Tuesday 3 July 2012

Day 2


L’Etape des Dames

Deuxieme Journee

London or Bust



The trouble with saying or thinking things like “it can’t get any worse” is that the elements will often do their damnedest to prove you wrong…

After a perfect breakfast of soul fortifying porridge and a damp tour of Judy’s beautiful Garden’s Illustrated cottage garden we set off in good spirits despite the grey sky and determined drizzle. The first challenge was the hill up and out of Judy’s secluded valley so we gave ourselves a good run up, rapidly switched to high gear and pedalled like mad waving a fond farewell. We were determined to leave in style if nothing else.

I hadn’t told Lesley but the forecast I had seen before we left Norfolk was stressing the potential for high winds on this day and the way the trees were moving around us led me to believe that, sadly, the forecast was likely to turn out to be accurate.

That part of rural Essex is very hilly – particularly if of one sticks to the back roads so the first hour at least consisted of many struggles up short sharp hills followed by all too brief descents.

We were aware of the wind but had to focus quite carefully on where we were going and avoiding being hit boy wide boy van drivers and yummy mummy 4x4 pilots on roads that were just wide enough for a car but vehicle + bicycle was a squeeze and those with 4 wheels were not going to give any quarter.

We were soon in that tricky bit of countryside which we encounter on every ride – namely the bit that is on the edge of 4 maps and not covered properly by any of them. We were relying on our own maps plus a couple of photocopied sections of Judy’s maps. By this time both wind and rain were very persistent so stopping to peruse any sort of map was not easy. Anyway excuses, excuses – we ended up making a fairly minor error in that the road we missed was small but the consequence was we set off for some distance on a major road going the wrong way with lorries bearing down on us with frightening regularity. Of course we then had to retrace our steps with the same traffic issues. How I did not end up sitting on the bonnet of one up close and personal Mercedes is a minor miracle. Once we had both made it safely to the relative oasis of a minor road we re-checked the map and were somewhat disheartened to note that if we made it to our intended coffee stop by lunch time we would be doing very well.

After re-fuelling with gloop and cereal bars we ploughed on just concentrating on the immediate next few miles and trying to ensure we stayed on track. In the meantime the threatened storm was whirling itself into gear. The wind – estimated on the forecast to be 40mph-was from the South West – i.e. our direction of travel – and the rain , although more sporadic than the previous day, did its best to ensure we were as drenched as possible as often as possible.

Eventually we limped into Great Leighs at 1.30 pm instead of 11 am and after enquiring of a friendly dog walker ended up in the village pub which claimed to be the oldest inn in the country and, therefore, one of its most haunted. The landlady was very welcoming and overlooked our dripping dishevelment.  I forewent the customary soup in favour of the more carb heavy jacket potato and beans and was even desperate enough to not demur at instant coffee. We took local advice and after the third story of a near miss in a car on the nearby potential short cut giving A road opted for the longer but quieter route. So once again and all too soon we headed off into the by now howling gale and horizontal rain with the good wishes of the other customers ringing in our ears.  One of the bizarre facts of the day as disclosed by the landlady was that one of those wellwishers Suzie Quattro’s daughter.

The next major landmark was Harlow – due west across the rest of Essex- where we intended to pick up route 1 and head off down the Lea Valley to London just like that.

This part of the journey was flatter but much more exposed. I swear there were moments when we were going backwards. We even had to rescue a mole from the roadside who had been flooded out of his run. Our spirits definitely revived when we hit Old Harlow without further mistakes and we were certain that the navigation would be simple from this point on as all we had to do was follow the Route 1 signs and like Dick Whittington we would arrive in London and find gold paved streets. (Perhaps I didn’t read that story properly?) All was going swimmingly until our internal compasses smelt a rat (probably another drowned one). We felt certain we were being directed in a circle and our map reading and close questioning of a passing dog walker confirmed our suspicions. So we were back to making it up as we went along….On that basis we just chose the nearest route to the Lea and  headed rapidly downhill with the fervent hope that no backtracking would be required.

On locating the river rather later than we had envisaged earlier in the day we decided that a regroup over hot tea and snacks in the nearby pub was required before our expected straight sail to the big smoke. 

As we set off it wasn’t raining – that was a first! The beginning of the route was great in terms of scenery and flatness. What was not so great was the fact that it was already 6pm not 2pm and the southerly gale was being funnelled very effectively by the geography of the valley. Again there were moments of no forwards motion but with dark approaching we had to dig deep and press on come what may. We were very buoyed by passing ecologically beneath the M25 at about 8pm but daunted by how far we still had to go. We had comforted ourselves with the thought that at least the navigation would be easy but then the Route 1 signs became very confusing – tempting us to leave the river and head into the wilds of North East London. We had to stop frequently to check signs and maps and with increasing frequency accost fellow cyclists on the route. The latter were uniformly amazed by our mission but were also uniformly gracious, kind and helpful. Our instinct consistently chimed with the advice – basically stick to the Lea until you hit the Thames.

So we did with the light fading and an ever narrowing path and random bridges and steps. Great to explore but not on this day.

Eventually we hit the mighty Thames to once again be met with a dearth of signs. Again we were rescued by kindly locals and before too long at 10.30 pm found ourselves in the middle of Canary Wharf with the Thames Path blocked by building works. The only way was down to Westferry Circus which is all very well but when down means steps and your energy levels are sub zero the end result is Crash, Bang – whoops there went fully laden bike – narrowly missing an ascending party of tourists. I resisted the temptation to sit down and cry as we were so very nearly there weren’t we? More Aaagh moments as we traversed Millwall and the glamorous Mudchute area. At last Island Gardens and the entrance to the Greenwich Foot Tunnel came into view.


We were probably slightly delirious with exhaustion and hunger by this point but it did seem that we were in an outpost of Hogwarts. For those who have never been there – the entrance to the tunnel is a beautiful curved Victorian red brick gem with an interior lined with slightly lavatorial white glazed tiles. On turning the corner one is confronted by a brand spanking new 22nd century all glass lift which opened as if by wand wave as soon as we approached. A very genial fellow cyclist emerged from South of the Thames and proceeded to point out the numerous “NO CYCLING “ signs and gave us grave warnings about the crocodile. Having placated said beast with cereal bars and wasabi peas we arrived  gracefully in Greenwich by dint of another futuristic lift  to be met with the frankly rather hallucinogenic sight of the newly restored Cutty Sark illuminated in all her glory just for us.


We had made it (nearly ) . Now all we needed was food, showers and bed. We chose to sort number one before addressing numbers 2 and 3.By now it was 10.30pm. We looked at each other and realised that we were wearing the history of our journey thus far. Not only were we sweat soaked and all over bedraggled but we were so splatted with Thames and Lea Path mud and other detritus that we looked as if we had just escaped from the chain gang in deepest Texas.

Our one hope for food turned out to be the Mexican cafĂ© frequented by Luc and his student chums because it is open late and is not pricey. I left Lesley in charge of locking the bikes to the nearest fixture and prepared myself to grovel. As with every other human encounter that day the staff were welcoming, kind and gracious. We were rapidly ushered to a table – admittedly in the furthest corner behind a pot plant –and offered menus and drinks. I needed red wine in large quantities as well as lashings of usually off my radar tortilla chips. Both arrived in a twinkling and we were at last able to reassure the folks in Norfolk that we had made it thus far.( Earlier we had decided that stopping to answer calls under dimly lit underpasses in the East End would not have been a good call.)


Now all we had to do was find the B and B and collapse. We had made increasingly frantic attempts to contact the establishment throughout the day to warn them that we were running (extremely) late. Each time the call was put straight through to voicemail so we had absolutely no confidence that we would be able to get into the place even if we could find it. Luckily the red wine dissipated some of the trepidation and the fact that it was very dark and quite late didn’t seem to matter too much. Our lights were as effective as depressed fireflies so navigation was not too slick particularly as we were relying on a rain smudged photocopy of the relevant page of the A to Z. After reaching parts of Greenwich and Maze Hill that I had certainly never reached before, an hour later, we finally found our destination – 162. Our hearts sank when to all outward appearances it looked like no-one was home. In all our ‘phone messages we had asked how to get in after hours but received no reply. We were about to call again but decided we may as well give the door a shove and see what happened. Phew – Open Sesame. When in doubt brute force and ignorance can sometimes work wonders.

Lesley wrestled with the automated check-in system and finally we were inside with a hot shower and a warm bed in closer view than they had been all day. We checked the room number and due to extreme fatigue were thoroughly amused to note that we had been given a first floor room despite telling the owners from the outset that we were travelling by bike. Of course, trying to be thoroughly amused but quiet at 1am in the very narrow hallway of  a strange B and B is a recipe for near hysteria….

By this time my legs were unable to support my weight so I leaned back on the wall behind me      -   which gently gave way and I ended up nearly replicating the infamous Del Boy leaning on the non – existent bar hatch scene. Forget the near hysteria – full blown stomach aching , knee collapsing , rolling on the floor laughter ensued ( but all as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the other guests of course).

It took a very long time to recover sufficiently to realise that the ground floor room was unoccupied and likely to remain so. A perfect bike shed! Having tucked the trusty bikes into their beds we headed to ours via the customary showering of ourselves and our clothes.  The owners had provided heat so that we could dry our clothes which was great but our ability to dissipate it with fresh air was hampered by the uncustomary ( for us country folk) London noises outside.

We both agreed that it had been an EPIC day and hoped fervently that we would not have to dig quite so deep again during the rest of the trip…

So 90 miles, full  winter style kit, full on head wind and monsoon rain and god knows how long in the saddle. I think epic is not too far from the truth.

Another bizarre fact – the room we occupied cost less than £100 that night. During the Olympics the cost for the same room will be £700 per night and it is fully booked!