Month: July 2009

3-peaks-phish-up-medium

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Setting off late on Friday to make the 60 mile trip to the venue (yes that seems close, but it’s a world away), meant that I had a dash up the motorway system. Dull but efficient and thankfully lightly trafficked, the turn off came fairly quickly. It was like dropping off the side of a swimming pool into the water, a completely different element. Gone was the straight and hello bends, hedges and stone walls. Hello villages and towns. Welcome back countryside and welcome back England of the storybooks and biscuit tin lids.

Still without a job or income, with no news on the divorce since April (no communications with Karen, she was posting the papers in February), no home and no real prospects, it’s only scenery like this and riding, that brings even the remotest inspiration, everything else is just turgid, treading water in uncertainty and continual disappointment, in what seems an increasingly ugly world, where the only option available is to just carry on and hope. So it’s always a pleasant relief when your soul is uplifted by simple road layouts and countryside.

The late afternoon was drying out nicely, despite having set off in waterproofs. 10 miles from the motorway and North Lancashire’s panorama of open fields, mellow hills, a castle silhouetted by the lowering Sun cresting the nearest of them, plus, a GPS  reading the route that I just placed all of my trust in. It was relaxed.

I had all my camping gear stowed and a visit to the supermarket had produced a few bits and bobs which, when thrown on a portable BBQ would produce a charcoal offering, barely edible and certainly not as good as the fish and chips I could smell as I rolled into Main Street, Bentham.

There stood a chippie of yore, a living monument to the people’s cuisine, a ‘sit in and eat’ chippie. It closed the seated area at 7.30 and it was 7.28 as I walked in. “Sure we’ll keep it open, as the take out side is still going strong”. How refreshing. Not the all too familiar and brusque, “sorry we are about to close”, which actually means you are still open, but just can’t be bothered.

Tea came in a china pot. Bread had butter, not margarine and the fish, chips and mushy peas were the best I’ve ever had. Honest to goodness, simple and sublime. A family business and you could tell. The conversation was friendly, the service was just right and the food had everything that a family tradition of being bothered and proud of what they serve, can imbue upon it. Unchained and homely and as right as it should be.

The Fish Inn, 22 Main Street Bentham, Lancaster.
(For other unchained venues like this, or to add your own, click here to go to unchainedworld. Thanks. Recommendations only.

The site was only a few miles away and I was able to arrive, set up my tent and not worry about supper, although a bottle of Magners was very welcomed.

Having suffered at the hands, or rather noses of a snorers in Ullapool, I’d taken a precautionary tour of the camp area, then decided to set up in an open area. Mistake. A bunch of gits from W. Yorkshire had set up camp a reasonable distance away…reasonable for reasonable people that is. These were far from reasonable, considering the campsite to be their personal arena. NO BALL GAMES! obviously didn’t relate to them, neither did having music blasting into the early hours. At 23:10 a ball came within inches of my tent for the umpteenth time, “F**kin’ Can’t see a F**ckin thing it’s so f**ckin dark” said one of the two girls who had decided it would be a good idea to start kicking a ball about, a ball that in daylight had been hitting other people’s cars, bikes and tents. One small group in a site with a hundred or so campers, decided to ruin the night for as many people as they could, screaming kids, swearing, music blasting…scum, scum, scum.

I bet if people had complained-I did the next day- “We are just having fun, so f**k off” would have been the reply. That their fun was at the expense of other people sleep and property, didn’t even cross their arrogant, selfish minds. So if you ever see a white transit from West Yorkshire from a Volvo dealership, please feel free to give them a scornful look and also if that’s the way they behave when representing their company, perhaps their company should be given a miss too.

Anyway, back to happier times. The next day’s ride out was special. I’ll be posting a movie of clips in the near future. But suffice to say that it was superb. Scenic, challenging, everything you could want from a day ride. It was like a sampler plate of all the finest ingredients an area could offer up. the weather was even in the mood to join in with the fun and games, keeping dry roads beneath us and dry skies above.

On one pass I had a mini freak out. A Saab took the downhill hairpin so slowly that I ran passed my turn in point. This left me looking straight over the edge and with my bike facing that way too. I was in the process of a three hundred point turn when the vertigo kicked in and I needed to find my comfortable place. The tail end guy did help, “look up at my eyes” he said, having positioned himself in a position just behind me, effectively dragging my view from the edge and the dropping road. Big thanks for that.

The rest of the day ran smoothly and splendidly.

As I was roughing it and had a pannier with meat and a portable BBQ in, I set up my kitchen and proceeded to burn flesh, while the majority went for the set meal. It was as the knife was in my hand and the BBQ was flaring that the ball came over again. Temptation to stab it and then cook it was tempered and I asked, “How many times do you have to kick that close, before you get the idea to go somewhere else?”

I didn’t understand the grunts that came back. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

All the Magners had gone the night before and a home-made scrumpy was on offer. It was enough.

The heavens opened, which was a blessing as the rhythmic rain spatterings on canvas kept the gits quiet and their football unemployed.

Sunday was a damp day to start with and the water proofs were on as all was packed away.

A few conversations over a breakfast cuppa and then all headed off on their ways, as is the nature of such meet ups.

I am left with a challenge however. That one pass where I stalled, must be revisited and conquered.

I joined an on-line group for riders a couple of weeks ago. I quit a few days ago. First clash came when an older guy , cool shades and leather jacket, decided that anyone with a GPS wasn’t a real rider. You know the “I’m hardcore because I use a map” type. Well if you are real hardcore, why not use wooden wheels and sit on a brick?

It really is a load of tosh and just a means of elevating oneself at the expense of others. Of course point this out and you become the git.

Next, a new rider came on. 1000cc bike and 2,000 miles of experience, and wanting to know about cornering. The more experienced members of the site offered a number of views, then I simply asked, “are you using counter steering?”

“Never heard of it. But I gave it a go and I’d not want to do it at any speed. I’ve done 2,000 miles and not needed it though”.

“Well if we are ever in a group ride, can you let me know, because I don’t want to ride with you in front of me, or behind”.

You’d have thought I’d called him a Kiddie fiddler, or said his mother was a whore.

All hell broke out on the thread.

How dare I. Give him his passport and get him out of here. Who does he think he is calling us all lesser riders.

It seemed that once one particularly challenged individual thought there was in some way a reference to her (of course there hadn’t been, it must just have been a projection of inadequacy), a swathe of women became involved. Not pleasant. One in particular had a structured debate style that consisted of, “No”. “No” “No”. Well done for being so persuasive and eloquent in the reply. At least brevity was a factor that was much appreciated as the txt stile mssiges uzally uz’d was evn more anoyin. Why do people use text style shorthand in this manner, to look young and trendy, or to hide an inability to structure sentences, or is this the way their minds are working?

I went on to point out that, even with the highly inadequate US training that I’d learned to deliver, counter steering was a part, so, that it wasn’t used in the UK was a concern and where my safety was concerned, it was imperative to me, that I reduce risks as much as possible, so, when a 1,000cc rider hits the first bend  feeling uncomfortable with “nudging the bars” (a term used in the argument, which in-of-itself shows a lack of understanding of the process) would only lead inevitably to the novice rider standing the bike up and T-boning whoever was in front of them, as they straight lined their 1000cc bike.

It quickly became obvious that this site only had a few capable riders and a whole bunch of “lifestyle” folk and certainly not people who I’d feel comfortable riding with, or even near. Sit them in a camp site getting p!ssed and wearing leather and that was their escape from humdrum mundanities, and that’s fine for them but not what I was looking for. Each to their own.

Rather than continue to bother with these people I left the site immediately…who needs that sort of bother, reaction and ignorance? Not me.

Two weeks earlier I had ridden out with two groups. One was the GS group, the other a local group of mixed bikes.

The mixed bike group may have individually been able riders, but as a group there were three that were shockingly thoughtless. Over taking just as the road narrowed, closing gaps when overtaking other vehicles and letting your wife get off the bike at the car park entrance so she can get into the ice cream queue first, while leaving all the riders behind stuck out on the road, in a single lane, because of road works, which were operating on traffic lights, so we were stuck blocking people behind us and when the lights changed, those coming towards us too.

I left that group eating their ices, to ride alone.

The GS riders, far better, far more of a unit and it’s not just the brand as most had other models of bike too. It was that the riders all had each other in mind and acted accordingly. They showed a discipline to riding responsibly, fast and enjoyably, but responsibly.

I guess that’s the key, ride within your limits, have respect for those around you and if that means learning the skills required to ride competently before you join a group, then that’s what you should do. Because if you don’t, it’s the ultimate in arrogance and selfishness and you may not only make yourself a statistic, but also add someone else to the rta list.

And those who feel pointing this out isn’t supportive, think again. If all the authorities need is sufficient data to limit motorcycling, then by pointing it out, I’m supporting all those who treat riding responsibly and cherish their ability to have two wheels on the road to such a degree that they train, they learn and they don’t believe 2,000 or 1,000,000 miles means they’ve stopped learning.

And to the folk riding in the BM Online group and the Waterloo based group, please remember that being ignorant may not result in you having an accident, it may not cause those around you to have an accident, but when the statistics dictate that you end up paying more for your insurance or have the cc of your bike restricted, or find that motorcycling is made more difficult to enter because the test is made more stringent, so fewer riders come through, so fewer bikes are sold, so manufacturers put the cost of machines up, that it’s behaviour and attitudes that you’ve displayed that are a big part of that…so thanks a lot!

I thought I’d see how far I could ride up the coast. No real plan and only a few destinations as vague suggestions. It helped that having planned a route in my garmin, it wasn’t saved and I couldn’t be bothered to re enter it. However a few names stuck in my mind and that’s all I needed.

It takes time to get out of the conurbations and be free to choose to take coastal roads, rather than be force feed ring roads, about 30 miles to be exact. That’s 30 miles that tie you up in traffic. 30 miles that make you question your choice to challenge the weather forecast (several storms and localised flooding) and just turn back.

Preston has to be the worst, but it’s also the last, so that should give you heart if you are ever passing through to the N.W coastline.

A few sweeps round a rocky mass and the marshy areas of the Morecombe Bay area come into view. I saw a dirt road that I assumed would lead to the coast itself. It didn’t. But it did lead to a bird sanctuary and the first of the comedy classics. Eric Morecombe, who took his name from the area (no not an area called Eric) was a famous half of a UK double act Morecomebe and Wise. Their Christmas Special became an institution. Apparently he was also a bird watcher and I’d found his hide. Red Shanks, Plovers, Reed Warbler, a Grey Wagtail and Heron, Dunlins and Sandlings. Carrying my tank bag and helmet meant I had no hand free to block the spring-loaded hide door, which smacked shut with a crack like a gun shot. The couple in the hide were very understanding and only tutted mildly, so not radical, fundamentalist, break-away, attack twitchers.

It was like a sauna in this wooden hut. A silent sauna.

I managed to use my boot to stifle the door’s closing on the way out.

Jenny Brown’s Point, was the next stop, running into a dead end after following a detour around the Silverdale Carnival, and all damp and soggy bunting that entailed. It did look sad and under attended. I noticed that the “parade” ran from 1:00pm to 1:15pm, so that must have been something worth catching. Still, I bet a committee had argued vehemently over every detail for days and days and munched their way through malted milk biscuits by the gross. And if it turned out well, then congratulations on a job well done, at least you did your bit. Now there’s next year’s to look forward to.

Jenny Brown’s Point was a great little find. I watched a deer playing on the beech and even taking a dip in the tidal pools.  Captivating. Time slipped by easily and contentedly.

Retracing my route a few hundred yards, I passed the art gallery and cafe. Well not passed exactly, more stopped and went in. Home made elder flower presse and lemon drizzle cake, three presses, the most refreshing drink I think I’ve ever had. The lemon drizzle was special too, and I did see someone with a large bowl of fresh berries and cream which looked good.

Ullveston was having it’s carnival too, and looked equally as soggy but I did promise myself to call in on the way back.

Another downpour and another scurry for a pub. Obviously a local pub for local people, but with a wooden gazebo in the car park where scantily clad girls huddled in the rain, so that they could smoke. Classy.

The rain was sharp but short and I was soon on my way again.

I realised I wasn’t going to make it all the way to my intended destination, Whitehaven.

Whitehaven has a special place, in the “special relationship” between the UK and USA. It was here where a disgruntled Scot who was leading the US Navy, planned to attack one of the UK’s ship building centres.

Davy Jones and his two ships sailed into the harbour with the intention of burning the town down. The bright lights of the local tavern however, were a temptation too far (It may have been the light from the cigarette ends in the car park gazebo that caught their eye of course, but I doubt that).

The crew came ashore and partook of the hospitality, to such a degree that they were incapable of fulfilling their mission. The next day, hung over and obviously with their cunning plan discovered thanks to some brilliant detective work and much drunken boasting of their intentions, they set sail for home. It’s still celebrated, at the local pub…by the locals and a contingent from the US Navy, they must feel very proud.

Anyway, that’s another ride, on another day.

Ableside, there’s a river side town, (bridge pic) which on a drier day would be far more appealing, so long as there were more parking spaces.

I rode round to Piel Island. The ferry had stopped running for the day, providing another reason to return this way. But the biggest hassle was that the only camping I’d seen, was over on the island.

Nearest big town now was Barrow in Furness…however I can only assume and hope for the sake of the inhabitants, that I took a route through the town that was less favourable. Saturday night had brought out the people too. There seems to be a big fashion towards dayglo pink, which on a Mediterranean evening, lit by a golden setting sun, as it kisses sun bronzed bodies, may work. Fat lasses with ghost white bingo wing arms, not quite so good a fashion statement. Ask your Moms before you go out…oh you already are Moms!

I’ll see if there’s a ring road next time. Same should apply to Blackpool which I’d passed through earlier. A giant inflatable dick being waved from an ‘Executive Transit’ basically a workman’s van with benches and, based on this view, too many windows, full of full war painted sirens, isn’t what you want to see in full daylight, if ever. “Kiss me kwik, F**k me slow” novelty hats, you must be so very, very proud!

Anyway, it was 8:30 pm and I needed somewhere to camp, or a decent b&b. I passed a slip road that looked promising and turned around, only to find a 6 mile central barrier stopped me from getting back  a to the entrance, so a  12 mile detour later, I headed a short distance off road, passed a stagnant pool with clouds of mosquitoes and on to a small clearing. I was about to get off the bike when a tumbling, snorting and obviously annoyed feral pig came rushing into the space (it wasn’t dayglo pink, just muddy pink, which is how I could tell it wasn’t a local courting couple that had been disturbed). It made it quite clear that any thoughts of resting there for the night were a none starter. I wasn’t far from the M6 North/South motorway and a two hour blast would have me back before it was too late, although I preferred to stay in the area and carry on the next day further North. Still another series of downpours made my decision for me, plus nowhere to set up a tent that wasn’t also a spot for tippers to have dumped their crap, lazy, thoughtless bastards.

So back down the motorway. Stopped at services twice, due to rain. Just north of Blackpool a stretch limo pulled in so that the contents could spew out in a mass of…dayglo pink. Spewing out and up, seemed to be what the passengers were most intent on doing. A hen night on the way to Blackpool, with even a group of lads travelling back from a rugby game turning their noses up at what was on offer.

Having said which a coach arrived with a women’s althletic team on board. What a contrast and restoration of faith in standards. Smart, not foul mouthed and even without all the gloop troweled on, naturally attractive. Then it was the rugby boys turn to turn oafish.

Anyway I forgot Ullveston. Small market town, sad damp bunting and all, but with a civic theatre, outside which stood a bronze statue. Laurel and Hardy.

Seems Stan was born in the town. Part of my early years when black and white movies were shown at Saturday Cinema chums club and sometimes on TV and at school end-of-year parties. Even then they were old movies, watched as much out of curiosity as in fun, but they were funny. Thanks Stan for being part of what made me smile, when so much nowadays just doesn’t.

It seems the ‘simpler things’ are where I’m finding more happiness, the natural, the uncontrived…the deer on the sand, home made drinks, lemon drizzle cake, even the pig encounter. Details that are increasingly harder to spot, or just fortuitously glimpsed, that’s where I need to focus, where at every opportunity I need to give myself the chance to be ‘fortuitous’.

I spent the night back in my room, glad at what I’d given myself the chance to see and at the rewards which that had brought. One deer playing in tidal pools outweighs metaphorically, if not physically, a whole transit of dayglo pink and party puke.

And once again, thanks Eric and Stan for simply being funny.