It was TSKk's choice to ride the old Coach Road.
Me? I've still got my eye on High Street - a path that claws its way up the backbone of the Eastern Fells of the Lakes, or might possibly end up being the end of the road for my Dignity (the bike) and my ego.
But still, its the closest to home.
The Old Coach Road goes from somewhere high in the hills around Ullswater to Mattadale on the other side of Great Dunmow and ends at lanes that take a rider past Threlkeld to St Johns in the Vale.
I plotted a route there and back and we anxiously left our accommodation at 9. 30am once wheel /tyre changes had been completed.
• • •
Lunch was packed to avoid the crowds and a multitude of clothing layers accompanied us. Most of which were removed within the 1st mile - it being spring and all. We flew through Pooley Bridge, ignoring the assembling hoards that descend on Granma Dowbekin's like a school dining hall. The main road was still quiet with only occasional cars passing. I'd plotted a route which took us off the A- road as soon as possible at the cost of some extra climbing including a 1:5 section. We almost considered sticking to the main road but I was firm that this was where the fun started and instead we enjoyed mostly traffic-free lanes all the way up through the static caravan parks peppered between ancient cottages which finally gave way to farmland.
The 1: 5, while tough, was just the right length to have me thinking "Right, this is too much, I'll get off in a sec" and then I realised there was just a little bit more to do. We were just in time to see a shepherd feeding his flock at the summit before we dropped down way too far for my liking. Then it was time for the final approach.
The walker's car park for our route was one of the old fashioned ones. There are no big mountains here, just an old coach road and two smaller insignificant fells that only really appear on obscure fell running calendars and the itineraries of doddery old men ticking off Wainwrights. There are no pay and display machines. Sure enough 3 doddery old men were packing up their sandwiches and tying their bootlaces. It was time for us to get through the gate, around the corner behind the forest and sit down for something to eat out of the breeze.
• • •
We could see nothing from our spot other than the moorland in front and the tracks right and left but also, that was pretty much what we came for - yellow grasses blowing in the breeze. The food was much, needed. The trail ahead seemed largely ride able. Most importantly, the man with the slightly dodgy knee seemed eminently happy with it.
We climbed up towards the summit and were cautious over the stream crossing. The rocks were large and slippy with big gaps between. On the verge of unrideable on my gravel bike with 2.2" tyres on. We both walked it -TSK took the bridge because his bike shoes aren't waterproof and I was testing out my HT boots for heat-resistance. We took it in turns to pass each other on the Coach Road, as each of us stopped in sequence to photograph the scene ahead. The path was a dry replica of Scotland's Road of 1000 puddles at it stretched out, cutting a swathe through the moorland grasses. The flanks of Blencathra on the right, Skiddaw straight ahead and I had to strip down my clothing layers to riding in a teeshirt when the fleece, then the windproof got packed away. We couldn't believe our luck with the weather this week and finally I was reminded of the why.
For starters there were a few tricky rock bluffs - rideable for both of us but bouncy and uncomfortable for both bikes. This degenerated after the gate into a scrabbly mess of loose rock everywhere which had us both off and walking.
Half way down we took out a moment to watch and listen to a farmer practicing with his dog.
I say "practicing" as we could see neither dog nor sheep over the edge of the hill but the farmer stood stock still where he was shouting commands and seemed largely unconcerned by the outcome except for the occasional "Ye bugger" which I've never heard on "One man and his Dog" before.
Eventually we managed to pick out a sketchy rideable line down the edge of the lose rock and plopped out of the last gate onto tarmac, very pleased at ourselves for inadvertently having picked exactly the right way around to ride the Old Coach Road.
We bought bread for breakfast and otherwise managed to avoid honeypot shopping except for popping into Alpkit for a free water bottle top up where I promised myself a new rucsac another time.
Back on the K2T cycle route we bought a (not) express ticket to Threlkeld because it involved a stop at ice cream central on the way where we watched a stand-off between a buzzard and a crow while waiting for our turn.
Getting to Threlkeld was the easy bit. From there we navigated on- and off- the A66 using the coast to coast route as a base. It climbed, climbed and climbed some more. Every bike route diversion (no matter how minor) seemed to climb higher than it's car-based counterpart. As ever, when driving this road in the past, I had never realised how many false summits there are.
I reassured myself by remembering all the effort we had gone to in the morning and that this was never really going to be any kind of "easy way back".
Eventually, tired of the constant grind of HGVs whining and never-ending false summits, we planned a visit to our new favourite pub at Dacre (which I've renamed "Daycare") for a well-earned pint. Much to our dismay it was closed until 5pm on a Tuesday so we made use of their street furniture (benches) and ate the remainder of our packed lunch while the Landlady fussed around us, putting out the recycling and moving empty barrels in readiness for the start of her day.
She was pleasant and friendly with us eating our own food outside her pub so we tried our best to eak out an hour before beer o'clock but the heat was disappearing out of the sun and we were ready to get home. Thanks to our reconnaissance on foot on Sunday we were able to navigate home seamlessly off road, avoiding diversions up to Penrith or down to Pooley Bridge. The few minor bogs on the bridleways were already damp-dry and we checked in on the lamb we saw on Sunday-curled up in a heap in 0°C temperatures looking almost dead. He was now up on his feet and standing with his mum, flourishing in the sunlight
• • •
TSK and I finally parted ways 400m from home when, inspired by the extra off-road excursion, I resolved to ride home a different route to the way out and completed my circuit using the Byway while TSK used the road.
There were more jarring tree roots than I remembered and, while I rode them all, he still arrived back before me.
What with cooking a full chicken chasseur casserole for our dinner it was A DAY and I am pretty chuffed with us both for it.
Looking forwards to doubling it myself.
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