Departing (Day 1 part 1)

Saint Bees to Wasdale Head.


We woke up to sunshine and birds singing on Monday morning.

At breakfast we met an Australian woman who had shipped her bike to Robin Hood’s bay and was about to set off and walk across to pick it up. Carole told us that there’s been a steady stream of walkers this year, probably due to Julia Bradbury’s TV programme.

We got washed, pulled on our cycling shorts and saddled up, leaving the guest house at 9am.

Our first section was on the road. We expected day one to be a long and difficult one, so we wanted to get to Ennerdale water as quickly as possible. Things didn’t look good for our chances of navigating across the country when I sailed on past the first turn off, but with the GPS and Martin calling me back, we lost less than a minute. Our first experience of off-road was pleasant enough, the track from the road to the edge of the water turned and followed the shore. We met a German couple on old town bikes coming towards us, and they warned us that the route was impassable up ahead. I have to admit I laughed quietly to myself. Impassible is nothing. We were here to make the impassable passable. We turned the corner and stopped. There was a stream, and on the other side, nothing. Just a mass of thick fern groundcover.

I crossed the stream first and dismounted. I reached down pushed aside an armful of fronds and saw that the ground beneath was worn. I pushed back a bit further, and began to see a path. The entire trail had been overgrown with ferns, making it totally invisible.

On the bikes, now we knew what we were looking for, we were able to follow the dimple that had once been a path right round the north shore of Ennerdale. Where the ground was flat and the path worn smooth, this wasn't a problem, but on a couple of occasions, the ferns concealed treacherous obstacles, and Martin picked up the first injury of the trip. Catching an unexpected rock, his foot slipped and he knocked his shin with the pedal. Thankfully not too serious.

After about 3 miles of invisible path, we cut up onto another trail that was wide enough and smooth enough to drive a car along. We passed a few Duke of Edinburgh groups and day walkers, and caught glimpses through the trees of the peaceful lake beside us and the foreboding mountains ahead. I know using words like 'foreboding' in a blog usually sounds like you're trying too hard to write classy literature, but I did think long and hard before I used it. I rarely think much beyond the next turn of the pedals, but as we left the trees behind and the lake turned into a stream, those black mountains beginning to block out the morning sun made me consider what was ahead, and it wasn't pleasant. It also didn't help that Martin kept pointing at them every two minutes.

Every account I've read of a mountain bike attempt across England specifically mentions that they had to push and carry up Black Sail pass, and as we sat outside Black Sail Hut looking up at that pass I knew mine would say the same, and anyone reading that line of text would never fully understand the effort involved until they tried it themselves.

We had to push the bikes up Black Sail Pass.

Once we got to the top of the pass, we were able to enjoy a long, reasonably technical downhill to Wasdale head, where we stopped for another break.

It had been hard, work, but as we wandered round the shop and sat in the sun, and I mulled over the question of how the English can, on one hand make jokes about how daft the Irish are, but on the other post a 'No Picnics' sign above a picnic table, we were elated that our journey had begun in earnest, and we'd conquered the first real challenge of our route. Yep, the First Real Challenge. We were in our rhythm now, and the rest would be easy. How little I knew.