A Beach Bimble and Photo Epic.

Right, before we start, there's yards of photos coming up, and knowing this Blogger set up, some of 'em might come up fuzzy and blurry. If so, right click on 'em and open in a new tab, much better than the new window opening on the same page.

Some people do have some strange ideas about Cornwall, and presumably other holiday destinations as well. It's as if they've been to Disney or Centre Parcs or somewhere, got used to everything being a bit fake and all laid on for their sole benefit, and then think Cornwall is the same. 
One well known of locally incident involved a tourist remonstrating angrily and loudly, with the Chief Mourner leading a funeral procession through the narrow streets of a coastal village. Captured on film, the chap was sounding off about having to get out of the way of the procession and when he and his family come down to Cornwall for a holiday, they don't expect to be reminded of death. 
There was the Daily Telegraph journalist who moved to Newlyn, then wrote a long article complaining about the noise of fishing boats coming and going at all hours, the noise of Gulls, the local shops not stocking all his obscure desires and the pace of life down here being so slow. Erm, isn't that why you moved here in the first place mate? To escape the rat race? And that harbour your cottage overlooks isn't there to make the view look pretty, it's a working harbour, and as for Sea Gulls, well the clue is in the name for a start...

Two well known examples of dickery perpetrated down this way, but everyone down here, and in other tourist areas, can no doubt relate a whole raft of personal experiences with those who suffer generous levels of stupidity.

The most common remark made though in my experience, is when you tell someone you live in Cornwall and they reply how nice it must be to live down here and go on the beach every day... Erm... what? I've had that, many, many times from folk and it bewilders me a tad. The answer of course is no, people down here have to live and work (and indeed, do actually die here too) just like the rest of the planet, it's not all one big holiday.

Besides, I'm not actually a fan of the beach, being much like most folk I know down here, I only really like the beaches when it's the middle of winter and blowing a proper hooley. Spending the day getting sand where no sand should ever go, skin crisping in the sun, and squinting in the glare does not butter my toast at all, in fact I can think of few things worse.

Boy I'm crap at these sorts of photos...

But, now and again, the sound of the waves on a quiet day, out of season, can be as relaxing as those on a rough day are invigorating. I usually prefer the countryside, particularly woods and streams for relaxing, but after an extremely stressful and tiring ten days or more, I thought that as the weather forecast was looking so good, I'd go and have a look at the ocean on Saturday, at Holywell Bay.

That forecast did warn of a very cold start to the day, and also a wincingly cold and blusterly North Westerly wind too, but if the beach were to prove a bit chilly, well the dunes behind offer plenty of shelter, so that was that, mission acquired.

Saturday did indeed dawn bright and sunny, and cold as a Collie's nose too with quite a chill hanging in the air.

The internet says 'Quiet Lanes' are "A network of rural roads where minimal traffic calming measures are used to enable all road users to 'share with care.' Travel is easier for walkers, cyclists, horse riders and those in wheelchairs. Drivers are encouraged to travel at slower speeds." Someone didn't get the memo by the look of it.

I set off early after being awoken by the damned Wood Pigeons in the tree outside my window welcoming sound of birdsong heralding a new day, and rumbled off into the hazy sunshine aboard Fatso, as the fat knockers would have it that such bikes are only good on snow and sand, so it had to be the Fatbike I took as I've clearly been using it incorrectly thus far so needed to redeem myself.

 The A30 can be a busy nightmare sometimes, but thankfully at early o'clock on a Saturday it's a bit quieter.

Lovely display of roadside Daffs near Fiddlers Green, although they're clearly on the turn now.

All went well as I bimbled my way pleasantly along the lanes and I soon arrived in the village of Cubert. A quick photo of the church was acquired but the low sun made getting a shot of the coffin rest in the entrance difficult, so I decided to have a second go on the way back.

 Cubert Church. The full history can be found  Here

Cubert's retail, transport, refreshment and communications centre. Just out of shot is the bus stop, while the phone box takes care of natterin' duties, spreading the gossip gleaned from the notice board. Refreshments can be had from the well, and there's always the shopping district over the road for a spot of retail therapy. This place has everything.

Heading back onto the Holywell road I was overtaken by a wild haired younger chap wearing a Hi Viz waistcoat and riding an old steel framed road bike, with the drop bars turned upside down... I haven't seen that in years! All the cool kids when I was young rode their 'racers' with the bars flipped up. This chap wasn't hanging about either and I watched him driving further ahead of me as the road swooped up and down before starting the long drop down into Holywell Bay. 

View through a gateway between Cubert and Holywell.

In truth, there isn't a lot in Holywell, a large thatched pub (open), a couple of shops (closed), a car park (then being opened by the Hi Viz wearing, curly bar upturning, hipster), some energy sapping dunes and a beach.  But the beach was why I was there, so all was good. Better still, it was all but deserted, with only a few dog walkers around, so I could potter up and down on Fatso without getting kids stuck under my mudguards or colliding with low flying surfers as I dipped the tyres in the Atlantic.

 Now here's a sign I wouldn't usually follow, being generally allergic to beaches and all found on them.

The promised wind was noticeable by its absence, which was a right result, and it really was a very pleasant place to be, with the soft sound of the light waves and the sun slowly warming up the day.

 Fatso beach bumming.

 Penhale Point in the background.

Gull Rocks.

Camera facing North East, old boy heading South West.

 Heading up the beach - North Easterlyish. Collapsible walking stick is for propping the bike up in photos.

 And heading back t'other way. Certainly a beautiful morning, and I had the beach to myself too.

Oh hayup, incoming...

After a goodly ride around, I retreated to the dunes and found a good spot to brew up a coffee, a spot I could also sit and lie back slightly to ease my back.

 Nice spot for coffee.

 I know the coffee aficionados will have their noses turned aloft at the thought of such caffeine heresy, but the Extra Smooth sachets make for a really good coffee (and yes, smooth is quite right, it's the smoothest tasting coffee I know.).

Beats the hell out of Starbucks.

Fully caffeinated once more, there was nothing else to do but slog my way back up the long hill and back towards Cubert, Fatso's drive chain still sounding and feeling a tad graunchy despite a quick roadside clean up on leaving the beach.

 Blimey, serious business these beaches...

 Back in Holywell and not a lot going on, it's all shut still.

I gave the bike's transmission a good wiping down with a microfibre cloth to rid it of as much sand as possible, then washed off around the bottom bracket area with my water bottle, all of which proved fascinating to one of the local residents.

If Holywell had been quiet, Cubert was now awake and buzzing, with the village shop being the centre of attraction, as people were parking and leaving all over the place, making for a couple of near misses as I passed through. 

 Cubert again and it looks quiet but that's because of the zig zag lines either side of the crossing preventing parking nearer the shop. A bit before it was like a game of musical parking spaces with cars coming, going and drivers opening doors on passing cyclists... Must be Saturday... there's the bus...

 A quick nip back to the church as I wanted a photo or two with the coffin rest showing. These are said to be common in Cornwall, but this is the only one I know of personally. The coffin bearers would plonk the recently demised down on the platform while someone went to fetch the priest, who would then come and ask who was in the box. If he was satisfied the stiff was of suitable character to be buried in holy grounds, (no Rapscallions, ne'er do wells or Arsenal supporters) then he would sprinkle the coffin with holy water and the funeral would continue.

The war memorial displays names of those lost during both world wars and also the conflict in Northern Ireland.

Coffin perch bagged photographically, I rode out of Cubert again, but instead of going back the way I'd come, I hung a right and set off to explore some new to me lanes. 

 Smuggling is still good business these days, only now we go over to France in a car or hire van and load the bugger up with fags and booze until the thing is sat on the bump stops and can barely move. "No mate, nothing to declare at all, just been on 'oliday we ave... Oh the suspension bit low is he? Well we had a big lunch we did..."

There I was, dressed for the forecast bitingly cold wind that failed to appear, and there was this chap bozzing along in short sleeves and even shorter trousers...

It was all very pleasant too, as I drifted down the long hills, past the Smuggler's Den pub, which despite being in the middle of nowhere boasts plenty of accommodation for drinkers, diners and their cars too. Must be busy if the size of the car park is anything to go by.

But as we cyclists know, what goes down must also go up, and I had to grind and grimace my way up a couple of truly ugly hills, glad of the Fatty's low gearing.

A stop to check the map in Rose (who nicks all the road signs eh?) and shortly thereafter a quick nosey onto the dunes at the back of Penhale Sands. This is somewhere I'd seen on Google satellite wotsit and identified as a likely place for some top off road bimbling about. Unfortunately, for a law abiding type like me, signs suggested riding was a no - no. "Walk rather than ride" they said, to reduce erosion apparently. Damn. It's tough being a goody goody sometimes...

 More signs to observe... We're going sign crazy in this country, they're everywhere. This, one of many signs, near the dunes at the back of Penhale Sands.

I do like Gorse, but it's not always easy to get good photographs of, often ending in just a mass of indistinct yellow unless the camera is got in close.

After a brief look around, I made my way along pleasant enough, but hardly remarkable lanes before crossing the A3075 south west of Goonhavern at Perranwell, and then taking to the byways around Carnkief that I know pretty well. 

 Back on familiar ground and the network of Byways around Carnkief.

 These Byways are better sign posted than some of the lanes around the county.

Starting to feel a tad hooperchooped, so energy infusion was needed - Jelly Babies, the fuel of Champions...

The only sound to be heard while I was taking the above two photos was the trickling of a stream just behind me - bliss!

Those byways take the intrepid traveller to the ford near Cotton Springs, where I found a couple of horse riders watering their mounts. "Are you going the wet way or the dry way?" asked the older of the two riders. "The wet way of course" I replied, "I'm a rufty tufty mountain biker after all, not scared of a bit of water." (hey, I can dream can't I?) This rather surprised the horsey type, which also then made me wonder if she knew something I didn't. I'd ridden through this ford many times before, and it is a tad knobbly beneath the surface, being very uneven, and therefore a tad treacherous in places. But apart from looking seasonally deep, it all looked navigable, so I didn't wimp out and take the little bridge, but plunged in with great enthusiasm ( I do like splashing about in water on a bike...). Now you're possibly expecting a tale of immediate Fatso shipwreck and a soaked Bimbler after running abruptly aground or being swamped by deep and turbulent waters... but no, unfortunately not. Not only that, but I rode through several times to wash sand and salt off Fatso, and also to take photos with the GoPro. I did get a very wet left foot though, as placing the camera in deep enough for the water to submerge it, also meant my foot was in well above the ankle and my usually waterproof boots well out of their depth.

The ford near Cotton Springs doesn't look much, but it is deeper than most round here, and rough bottomed too. Sticking to the left in the above photo gives the safest passage. Go to the right and water wings would be advisable accessories...

 I had tried to get this sort of shot here once before, and hadn't ridden close enough to the GoPro. This time I knew what to do. This ford is ideal for this as the water is deep enough to submerge the camera on its small table top tripod, and the water is clearer thanks to all the daylight above. Other fords are shallower and gloomily lit affairs.

I usually declutter for ride past selfies, but for some reason on this occasion I forgot to remove the GoPro's chest harness. To the back of the class I go...

Photos hopefully nabbed (Unlike with the other cameras, I never check what I've got on the GoPro's LCD screen, preferring to wait until I unload the card back on the computer to see what I captured) it was then a case of bimbling my way home via Little Callestock, and over the A30 once more at Zelah. 

I love the lanes at this time of year, full of emerging colour in the form of wild flowers, but the trees are still bare, showing off all the tangled, twisting textures they create so well.

The last few miles I must admit were bafflingly strugglesome - I was cooked. It must've been all that riding on the sand (very soft apart from right by the water's edge) and those hostile hills that did the damage, although I was pretty tired before I even started, thanks to all that has gone on recently. 

But what a belting day it was, and not just down here but over a large part of the country too judging by posts on the cycling forums and so on. Fatbikes do work well on sand, and snow too it seems (though I've yet to try that, darn it!) but they are so much more than that, and I enjoy riding Fatso on the roads as much as my other bikes. Get them into the woods and on rough old Bridleways and Fatbikes really shine. So knickers to the Fatbike knockers I say!

As for beaches, well yes, very nice on a day like that, and at this time of year. It was very calming being sat in the dunes, sipping a brewed on the stove hot coffee and looking out at the Atlantic while listening to the shore lapping waves. Very nice indeed. Give it a couple of months mind you, and it'll probably be my idea of hell there!

Rough map of the route, the full jobbie can be found Here 

Given my various ailments I'm amazed, and utterly delighted, that I can manage this sort of ride, but by crikey my back was giving me some gyp after. But it hurts a lot worse after only an hour's walking about so cycling really is a huge benefit to me in so many ways.

The secret, for me anyway, is just slumping on the bars and letting my legs do all the work, I can't get too physical with my body language for instance. As for speed, well I can't do much of that either, unless plummeting down hills, and this ride was done at an average of just 7 mph - a figure most cycling folk wouldn't even register as moving, but the slower the better as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, you can't rush a good bimble, can you?

---------------

Sunday's Not So Bimbly Bimble. Caution - Contains Grumpiness and Ranting.

Well here we are, the middle of the night and unable to sleep. So I'm going to try and ease the turmoil by posting about yesterday's (erm, Sunday's now it's actually Tuesday) ride.

In my last post I moaned about how we here in Cornwall were having a spell of 'non weather.' Well on Sunday something was happening outside at last - it was pretty choppy out to put it mildly, with a gustysome wind blowing, but still with utterly dismal flat light and skies.

But it could be worse, as I read today that near-to-me Truro is the fifth wettest city in Britain. Apparently Truro cops an average 106 cm of rain over an average 150 days a year. This probably gives rise to the Truronian's weather forecasting method of "If you can't see the railway viaduct, he's bleddy rennin'. If you can see the viaduct, he's about to bleddy renn..."

For the record, Manchester, often derided as being wetter than an Otter's pocket, didn't feature in the top five. Top of the slops is actually Cardiff with a sloshing 115 cm of rain a year. The poor old Welsh really cop it as St Davids is second on 114 cm. Glasgow is third on 112 cm, while just beating Truro to fourth place by 4 cm, it's back to Wales and Bangor. 

But enough of that, the weather was once again dull and flat. Just a tad breezy with it.

I wasn't in the best of moods either, and I really needed to get out of the house again and work off some pent up frustrations, anger and anxieties. This inner turbulence meant the ride started in a very ugly manner as I thrashed away at the pedals and blitzed down the hill to Trevella Stream with not a thought for the possibility of meeting a vehicle coming up as I speared through the blind bends. I've heard depression being described jokingly as anger without enthusiasm, well I had plenty of anger in me and I was really taking it out on the Voodoo as well as myself as I attacked the hill up to Four Turnings like a drug fuelled Pro going for the finish line. If I knackered my back, gave myself a heart attack or rode slap bang into a car then so be it. This is what being on the receiving end of a Government department (the DWP) does for you. The way that department goes about its business is an utter disgrace in this day and age. If the individuals who make decisions were held to account, if they had to possibly face consequences in the way of court appearances, or even charges of gross misconduct, abuse of position or whatever, then they may actually show some consideration for the people they 'serve', and put some thought into what they do, and the effects and impacts they have. 

Right, rant over, even though I am still riotously angry with the complete contempt they show for people they are supposed to offer support.

So anyway, Sunday's ride started off rather violently, but that behaviour was brought to a halt by the steep hill I found myself climbing as somewhere in the blur of thrashing legs and bursting lungs, I'd taken the lane towards Probus. That's a steep bugger in any mood, and with my legs burning from all the effort as well, I had to bail out. Getting my breath back saw me rid myself of the initial burst of anger and frustration, and the ride continued in a more orderly manner, if still a little bad tempered and lacking in best safety practice at times.

Getting my breath, and a degree of composure, back at the top of the gert big hill on the lane to Probus.

I still took some photos of course as the mood lightened the further I rode and I started becoming more aware of my surroundings again. 

I'd not just set off with a massive cob on, I'd also set off with no route or destination in mind, so it became a make it up as I go along ride. 

Old originals on the left, new builds on the right. At least these new builds sort of suit the location, unlike many identikit homes they throw up all over the place with no thought given to local building styles/fashions or location environment etc.

 The Square, Probus. (Looks more triangular to me but still...) Oddness dead ahead is a photo of old Probus printed on the bus shelter walls.

I like some of the 'small' cars that are around these days, and if given the choice between these two, I'd get in touch with my more feminine side and plump for the Fiat. The Mini thingy might be better made, but by crikey they are fugly lumps, especially from behind. You'd never believe mere tail lights could embody the word 'gormless' but the designer who penned those nailed it. Calling them 'Mini' is a bit of a misnomer too. I learned to drive in a Mini, a proper Mini that is, and these new funky chunkies go against the entire philosophy of the original. But that's progress I suppose, and Minis sell like half time pasties at the rugby, so it must just be me that is less than enamoured with 'em!

Ignoring aching back and legs from my explosive start, I rode through Probus and out the other side, then taking to a Bridleway that initially runs parallel to the A390 Probus bypass. A short bash along the main road found me at the gates to the Trewithen Estate. 

The three photos up there ^^ are the first section of Bridleway alongside the A390 where it bypasses Probus.

 Lots of barbed and normal wire, shouty notice... someone else is a bit tetchy too... This sign is on Trewithen Estate land.

 Here this is posh, least as Bridleway entries go anyway, It has even got its own post box look.

 The Trewithen Estate's sign maker must be busy as a dog digging for daylight. Signs and notices everywhere.

The Bridleway is as indicated on their map by the dotted line running parallel to the 'St Auzell' road.

I wasn't going in to marvel at the gardens or gawp at the socking great house though, I was going to have me a ride along another Bridleway I've had my eye on for some time but had not yet ridden. This new'un travels through the estate grounds to start with, before crossing a country lane and heading down into the village of Grampound. 

 At the end of the grassy bit of the Bridleway, and looking back the way I'd come. Looks plush but was rather soggy and puddly, as the tyres show.

The last section on Trewithen land is tarmac and gravel and much easier to negotiate.

As you might expect of such a path in a posh estate, this Bridleway started off in a most splendid manner, with a flat, grassy and wide track to follow. It wasn't all peachy though, as that grass soon turned rather wet and squelchy, but still perfectly rideable. The Voodoo's narrower tyres might've left their mark in that plush grass mind you, more than Fatso would've done for sure, but hey ho, crack on!
After crossing the lane on the exit from the estate, the Bridleway becomes more like what is to be expected of a Cornish Bridleway - full of mud, puddles and tractor tracks. Hard work at times on the Voodoo making me wonder how I coped for so long before being spoiled by the Fatbike's 'go anywhere with ease' abilities.

 The second half of the Bridleway from the estate gates down to Grampound.

 Bang goes the clean bike...

Big fan thing was going like the clappers in the stroppy wind, and making quite some noise too.

Oh hayup... another moan incoming! You buy a picturesque little cottage, then pave over the garden so you can park your socking great Strange Rover outside, blocking all the light and almost dwarfing the house. Just look at the size of that thing compared to the house it's parked outside!

This is a bit of a thing of mine though, even more so after someone bought a lovely house in the village I live in and promptly ripped out the garden and its walls and railings, and paved it all over so they can park their Porsche outside their front door, despite them having a yard to the side of the house, and two old barns too that they could use. Their house, they can do what they like, but by crikey it really twists my knackers when folk ruin these places in such a manner.

Grampound is a village, with a town hall, something that has always puzzled me - I must find out what has gone on as calling it a town is pushing things a bit. Grampound folk must be a boastful lot, prone to exaggeration.

Grampound. The town hall is that building with the clock tower behind the two blokes fighting that ladder. 

I didn't look around the tow... village other than having a mosey up Mill Lane, and finding, well, an old mill at the end of it. Who'd have thought it eh? 

Access to the old mill buildings isn't possible, but outside the gates is this old building and digging thing.

Back out from the dead end Mill Lane to the main road and my on board navigation system was consulted, and having figured out where I was, I quickly decided on an interesting route home, avoiding the main road in the process. This meant climbing another socking great hill, and saw another bail out, but eventually I found myself once again on familiar territory, and a lane that boasts a roadside collection of old tractors and a spectacular brute of an old truck to poke around. 

 Now let's see, I'm opposite the lime green place and I want to go home which is... erm... well... erm... oh sod it...

 Ah the delights of a Cornish lane - old cottages, Daffodils in flower, Dracaena Palms and...

Gnarly old tractors lining the roadside - superb!

I've been to see these old warriors before, but only from the other direction. There were also a couple of old Bedford HA vans, and another truck (a Karrier rigid drop side) present on my first visit, but these have now gone. All these oldies belong to a local farmer, and I hope they stay there too, as I love finding such old vehicles lying about the place, something that is seen a lot less these days I think. Time was when any trip into the countryside would find some sort of old vehicle or other quietly decaying away under a tree or in an old tumble down shed. They were everywhere it seems, but not any more.

 Old Fordson. Bit of T-Cut and she'll be proper.

 Fordson bonnet badge.

 It's not just old tractors beside this lane though, check this brute out. A 1950, ex RAF, AEC Matador.

Fuzzy upload again. Right click and open in another tab to see this old beast showing off its tackle in all its glory.

Angst and anger may have subsided, but by now tiredness, aches and despair were setting in, and I was heading home right into that flipping rumbustious wind. Those final few miles were a face creasing struggle despite me being in the usually sheltered lanes. Whichever way the lane turned, that tenacious wind turned with it to hit me full on in the mush and sap the energy out of my legs until I was almost in the lowest winching gear, on the flat! You know you're in trouble when you're in the granny gears on the flat, that's for sure.

 Quick stop while sparring with the headwind.

 Passing through Ladock.

Not anger fuelling this speed but gravity, and a couldn't give a stuff approach to personal safety.

But I made it home in the end, but did I feel any better for the ride? Well yes and no really. Normally a good ride in the countryside can prove therapeutic and can calm whatever turmoil I am suffering that particular day fairly comprehensively. But I was just in too much of a state to relax properly, and it all came back once I was home anyway.

To top it all off, today (no, it's yesterday now, it was Monday) I got another letter from the DWP making things a thousand times worse than they had been before the weekend. (Polite) words fail me, they really do... oh to hell with it,  I'll stick a few more family friendly in that spring to mind anyway - incompetent, intransigent and criminally bereft of common courtesy and decency. An utter disgrace of an organisation.

My apologies for the tone of this post, but there we go, it's the way the cookie crumbles, time to kick some DWP backside! Fingers crossed normal service on this blog, and life in general will be resumed soon! 

---------------