Bridlington Animal Farm

During the planning stages, the navigator introduced a slight discordant note - she expressed a wish to visit an animal park on the outskirts of Bridlington on the way in. Great, I thought, goose shit and llamas. No doubt there’d be a gourmet lunch to look forward to in the shape of an over-priced imitation burger with droopy salad, dished up by a spotty youth with the conversational capacity of a parking meter. Incidentally, because we’ll be in Yorkshire (pronounced Yarkshuh,) an anagram of gourmet is t’morgue - which is probably where my burger will begin its life - so to speak. BUT, I’m glad I bit my tongue because, despite my initial doubts, we were about to experience one of the most extraordinary days we’ve ever had.

Cruising around Bridlington Harbour

It’s my first outing in my new Armani prescription sunglasses, which Jan had described as ‘horrid’ when I tried them on in the shop. They’ve got chunky plastic frames and are prescription sunglasses - perhaps the clearest I have ever owned. Whispered as I approached, Yorkshire wife to husband, ‘Who’s this dick-head? I removed my glasses to look normal and asked them directions to the public loos. They realised I was no threat and we had a chat about holiday caravans, the cost of public lavatories (to use not build) and flies (the flying, buzzy type!)

Appreciation of 'A Shepherd's Life'. A wonderful book by Lakeland farmer James Rebanks

The following few paragraphs pay homage to a sheep farmer who wrote one of the most inspiring books I’ve ever read. This is my reflection on someone else’s endeavour. If I do him justice, all well and good - if I’ve made a mess of it, I apologise.

‘Fleetwood market is not as good as it was,’ said my neighbour before we left. ‘Right, thanks for that,’ I replied. ‘I’m really looking forward to it now.’

Near Grange-over-Sands

The other thing you get up here, of course, is views, and the one over the Kent estuary is really striking. It’s one of those days, post-storm, where the vista seems to be re-organising itself and shrugging off the battering it’s just taken. Like a boxer sitting in his corner being flapped by a cooling towel. Scattered, low clouds cling to hillsides and the tops are partly covered in a light-grey bonnet, thinning as the cloud base slowly dissipates.

The Internet has taught me there are some incredibly smart people out there. It has also taught me they are vastly outnumbered by idiots. Sadly, it’s the latter by whom we are cumulatively influenced these days and we subconsciously carry their nonsense around with us. All this anthropogenic mayhem influences how we react. We’re all affected differently and we keep our angst close in different ways; some in a briefcase, some in a pint glass, some in a cloud of weed, me on my bike with my travelling children’s rucksack.

‘We’ll head for the Ruskin Museum,’ announces the skipper, trying to suggest an alternative to another costly diversion to a pub. She plots a course on her road atlas (she loves ‘real’ maps) via the splendidly named Clappersgate and Skelwith Bridge then down the west side of Lake Windermere towards Coniston. ‘Ruskin’ is John Ruskin. Of course I’ve heard of him - but I don’t know much about him, other than that he was a poet. Two things happen when we enter the museum. 1) I forget about John Ruskin altogether, because 2) I go through a door and am nose to nose with Donald Campbell’s iconic speedboat Bluebird. The real thing. Bloody hell. Shivers time!

Near Minehead, Somerset

I was lost so asked a passing jogger for help:

‘Ah,’ she said, finger on chin. ‘Mmm.’ Which wasn’t very encouraging. ‘Best keep the sun on your left quarter,’ she said. ‘That should see you heading in the approximate direction. And try and aim downhill where possible; hopefully you’ll hit the coast before long and it’s a doddle from there.’

‘Where am I at the moment?’

‘Er….. between Washford and Old Cleeve. Well, sort of. Those are the nearest places anyway. Right here we’re a bit twixt and between parishes. It’s Wurzel territory and rather rural. Good luck.’

This well-spoken lady with an amusing turn of phrase trotted off with her Labrador and I was once again left alone, the silence of my isolation thick and heavy.

Walk above Minehead

Next morning, with the promise of a Wetherspoons lunch, I set off early for a walk. It turned out to be an energy-sapping affair. Pathetic, really. You never heard Alfred Wainwright grumble about his knackered legs and he was far older than me! At least he looked older than me. You didn’t hear of him lunching in Wetherspoons either. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t have knackered legs.

Dunster Castle walk

The reward for getting worn out in places like this is the silence and the peace - apart from my wheezing. I have to stop periodically so I have the opportunity to take note of my surroundings. It reminds me of an empty church. There, the odd creak of an ancient pew as it warms or cools, here in the woods a bird or an animal makes an almost imperceptible sound. Having to really concentrate to listen is good because your mind is off everything else. I have a slurp of anti-cramp-serum and, before you know it, I’m fit to do another few yards.

Chrsitmas Day walk to Land's End

It’s a lovely walk, at times close to the cliff edge, along a well-worn path. Looking up to my left, I see a group of four dark horses. I can’t tell the exact colour because the low morning sun is right behind them. It’s slightly hazy, too, so they appear almost dream-like as they play in pairs in silhouette. Later I search the Internet for ‘horses at Land’s End’. It brings up a whole raft of advertisements for an equestrian centre 230 miles away in Berkshire - which is of no interest to me, nor anyone else researching the magnificence of the southern-most point in England.

So, on this blustery, beautiful Christmas Day, that’s another location ticked off the landmark-hunter’s list - I’ve been to Land’s End, the most southerly point in mainland Britain. ‘Oh no you haven’t,’ shouts a member of the audience. Somewhat startled, I spot him. He’s a balloon burster, one of those people who delights in letting the air out of someone’s enthusiasm. Weathered hat, large-lens camera, air of blustery self-confidence, he stands in the stalls, picked out by the producer’s spotlight, and says with glee, ‘The Lizard is the most southerly point in mainland Britain. What you have been to, you gullible old fool, is the most south-westerly tip of England.’ He sits down with a triumphant snort as my balloon lands on stage in a sad, rubbery heap.

The waterfront here in Liverpool, known as Pier Head, is stunning. Immediately north of the museum, which is of irregular, modern design, we see the three classical waterfront building known as the Three Graces. They look incredible and imperious and dominate the river frontage. They are synonymous with the spirit of the wealth and historical might of Liverpool’s dock area. This trio of civic and commercial buildings were built on the site of the infilled George’s Dock although, just off a road called The Strand, there’s the St. George’s Dock building, lurking inland of the Port of Liverpool building. I’m going to tell you a little about the Three Graces, and others; not to spoil any potential visit, but to tempt you to visit and look at this incredible waterfront.

There are huge ‘gable end’ windows at each end of the museum, looking out over the river, docks and the city and there’s a wonderful view of the Three Graces. There’s an information board nearby telling us about the Liver Birds which are perched up high on the building. The birds are each about 18-feet/5-metres high and are thought to have been inspired by the cormorant, plenty of which you see hunting in the docks and river. One bird, the female, is looking out over the river and sea, awaiting the return of seafarers. The other, male, is looking out over the city, watching to see if the pubs are open. Scouse humour - don’t you love it?

Winterlude

Noun (C).

[The ‘C’ means ‘countable’ - in other words it can have a plural.]

Definition: Defined period during winter months when the weather is crap and short fat people take a break from cycling and do something else, preferably under cover.

Next day, the National Railway Museum in York. Star of the show for me - the Flying Scotsman. This is the fourth inanimate object that has given me goosebumps during my wanderings. The other three are the American SR71 reconnaissance aircraft (Blackbird), Donald Campbell’s Bluebird K7 and the Spitfire. It’s not merely what they are in themselves, it’s what they represent. Blackbird was unique and incredible in so many ways - fastest, highest. Bluebird was one of a succession of amazing machines and a brand that represents the absolute pinnacle of courage and achievement. The Spitfire is perhaps the most iconic fighter plane ever made. The Flying Scotsman is simply the most famous steam train on the planet.

Nostalgia

Back in 1980 when I was a lad planning for a trip in my Austin 1300, things were a little different. Trunks, Walkman and flip-flops in the duffle bag, windsurfer on the roof and off we went. Eight hours to Polzeath, Cornwall with 10cc or Simon and Garfunkel on the stereo, not a care in the world. Trunks?! Who the heck calls them trunks?

Carly (my step-daughter) is a regular walker, I’m not. If I walked daily, I’d invest in better gear (and be thinner). She could feature in a fashion magazine whereas I’d more likely be found under a motorway interchange with a can of lager and a pit bull.

I’ve renamed it Adrian’s Wall in memory of my cousin who died a few years ago - I’ve immortalised him. I attended his funeral in London and because we’d been living a nomadic life on a boat it was the first time I’d worn a tie for about fifteen years. I was red in the face because my ancient shirt collar was too tight. So was my jacket, which was about a foot short of fastening round my baguette-swelled midriff. In fact, apart from the official funeral personnel, there was only me and Adrian’s partner wearing a tie. During the funeral I stood at the back behind a pillar, self-conscious that I looked like a creature from a previous epoch who had landed among the beautiful people of London’s fine arts division - Adrian’s partner is an antiques dealer. I removed my tie during Abide with Me and breathed a sigh of relief at taking my first full breath for about an hour. I really should have come in my standard everyday attire, which is basically saggy and scruffy. I could have borrowed a rake and blended seamlessly with the council workforce collecting leaves in the graveyard and slipped in the back of the congregation as my dear relative began his final service.

Magic above Moffat

Through the woods the landscape opens up into large lush fields delineated by dry stone walls home to flocks of sheep. The huge fields are cropped clean and I wonder, not for the first time, whether these engaging animals realise what a beautiful place they live in - beautiful rich, green swards surrounded by forests and endless rolling hills. Because we’re so high, little man-made is visible, excepting arrow-straight walls and the occasional isolated farm, but even these fizzle out the higher you go. I’ve seen walls like these the world over and it’s sobering to realise that every stone in every yard has been placed by a human hand - the scale involved, both in time and physical endeavour, is quite astonishing.

Maryport Harbour

I have an early morning walk round the docks and on the foreshore, a huge grassed area perfect for strolling and dog-walking. The sun was rising over the town as I walked and, with the waves gently lapping the beach, the tink of hawser on mast and the cries of seabirds, it was a lovely hour. One of those moments to bottle up and release as you’re stuck in traffic in the real world.

Encouter with a genius

I was surprised and moved the other day when I walked into a sparsely-lit alcove in Manchester’s Science and Industry Museum - and saw an empty wheelchair. I’d come across the spirit of Stephen Hawking. His motorised chair is behind glass now its master has departed. Today it is powered down and inert, its work done. The iconic machine may be resting among us but the man himself has gone to his beloved stars. His ruined body is dust but his mind roams free. It was more than just a wheelchair, of course - it was the mobile office, communications hub and exoskeleton of one of the world’s foremost scientists. It enabled him not only to help him breathe, move around and communicate, but to drive his incredible mind out into the cosmos to investigate, rationalise and theorise on our behalf - those of us with lesser minds. His skill and imagination allowed him to teeter on the event horizon of black holes and try to rationalise the apparently unknowable. He was a physical wreck with a brilliant brain. Without his chair he couldn’t move anywhere, but with it he could travel to places more distant and amazing than most of us can ever dream. And he could understand why the stars are there, what may become of them billions of years in the future and how they came to be 13.8 billion years ago.

Isolated Industry

I’ve biked and hiked a reasonable amount on our beautiful, fascinating island. Whether it’s high in the hills, around the coast or along canals and byways, we’re invariably in touch with our industrial heritage. Museums like Manchester’s Science and Industry reminds us that we were great, we were special. Particularly the younger generations who, as I see it, have not known us at our best. Many miles of former railways offer wonderful cycling - in Cumbria, North Yorkshire or Northumberland for example - often high in the hills, away from noise and bustle in the company of animals and birds. Places that the vast majority never see, never even hear about. These railways serviced industries that helped turn the UK into a worldwide powerhouse during the industrial revolution. As you go, you come across former mine workings, raw materials to feed the factories, or the sites of stationary winding engines that used to haul coal and ore up steep inclines. If I stop I can imagine the toil and graft and wonder that so much was done in some very remote locations.

Snippets from A Biking Viking