Well this isn’t one to celebrate either. One year ago I started out on the Three Teas Trip.

Still haven’t really got to grips with what happened, or why and certainly haven’t returned to any status that you’d call normal, or desirable?

Perhaps it’s just a trip that hasn’t finished yet, so there’s no way to sum it up…yet.

In between sending out over 1250 job applications since returning, trying to prove to the Government that I am indeed British, constantly explaining what the hell I’m doing in the UK and “no it doesn’t seem to make any sense does it”, and “no there isn’t a shorter version” and “I’m sure it’s not something you’ve encountered before but can you help” and “what do you mean, it’s too complicated for you, you are the citizens advice bureau, you are supposed to have access to experts” and, “if I had any money I wouldn’t be asking if you did a no win no fee service, so why do you keep saying 200 pound an hour and ooh isn’t it complicated, so that’ll take quite some time”, and, “well after two years your no claims bonus has gone, so it’s full price”, in between doing that stuff on a very regular basis, well daily actually, I have spent a few hours at the Apple Mac store.

They have helped me to work on a new version of this site. It’s not quite finished, but it is the only thing where I seem to be making an progress in my life. So bear with me for a short while and there will be something more dynamic and functional to look at.

In the meanwhile, I’ll get back to wading in the crud that I seem to be unable to crawl free from.

An area of Great Britain that I’d always by-passed in the past was the North East corner of England.
I had a job interview in York (didn’t get it) and with my hosts having a celebratory leaving for America party for their son (not something I felt comfortable attending), I decided it would be a good time to take advantage of my proximity to the area.
The interviewer said he’d not hold my motorcycle clothes against me, so I set off on Thursday.

Unlike crossing the USA, crossing England is a few hours at most, especially at the point where the wall was built by Hadrian between 122 and 130 AD. Much of it has gone. Pillaged for use in other buildings near by. In certain areas it has disappeared altogether. In others, remains show how formidable an obstacle it would have presented, especially where combined with geography and geology.

This is a slide show from some of the stills I took. There’s lots of video that I need to edit, but I’m also working on changing this website at the moment, so patience is needed on that.

When looking at history and travel, sometimes it’s easy to think it was only invented a few hundred years ago. The fact that sitting on a wind swept, wet dark, cold and overcast volcanic outcrop, high above the marshy lands that were the boundary with the barbarians, was the job of a Syrian archery battalion in AD 100, suddenly brings home how arrogant we can be to be dismissive of the achievements of our ancestors.

That buildings were constructed, which have lasted time, wars and weather for centuries, where as the modern structures we throw up have a fifty year life expectancy, makes you question our temporary, disposable attitude.

One thing to remember about building a wall is, it will have two sides…one side to keep people out and the other side keeps people in. You are building not only a structure but also division, creating an us and them, mistrust, alienation and fear. Always been the same with walls, always will be.
Hadrian’s version was as much about financials as it was safety.

Of course, when the Romans and their forces withdrew, they left behind a very prosperous country but without admin and a strong law. Others tried to move in, so defences were needed to keep them at bay.

Human nature being what it is, when not facing an enemy, often the powers that held this force, would use it to further their own causes, which sometimes resulted in the subjugation and exclusion of the populace from sharing in decision making and wealth. The few gained a lot, at the expense of the masses.

So there you have it. Fear and the manipulation of fear, enabling the few to prosper and create a clique of power, at the expense of the people they are supposed to be protecting. Still that’s just history…isn’t it.

Oh yes, the bendy bloke…St Cuthbert. Locked himself away, so that the view and other people wouldn’t interfere with him performing his devotions (not sure what practical use that has). Anyway, he died and was venerated for what seems to be a purely selfish lifestyle. Still on Lindisfarne Island, the monks had amassed wealth by selling prayers to save the souls of those willing to pay. The Vikings came over and raided. St Cuthbert was exhumed and moved. His body was still flexible and hadn’t decomposed, even though he’d been dead for 40 yrs. He was dug up several times there after, always bendy and fresh. So it seems that St Cuthbert’s reward for his piousness was to be blessed with a flexible body…after death…so that’s useful.

Took a leisurely 3 hours to meander across England from one side to the other, following the 80 mile long wall as closely as possible. Took 4 days of riding around, to see what I wanted to see though.

Things frequently seem so cut and dried in historical reports. That’s very rarely the case as you soon discover following the Wall. We were taught that it was the end of the Roman Empire, but that was only the case for a 40 yearish period. Trajan had gone much further north and you see Roman settlements and forts on the “barbarian” side of the Wall. Plus these barbarians weren’t all that barbarian. They were skilled farmers and crafts people. They were just different and had a different culture to the Romans, who happened to write the reports.

Anyway, Cumbria and Northumberland, full of history. I even tripped over history, it’s everywhere.Vindolanda, is the site of the most treasured British find in the British Museum, the earliest written records found in the country. The excavations in this picture are of the 7th layer of fort built by the Romans. Their structures used unseasoned timbers, so had to be demolished every 20 years or so. They’d cut the wood down to ground level, then use clay to set a new floor. This anaerobic layer effectively sealed the layer beneath and trapped everything for posterity.

As I mentioned previously, the forces here came from many locations, with the Roman Romans holding the senior positions. Even the local Brits joined the Roman army…minimum 25 years after which you were eligible for Roman citizenship.
This is a modern stone to commemorate all who served at Vindolanda and the Wall.

The Batavians (Latin Batavi)[1] were a Germanic tribe, originally part of the Chatti, reported by Tacitus to have lived around the Rhine delta, in the area that is currently the Netherlands, “an uninhabited district on the extremity of the coast of Gaul, and also of a neighbouring island, surrounded by the ocean in front, and by the river Rhine in the rear and on either side” (Tacitus, Historiae iv). This led to the Latin name of Batavia for the area.[2] The same name is applied to several military units, originally raised among the Batavi. The tribal name, probably a derivation from batawj? (”good island”, from Germanic bat- “good, excellent” and awj? “island, land near water”), refers to the region’s fertility, today known as the fruitbasket of the Netherlands (the Betuwe).

Tungrorum:
The Tungri were a tribe inhabiting the western Ardennes in central Europe. The only concrete evidence for the presence of this unit in Britain is an undated altar to Hercules unearthed at Mumrills on the Antonine Wall, where they were probably the first garrison. The only other records of this regiments service in Britain are on military diplomata from Chester and York

Nerviorum: from the Bavay area of northern France.

The Vardulli [or Varduli] were a small tribe from north-east Spain, whose neighbours were the Vascones. Their territory was a narrow strip which stretched from the coast (between San Sebastian on East and Motrico on West) in land just about to the river Ebro between Logrono and Miranda de Ebro. Strabo only specifically mentions the Vascones as occupying the region now populated by the Basques, however Pomponius Mela and Claudius Ptolemy mention in addition, the Vardulli and a third tribe the Allotriges [or Autrigones]. It is probable that the Vardulli and Allotriges were either tribal subdivisions of the Vascones or separate tribes linked by at least a common language.
The early history of the unit is unclear, however it is likely that the cohort had been raised by the time of Claudius. It is first recorded in AD98, as part of the garrison of Britain. By this time the unit had already earnt the titles fida [loyal] and Civium Romanorum [Roman citizens]. It was an equitata cohort which meant that of the approximately 500 troops about 120 were cavalry the remainder being infantry.

Sometime between AD105 and AD122 the cohort was enlarged and become a milliary unit. The introduction of milliary units in the second century AD was an important development. These were approximately double the size of the standard quingenary [500 strong] cohorts. In the second century AD there were at least 7 of these units in Britain, one of which was coh I Fida Vardullorum. These units were not only larger than the standard cohorts and alae, but were more highly regarded than them, being commanded by the pick of equestrian officers. Milliary units were commanded by tribunes, rather than prefects who commanded quingenary units. From time to time it was necessary to split the milliary units in two, with the rump quingenary cohort and a vexillation of nearly quingenary strength. It was normal for the unit to drop the title milliaria at these times, retaking the title when the vexillation was restored to the unit.

http://vindolanda.csad.ox.ac.uk/

This is the link to what the British Museum consider to be the most valuable items in their collection. Why?
Well jewels and carvings are valuable, but due to the fact that these tablets are fragile slivers of wood with ink writing, there’s very little chance of survival. That they record, first hand, the communications of folk, is like being able to listen in to a time gone long ago. “It is as near as one gets to travelling in time and meeting someone from that age”.When Romans were riding their early versions of Lambrettas, MVs, Ducatis and other Italian makes around the Empire they obviously needed road signs, as although motorbikes had been invented, GPS was still in its infancy.

He was however a very successful Emperor.
This is history though. Purely history, from which we will all have no doubt learned much, so I dare say we won’t be making such judgemental calls again…ooops too late.

“If you fall off a horse, climb back on”, we’ve all heard that old chestnut and I’m sure the spinal wards are full of folk who’d like to reassess that concept. Anyway, as I’d gone into momentary spasm of adrenalin fuelled limb and mental capability non-function last time I went down hardknot pass, there’s a clue to the road type in the name, I was climbing back on to give it another go.
Why?
This isn’t a road I need to navigate on a regular basis, indeed I could avoid it quite happily for the rest of my life. But having said I’d join a ride to the Lakes, then finding that apart from the original poster I was the only one going, I did feel a bit obliged to turn up and follow his route.

I also needed to escape from reality for at least a few hours, as things have got no better, in fact they have continued on a downward spiral of no work, no social life, no home, no news (am I divorced or not…heard nothing since February when the papers were due to be with me in a few days)…so to be able to think about impending doom from running off a cliff face, rather than impending doom as a consequence of running out of money and the will to live, would make for a jolly uplifting, if somewhat short lived, change.
Still, I’d do my best to cling to the sinuous thread of tarmac, just to spite fate, if nothing else.

I was follower as Pugsley had a route, saves thinking. Let’s just say his Aprilia is enthusiastic and sometimes keeping up required a few manoeuvres that the fragment of instructor that I retain, would have frowned upon.
Because I was following, it meant I never actually knew where I was, but we stopped for a cuppa by a Lake in a town that seemed crammed full of tourists. The weather was warm and dry and a quick chat soon revealed that indeed it had been so for some time. See 50 miles away in Liverpool it had been grotty for weeks. That’s the sort of weather you can get on a small island like Britain.
Anyway tea was supped and away we went.

First up was Wrynose Pass (rhino’s). I’d ridden it only a few short weeks ago (actually they’d been standard length weeks, the seven day variety that seem fairly popular, so not short weeks at all), yet approaching it the way Pugsley had brought us, gave it a far more splendid appeal, as it revealed itself in a dramatic fashion, presenting vistas and a scenic panorama that the other way had closed off. Unfortunately, because I’d not known in advance, and because the Aprilia had had a sudden burst of joie de vivre, only in Italian, and was hurtling along, I’d neither prepared the cameras, nor had the ability to do so while riding at the speed we were licking along at. So trust me on this, approach Wryenose from this way and not that other way, it’s far better. ?????.
What did bring us to a halt was; one, I had something fly in my helmet and lodge in my ear and even riding doing the head to shoulder compacting earplug in the hope of squashing motion, I didn’t achieve sufficient squish pressure, and; two, I saw Hardknott ahead and was determined to get that on film.
The film covers what happened next, but obviously, even without spoiling the ending, I survive:

We pulled into a steam-railway station for lunch. The crowds had arrived with the last train, so we had to share a bench outside with a couple who were on a day trip. An absolutely charming couple, who didn’t deserve the deluge of information and guff that I was pouring out (I don’t get much opportunity to communicate socially at the moment, so this poor couple copped for both barrels).
Still something must have been put in their tea, as after having heard of almost everything that had happened since my birth, they politely smiled and asked how they could keep in touch. See, I think that was the three teas at work again and I must admit, it did give me a bit of a lift. They even promised to buy their Amazon purchases from the link at Threecupsoftea.com, thereby ensuring some of their money will be redirected to the school building and education providing mission. So there you bloody doubters, I’m still working on this and helping out, in a small and restricted manner granted, but none the less.

Such was the amount of time spent in lecturing the couple, that our next intended stop was cancelled and it became a blast back. I think Pugsley had been ashamed of me prattling on and thought that if the same occurred at an ice cream stop, firstly he’d end up in ice-cream dribble and secondly, it would be midnight before we returned.
So, three teas back on the road, Hardknott Pass nearly mastered and another day nearer to something else…let’s see what that might be.

3-peaks-phish-up-medium

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.