An account of a journey to find adventure and an appropriate destination for my dadās charred remains
Having stored a cardboard tube containing dad’s ashes in the spare room wardrobe for a year (which has stubbornly refused to admit access to Narnia or any other hidden world) it felt like it was time to stop procrastinating. So for most of June and July 2024 I decided to undertake a sort of pilgrimage with my dadās ashes, to cycle them up to the Old Man of Hoy with the objective of throwing an old man off a cliff. I should maybe explain that itās not just any old cliff, but one with special significance to my father. The initial plan was to travel about 60 miles a day preferably avoiding very major roads, on my electric bike, as I am not an enthusiastic athlete, hopefully stopping for a nice lunch and a recharge then overnight at a suitably located hostelry. Apart from the need to relocate dad to somewhere more fitting than the back of my wardrobe I have the following motivations: 1) I found the general process and matter-of-factness of the half hour allowance at the crematorium quite troubling. I was uncomfortable with the lack of reverence for death, although I understand that it is inevitable in a population dense zone like Wolverhampton where itās difficult to cope with processing the sheer number of daily deaths. I wanted to give dad a little bit of ceremony and significance ( even though he never seemed to give a flying one himself about such things)Ā
2) The connection to the location is that he was the oldest person to lead that climb when he did it (maybe still is, no idea) and it was a major event in his life. 3) I wish to demonstrate, if only to myself, that itās possible to travel in a low carbon way to destinations and hopefully enjoy the journey.
4) Counteracting the current trope that oneās holiday is a flight to a beach somewhere and that itās somehow acceptable to destroy oneās local environment because we donāt expect it to be enriching and enjoyable any more, that concept is now reserved for the ādream holidayā destination. I hope to create my own adventure setting forth from my own front door.
Day 1
Reepham to Boston
Unsurprisingly I set off later than planned. Departing my home town I was distressed to see a large but completely macerated hedgehog in the middle of the road and a kestrel discarded in the gutter. I was under the cosh to cover the 35 miles to Kings Lynn before the foot ferry stopped running. That meant some serious pedalling had to be done so the first stage was a challenge with my poor old legs going pretty much nonstop for 2.5 hours. I hadnāt reckoned about how much the extra weight would slow me down either! Made it to the ferry in time despite finding it being trickier than anticipated, itās down a long alley with a narrow exit and not very obvious. A kind man with a possibly Ukranian accent carried the bike up and down the many stairs leading to and from, he definitely had his workout for the day (and possibly his first hernia). The ferry itself was nippy and efficient as well as being a bargain at Ā£1.40 for the trip. I enjoyed the NFNN rewording of the sign. Once docked in West Lynn my mission was to get the battery recharged as it was already extinguished š¬. Round the corner was a top chip shop and after checking that I wasnāt handing him a bomb, Ali the proprietor kindly put it on charge for me while I ordered and ate a fantastic hummus and halloumi veggie wrap full of piquant pickles and crunchy salad. Then I waited, and waited, it seems that a watched battery never chargesā¦
Once charged I had a daunting run to get to Boston before dark. Much time was spent contemplating the urgent need of a spare battery for the bike as, due to weight and wind resistance my anticipated daily mileage was reduced somewhat. Apart from that internal dialogue I alternated between staring at the horizon, checking my orientation and staring at the road, where the blur of bitumen bound gravel mesmerised me for miles into a trance like state. Once again, thankfully I was on flat land and for most of the stretch I was able to navigate back roads but eventually there was no option but the main road which was unnerving finally I arrived at dusk to my slightly bizzarre first night accommodation. The hotel had been, it transpired, Bostons town library, now converted in the worst possible taste to a modern hotel with no reception and no visible staff. A 24 hour help line was available and the kind Russian night porter stored my bike in a part of the building which had not yet been subjected to the conversion.
No posts were found.
Next, I headed to Hull, where I was fortunate to be hosted by the lovely Clare and Marianne. Hull was much easier to cycle around than I had anticipated, thanks to an excellent network of cycle paths and its conveniently flat terrain. Apparently, this network was established in the fifties when cycling was more common, and it continues to serve cyclists well today. I saw far more cyclists in Hull than I ever do in Norfolk.
I was also charmed by the suburb where my friends live, which boasts some delightful fountainsāone restored through public subscriptions and the other still functioning. These whimsical features add a rare touch of joy and character to the typically dreary suburbs, making life there more enjoyable and valuable. This is certainly not the case in the West Midlands, which is my personal nemesis. I loved these charming touches.
When I left, the storm clouds looked thunderous and moody, much like when I arrived. However, I was lucky enough that they kept their contents aloft, and I remained dry as I tackled the increasing gradients rising away from Hull.
I left staithes cycling up some scenic but massive hills
After a couple of days hanging out and being positively lazy the time had come to continue with the journey. Just leaving staithes requires a daunting hill out of town and I knew that electric assistance or not there was no way i was doing anything but push the bike up that bit. As Janice had opted to drive to the harbour for the purpose of loading up her luggage and her sister i decided that the pragmatic approach was to get my heavy cargo (Dad and battery) a lift up the hill with her and meet her at the top by the chip shop. This plan worked well and as a bonus janice was able to film me heading out and wobbling around the corner onto the coast road. Coastline in yorkshire is undulating to say the least so pretty much straight away i was contemplating a very daunting rise ahead of me. Sadly a fair bit of roadkill too, 2 hares and 3 hedgehog, the second hare obviously a very fresh casualty but squashed so flat it had all the appearance of a small round footmat placed randomly on the tarmac
Despite the hills the miles went quickly and it was only about an hour and a quarter before I was on the fringe of industrial teeside. Ground was flat so cycling was easy and rapid from the physical perspective but an alarming amount of traffic present so I was very keen to find a bike route. Satnav suggested that there would be a good alternative picking my way along some sort of housing estate and happily there was even a dedicated cycle path to get there. however this happy find was rapidly and literally u turned. The housing estate was infact a petrochemical plant nestled behind high security fencing. The security guard had no intention of letting me cut through there and turned me around. Retracing my steps the dramatic thunder clouds i had been eyeing up on the horizon decided it was time to descend and burst, thankfully I was close to a thicket of trees where I managed to get bike and I sheltered (mainly) and after 20 minutes or so the storm had emptied itself and I could move on, albeit rather damply
Dalwhinnie to Carrbridge
I overnighted in a hostel – The Dalwhinnie old school hostel- which was a different vibe to the room in a house format of the airbnbs I had been using. For one, it was a shared dormitory but that was the only negative ( and more negative for my dorm-mates I fear, as I an a noisy sleeper) the layout and planning of the entire setup was excellent, everything required was available (including for a small supplement, a hot tub which did wonders for my cricked neck). Next to each bunk a charging point and light, and a curtain for privacy. I was super impressed and when lee lit a cosy fire in the living room (its an unseasonably cold June, because warm Caribbean winds are melting the arctic and bringing the cooled air back down to the uk and Western Europe) went above and beyond with hospitality. A good variety of personalities and people to chat to, from the Belgian bus driver who had spent his holidays in Scotland for the past 22 years to the 3 lively ladies who were cycling the same route as myself but heading from north to south, from aviemore back to their pub in Edinburgh. Itās a few years since I hostlled but the trips dad took us on with his school, always had youth hostel accommodation at the core so it was an appropriate hommage. I still think it was a great achievement to give the ordinary kids who lived on estates in Wolverhampton a taste of more wild country, walking, climbing, abseiling, challenges they would never have met otherwise. Now that door appears to be closed to most ordinary children, the current environment of blaming the person responsible for any mishap means that any teacher is rightly terrified of leading any such activity which will inevitably have a degree of risk involved, but without that such a drab life. The education authorities have sold off what were their outdoor pursuit centres. The Mount in Wolverhampton which had an outdoor ski slope and where I was taught map reading and orientation skills has been flooged off and converted to flats long ago. What do the current generation of children at lanesfield school do now for new outdoor learning experiences?
The whole place was as clean as a whistle, including the handy shed available for storing the bikes. Lee explained how bad the timing was as he purchased the school from Highland council a couple of months before the start of the covid lockdown and obviously that meant 2 very difficult lean years for someone running a hospitality business, especially a new one. As his charges were peanuts (20/night) I was anxious on his behalf, its hard to believe that he was turning much profit.
June 24
The Altnaharra hotel could be usefully renamed āthe land of broken dreams . The first broken dreams you meet are in the glass case at the entrance where a pair of stuffed woodcock are frozen in time, never to fulfill their dreams of being left in peace to procreate and polulate Scotland with a host of dancing birds, going about their rhythmic rituals. They are clad in the most sublime plumage, first glance is āa brown jobā but the subtlety of colour and shade in each feather is a masterpiece. How anyone can be motivated with the excitement of obliterating such charming beings and their hidden, inoffensive lives dumbfounds me.
I had been directed to the reception by a gruff man with a strimmer. On entering i found deserted rooms. I obediently pressed the āring for attentionā bell , twice, still nothing. I had some water in my backpack so I made my way to the lawn outside to regard the surroundings. Plenty going on, a couple of wagtails contemplating parenthood and a delightful cluster of house martins swooping around trying to find something to eat
After 20 minutes i tried again. Still no one to be seen. I wandered through the reception and the bar chirruping āhello, is anyone there?ā Brightly. Found a chap in the kitchen, presumably the chef who was hiding against the wall cosied up with his phone and unhappy with the interruption
āIm not bloody doing this he muttered as i explained that I had been hanging around for 20 minutes, tried the indicated bell repeatedly and was unable to make contact with anyone
After a while he also gave up and found my room key
The room was in itself pleasant enough but had a fairly high constant droning noise from the enormous metal duct next to the window. It overlooked a backyard so containing 4 large raised vegetable beds in a state of extreme dilapidation, in keeping with the general mood of the place that had once been full of hope and industry but was now neglected and unloved. From the hanging baskets and window boxes drooping with crispy brown weeds, to the piece of stick used to chock the dining room door open, it screamed that something, somehow, had gone badly wrong with the plan.
On the plus side it had several house martin nests in the eaves so i was able to while away time watching them swoop in and out, a great treat as so few buildings accommodate these delightful little birds now. When i was a child they were ubiquitous.
I then ventured forth for a wander round before supper. The OS map featured some standing stones nearby so i made a beeline for them, albeit a line no self respecting bee would tolerate as i had to skirt round a loch and much boggy ground covered in improbable tufts of bog cotton ( as well as myriad purple and lilac orchids) bobbing in the breeze.
A couple of Red Deer hinds were picking their way cautiously down the fence line. I am used to seeing deer in my neck of the woods however much smaller species, muntjac and Chinese water deer predominantly, sometimes Roe. These looked like a different species, tall and gangly, more like giraffes. Sadly as soon as they spotted me they fled in terror, not surprisingly as I was wandering on a shooting estate so they had good cause.
I had to cross a fairly broad stream and gamble with the distances between the stones on my chosen route. Luckily feet remained dry which released a small fire of triumph in the soul.
Wandering back along the track thinking mainly of my supper I was astonished to see and hear a curlew flying. So pleased I had bothered to download the āMerlinā app which confirmed my guess as āEurasian Curlewā. Like many other ground nesting species these are becoming critically endangered as urbanisation encroaches bringing a myriad of pet animals, in particular the free roaming dog, into their world, leaving their eggs and chicks vulnerable at the critical breeding grounds. I was so excited I would have wet my pants had I not just had a sneaky al fresco wee ( mopped with dock leaves, no litter created i hasten to add) in the undergrowth.
On return the hotel continued to disappoint. The loud noise of the kitchen fan continued to reverberate my room, after some tentative moaning, I was advised that it would eventually be switched off when the kitchen closed (it was eventually, but unfortunately the kitchen reopened at 7 am the following morning, an unpleasant alarm call)
Supper was edible but smacked very loudly of āMums gone to Icelandā which, considering the price was the same as the absolutely superb meal I had enjoyed at Dunkeld, sufficed to make me more grumpy.
June 27
The alarm sounded at 7, not a great time for a night owl. I had set 2 devices because today was the ferry to Orkney day and I was terrified of missing it. I shoved my feet into trainers and headed to the (slightly whiffy, suspicious plumbing) toilet and kitchen block opposite my hobbit hole glamping pod. Judging by the amount of water around it must have rained in the night ācomme une vache qui pisseā as the french say. I decided to manipulate my bike out of the kitchen where it had spent the night (mercifully keeping dry) before loading it up for the journey.
I cycled through the school yard social housing estates of Thurso, wondering why the planners of such excrescences were determined to create such grey drab soulless edifices, guaranteed to make anyone reach for the heroin (or in most cases for that community, the Newcastle Brown) as a way to escape the drabness of their existence. It seemed a particularly bitter pill in an area already so bleak and wild as the North Coast of Scotland. It was an easy journey to the ferry and I gave myself an inner moment of exultation on arrival. (After having quelled the initial explosion of panic which occurred when I realised that I didnāt have my passport, as I am so habituated to being required to show my passport to get on a ferry!)
I was quietly entertained by the mansplaining of the well meaning security officer informing me that the EV label I had been given to display would not stay on my handlebars. To his consternation I was able to locate a convenient portion of handlebar to dangle it from and secure it by tucking it into the brake wires. He had to rearrange the tuck to his satisfaction but was then quite happy. I thanked him politely, as i did the security chap on the boat who helpfully tethered my bike then gravely informed me that it was ānearly as dangerous as an electric carā. I made no attempt to mention that energy concentrated in any form has the potential to get out of control whether itās in electric form in a battery or chemical form in a tank of fossil fuel and that the car deck was filled with equally potent potential dangers called cars. Nor that Luton car park was recently destroyed by a diesel car catching fire. I smiled politely and thanked him for his adept tethering of the bike.
Throwing an old man off a cliff 