Diary and Photos

The previous night before going to bed I had written a note to the campsite owners explaining that I had left before they got in. I had noticed that the opening hours were considerably later that I was intending to leave, so paying up was obviously going to be an issue. I did the usual, explaining what I was doing, and also explained that I couldn't remember whether or not the campsite owners had said I could have a free pitch or not (several did, I just couldn't rememebr whether or not this was one of them), so I left them address and said if they wanted to bill me, send it to me and I'd send a cheque. I popped it in the letterbox as I left.

I checked the oil and adjusted the chain then got underway, in bright early morning sun, a change from the misty mornings I had had already begun to expect. I was in a good mood, as today I was due to visit the famous Land's End signpost and get my photo taken there (this was one of the important parts of the trip to me). I passed the entrance to the Eden project only a few miles from the campsite, but despite being within what I though must be only spitting distance, i saw neither hide nor hair of the huge domes there.

I got an extra lift as I started to see signs for the Lizard- Lizard Point was another important of the trip for me as the most southerly point of mainland Britain. There is a small town (or is it a village? I passed through too quickly to remember...) called Helston near the top of the Lizard, and the road to Lizard Point start there. there is one road down, and one road back, and i actually found myself debating as to whether or not I should bother with it at all, as going down to the pointwould mean backtracking. Thankfully I saw the light and decided that it would be a shame to miss it, even though I had been told there was very little to see there.

The 'exciting and interesting' car park at Lizard Point...

When I got down there, I discovered there was small village (called Lizard, according to my road atlas) with a chippy and a few shops dotted about the place, but to get to Lizard point itself, I had to travel about half a mile or so down a single track road until I reached a car park (pay and display, no less), where there is a cafe (didn't notice if it was actually open or not), and a small path down to the sea. That's it. why they don't make more of it is beyond me. Land's End grabs all the glory down here- mainly because of the 'End to End' thing I guess. A lot of people seem to believe that Land's End is the most southerly point - it isn't - it's just that Land's End and John O'Groats are the two points on the mainland that are furthest apart (a mere 874 miles) and have become famous because of it. Surely the poor old Lizard deserves some recognition for what it is? Dunnet Head (the most northerly point of mainland Britain) similarly plays very much second fiddle to the far better know John O'Groats.

All that aside, I must admit that as I approached Land's End a short while later, I had a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat, and I gave a brief whoop of joy inside my lid as I joined the queue to get into the visitor centre. There is a hotel, souvenir shops and of course that famous sign- the one thing I was really after. In my head, the two most important points of the journey were those two signs- the one here, and its sibling up at John O'Groats. The guy on the gate told me that bikes park for free (this is a common thing wherever there is a charge or toll - bridges especially - I think they don't like to wait as bikers fumble around, taking off gloves, opening pockets and generally fiddlle about), cars had to pay three quid apiece, and I'd imagine coaches a considerable wedge more. When I asked him where the sign was, I was disappointed to be told that I couldn't take the bike down to it. Shome mishtake shurely? I'd seen hundreds of photos of people on motorbikes down there. Still, I decided that the photo was the important thing, and if I couldn't get the bike in, so be it, and wandered down to the sign.

When I got to the sign itself, the official photographer said, 'You're on a bike mate, go and get it, the other bloke doesn't know what he's on about' , so I walked back and rode the cub down to the sign.

As I was getting an official photo done, I had the words Mission Implausible put onto the sign, above the date.

The 'thing' round my neck is what I attached my keys to to keep them safe when parked up. If they'd told me it was hanging like that when they took the picture, I'd have moved it. They didn't tell me however, so there it is for posterity.

I spoke to an older couple with their dog- they noticed the bike, and being bikers themselves they were interested in what i was doing. I had a good chat with them, and as ever, whenever someone gave a few kind words of support, it meant a lot to me, and gave me a little extra motivation. I gave them one of my cards (like a twat, in my hasty preparations I forgot to bring any sponsor forms along- doh!), and they promised to sponsor me - unlike many people who promised to do the same, a short while after I returned home, they actually did, and contacted me by email as well- thank you Wendy, Wally and Daisy the border collie (and yes it rhymes, only just noticed!).

After stopping for somewhat longer than I had intended, it was time to get back on the bike and get moving (wasn't it always?). St. Ives came and went after some outsanding roads- lots of hills, corners and abandoned tin mines (I so regret not taking a picture of the biggest one- looking at the map I think it may have been the Geevor tin mine museum, there were already several cars parked up- I decided I had delayed too long at Land's End already), and some mad single track roads through tiny hamlets and the like, then Newquay went the same way- passed through, yet hardly seen.

The winding road from Land's End to St.Ives (this is one of the wide bits!)

Next was the grandly named 'Atlantic highway', where I really started to eat up some miles, making up for the time lost by riding as hard and as long as I could until I desperately needed to stop. By this time I had developed a curious riding style, leaning forward onto the bars, that way I found I could take some of the pressure off my backside and ease the pain a little. Combined with my peculiar 'one arse cheek on, one arse cheek off' sitting arrangement, it helped quite a lot, but ultimately breaks were still necessary .

Bude and Bideford went by in the usual blur, then in Barnstaple I hit a snag. the road i had so carefully chosen in my route preparation was blocked- closed completely for repairs. Since the start of day two I had found that whenever I went off route, the sat nav tried to recalculate, then had a hissy fit and threw up a route calculation error, which meant I had to stop and then work out how to get back to the route myself (I've since figured out that this may have been due to me not having a definite end of route each day- I just got to where I was going on the map and simply added another waypoint rather than a proper end of route - I may be wrong of course). In the end, I wound up in Ilfracombe via roads that took me even closer to the coast than I had orignally planned, so no real loss there.

Back on the A39, I entered Exmoor national park, with lots more hills to test the poor old cub to its limit. The one in Lynton was a shocker to get up as I went up on to Exmoor (stunningly beautiful, by the way) , but nothing compared to the similar 25% incline that i had to descend as I went into Porlock. There was a junction as I approached the bottom of it with signs telling me that I had to give way to traffic coming up the hill, but my brakes had faded (the cub is equipped only with a pair of very small drums- fine most of the time, but they were struggling here...) and I couldn't stop. I had to trust it to fate and scrubbed off only enough speed to get round the turn of the junction - fortunately the road was devoid of traffic, if anything had been coming up I think I'd have have either planted the bike into whatever kind of vehicle presented itself in front of me or ended up on my arse on the road somewhere. Still -nil desperandum. It's sometimes little moments like this that remind you you're alive.

My campsite in Porlock (Sparkhayes I think it's called) was superb, with a sea view, a nice clean shower block, and best of all, a pub serving decent food and a good selection of real ales only fifty yards away. Another full belly and several pints too many later, I wobbled back to my tent, finally beginning to see the attraction of this camping lark...

Next: Day 5

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