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
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...
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?
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