Hall Farm B&B at Eccleston, south of Preston. Best-value B&B so far.

Chatted to a guest cyclist who's also End-to-End-ing.

She: 'Well, I like to take my time, stopping off at National Trust properties en route...'
Me: 'How many miles did you do yesterday?'
She: 'Ninety-eight.'
Me: '....'

Almost Shakespearean

'Hey ho, the wind and the rain...' sang one of the Bard's characters...


It was one of his clowns to be specific. Appropriate?

Today had moments of major moistness, but many more of cool misty cycling. Up, up, up from the Ironbridge Gorge.

Then through a maze of lanes and tiny communities over many miles of gently rolling countryside: hamlet after hamlet after hamlet.

Finally as my enthusiasm was draining away came the village of Audlem on the Shropshire Union Canal.

Top-notch public house with a warm welcome for the dripping cyclist. Roast beef sandwich with home-made red cabbage coleslaw.

'For this relief, much thanks.' (Hamlet, Act 1, Scene1)

The 65-mile day ended with a welcome whizz into the Cheshire village of Davenham along a well-marked cycle track.

Until the track crossed a farmyard, necessitating a dismount and a short but deeply squelchy walk across a morass of bovine effluvium.

Slurry seems to be the hardest word.

But - hurrah! - my kindly B&B hostess allowed me full use of her garden hose. And my room features a massive shower cubicle and a heated towel rail.

For this relief, even more thanks.

Epiphany of the day: receiving a surprise donation from one of the people I have encountered along the way. Wow!

High Wyre to deep gorge..

Rain. It happens. I've told myself to get over it...

To be honest, after a dismal start today was short, undulating, green and pleasurable.

Mildest of boos to incident at 8.10am, two moist miles out of Worcester. My chain seized up, obliging me to return to the city centre and the bike shop that I had visited yesterday.

Big hurrahs for manager Dan, who spotted the bedraggled cyclist approaching well before the shop's 9.30 opening time - and welcomed me in. Dan diagnosed a problem with my cage (shamefully unaware after years of cycling that I had one) and fixed it within minutes. Elation.

Near ecstasy on emerging to discover that the rain had ceased.

Leaving town the second time I paused to remove waterproofs and chatted to a walker - roughly my age. He insisted on giving me a donation for Falcon Camps. Brian, thank you very much.

Ups and downs through the dank greenery of the Wyre Forest.

Pauses in tow quiet and charming towns: Bewdeley and Bridgenorth.

And a whoosh down to the Ironbridge Gorge, arriving at the shockingly early hour of 3.30pm.

I encountered cyclists Rob and Tracy (above), fellow end-to-enders. They're from Kent, left Land's End after me - and will reach JoG long before me. And I like the hat.

And on the Severnth day...

One rested in historic Worcester....

Three cheers for the ladies of the above very beautiful launderette. I can continue my journey restored to my customary fragrance.

Even bigger thanks to all who came to visit me in Worcester yesterday and today. Spirits are raised.

Weather forecast causes as certain amount of anxiety.

Onwards!

Forest Falconers make my day

Journeys are about people...


So three cheers each for...

• The Owen family who welcomed me to their eyrie high over the Wye Valley - special mention to Douglas Owen's chocolate cake.
• Falcon Camp leader (and former colleague) Richard Prescott and son Jotham (above) who hunted me down as I slogged my way across the valleys and hills of the Forest of Dean.

Greyish

I was impressed by this splendid monumental bronze in the centre of ancient bordertown Chepstow. Even more impressed by the retail juxtapositiioning...


Rather a grey day from an early escape from misty, wacky-wickery Glastonbury. A stiff climb through the granite of Cheddar Gorge.

Miles along the spine of the Mendips - more or less deserted.

Whoosh down to the Chew Valley lakes - and then a leg-wobbling ascent of the feared Dundry Hill.

And Bristol - and sadly a tour of many of the great city's less attractive aspects.

Epiphany of the day: I stop a cyclist for directions. We chat. He gives directions clearly. And he insists upon giving me his map. How kind.

Perhaps I reminded him of his grandfather?

A windy, misty crossing of the Severn Bridge. And then Chepstow, the Wye - and up steeply into Gloucestershire.

Was intrigued to learn that JK Rowling was brought up near here.

Staying with kind friends - and teenage offspring.

Grey dispelled.

Speeding up...

Another day, another English county...

Pleasures

• The Exe valley north of Tiverton. A gentle ascent through ancient woodlands. Why isn't this as well-known as the Wye Valley? Beautiful.
• Wiveliscombe: just inside Somerset. Unwrecked hilltop town. And hurrah for the cheery antipodean lady who gave me the lowdown on the towns cafe options.
• Lunch in Taunton with my old friend Geoff. Wonderful. 
• Whizzing through a maze of lanes on the Somerset levels (not all that level)
• And today I have not been obliged at all to get off and push - a fact that is down to geography, not increased leg-power.

And now I am in Glastonbury. Not quite my cup of tea. A much stranger brew. Many of the shops seem to be selling rather, er, 'esoteric' goods and services.

And a wee podcast in which I muse on tattoos and tranquillity - and receive a decibel-heavy kickback (which my recorder makes sound rather distant)

The road goes ever on and on..

As Bilbo Baggins was fond of remarking...


Top marks and exuberant cheers today to:

• being in Devon, my county of origin
• the weather
• high hedgerows flanking endless traffic-free lanes with views out across rolling countryside
• Bay Tree Cafe, North Tawton: kind staff, gargantuan sandwich, friendly service
• North Tawton itself - and unwrecked gem.

The mildest of disapproval to:

• headwind - cooling but discouraging
• brisk cafe lady in Oakhampton. Do NOT approach the counter!

And one is a wee bit pooped tonight. 159 miles so far.

Thanks, all supporters, for wonderful messages.

Remember this is all for Falcon Camps - fab hols for children and young people facing disadvantage.

Look to the right for the JustGiving link!

The podcast begins with 30 seconds of silence - probably its best feature...

A bit of an up and downer

Sunshine nearly all the way...


Switchback coast road north to Padstow, a very fishy Steinopolis, home of the famous seafood empire.

A deliciously flat scoot along the Camel Trail.

A dodgy mis-read of the map took me out of Wadebridge in the wrong direction.

Lifesaving cake and tea at Four Seasons Cafe, Camelford. I recommend the banana bread - it has healing properties.

End-of-day magical whizz down long leafy lanes on edge of Bodmin Moor.

Rose Cottage B&B in Launceston - delightful. Could I book in for a few extra days..?

Goths, soporific seaweed, sea fog and the poetry of place names

And we're off...

Land's End was eerily still and fog-bound this morning. A siren hooted through the mist.

To save time, please take it as a given that all that followed today was corrugated in the extreme.

Coffee stop in Penzance in the friendly and super-cool Exchange Gallery, where another kind lady forced a donation on me.

Gradually the mist lifted and a sapphire sky emerged as I puffed through and near villages, distinctive to my eye and ear for their splendidly evocative names: Blowinghouse, Praze-an-Beeble, Joppa, Relubbers, Numphra, Treen, Polgigga...

A long whoosh down to Perranporth, basking in afternoon sunshine. Fascinating to observe the holiday outfits chosen by many. Though no trendster oneself, one can't help the occasional: 'What were you thinking?'

No temptation to surf here in Newquay. Me in a wetsuit? What was he thinking?

And, should you wish to listen, here's today's podcast. Yesterday's should play immediately afterwards. Can't master the tech to get them the correct way around!