Four countries, four ferries and one long bike ride
These days we like to travel slowly, sometimes very slowly!
Gone are those evenings when we would dash home from work, jump into a diesel gobbling monster, point it at the nearest motorway and drive non-stop the four hundred mile journey from our home in rural mid Wales to our holiday home on Argyll’s wild and wonderful coast. We used to arrive in the middle of the night and it would take us a day to recover from the journey.
Now, with no work demands dictating our timetable, we try to enjoy the journey as well as the destination. The last time we made the trip we did it in our eGolf which was charged at the beginning and at the end by the sun. Along the way we made leisurely stops in some great charging stations. Those stops slowed us down and added a new and enjoyable dimension to our journey.
For our July trip north we chose pedal power over ev and arrived, just as exhausted, 6 days later having visited 4 countries, taken 4 ferries and pedalled a long, long way. But the journey was magnificent despite the weather’s determined efforts to pour cold water over our great adventure.
Rain was forecast at our destination by noon and so the alarm was set for 0530 and, within half an hour, we were coasting down through the village on a calm, clear morning. Our bikes were loaded with stuff for a month away as well as a tent and sleeping bags to protect us against bed and breakfast bankruptcy. The cost of low budget accommodation has gone through the roof in these inflationary times.
An hour or so later we were in Welshpool where the sky was now grey and the moisture in the air was making its presence known. We had chosen to enliven our journey by threading Britain’s waterways, cycle ways and ferries as much as possible. We slipped onto the tow path of the Montgomery Canal and quickly discovered that both the canal and the tow path are barely navigable at the height of summer. Despite the hedge parsley being 8’ high in places, the abundance of nettles and clawing brambles we gamely pedalled north crossing and re-crossing the Welsh and English border many times as we went. The hedgerows were alive with birds, the air was thick with the scent of meadow sweet and dragonflies hunted over the water. A feast of nature hosted by 200 year old industrial relics.
With thorn-scratched faces and nettle stung knees we emerged onto tarmac at Ardleen when the canal dived into a tiny culvert and, with that, the tow path disappeared. But the Shropshire lanes were just as beguiling as we found our way through the parklands of the landed gentry and the working farms on the Welsh borders.
Recharging on this bike route was frequent and involved drinking large quantities of coffee as our bikes are not electrified. The first coffee stop was in Oswestry where we were the first customers of the day.
Climbing out of Oswestry on the
‘B’ roads there are yet more country houses to ogle but then come the spectacular, navigable waterways. Chirk has a splendid 200 year old aqueduct adjacent to a slightly younger viaduct and both were busy with boats and trains. A narrowboat load of Norwegians chugged slowly against the current on the aqueduct 70 metres above the river below. They soon disappeared into a long tunnel but only after a boatload of Germans coming the other way popped out into the light. There’s no room for passing in these tunnels. Tourism is now thriving in these ancient arteries of trade.
Our plan, for once, had worked and we had arrived too early to check into the Hand Hotel but we had beaten the heavier rain. The cafe opposite kept us entertained until we were allowed into the old coaching inn built in 1608 when transport was by horse and cart. Indeed, the Romans had been here too as the hotel was alongside the Roman road between London and Holyhead.
The forecast for Tuesday was damper and it proved accurate. We left Chirk through a canal tunnel that led to a more trafficked towpath where the hogweed, nettles and bramble were more manageable. When the canal turned left for Llangollen we went north and crossing valleys, rivers and hills as we went. Somehow we ended up cycling right through a large and private estate before entering the suburbs of Wrexham. Our rote went through the bustling town centre and exited through high tech industrial parks making aerospace parts and countless other factories we had never heard of.
Rain forced a coffee stop and a pause under a tree at the gates of Gladstone’s castle before crossing the now tidal river Dee soon after Queensferry. Here the factories grew bigger and industry heavier. The Toyota factory, surrounded by solar panels and wild flower meadows was at the centre of a complex web of cycle ways intended to keep their workers healthier by making it easy to bike to work.
We were now on the Wirral and following the Wirral Way that took us past estuary and wetland reserves with distant views of the Shotten steel plant and other relics of Britain’s industrial past. When the drizzle became rain, as if by magic, a cafe emerged in the middle of nowhere.
We were wet rather than damp when we entered Birkenhead on the cycle track that follows the south bank of the Mersey. The night ferry to Belfast was already docked when we got to the Stena Terminal and we were allowed to board and have dinner on the restaurant deck overlooking Liverpool’s famous skyline. We saw the memorial to the Cockleshell Hero’s, the sunken submarine and other maritime memorobilia that adorned Birkenhead’s long history at the centre of an old Empire’s trade in coal, cotton and, of course, slaves.
It was dark when the ship sailed and we saw nothing of the Irish Sea which we have sailed in our own boat many times. We slept well and emerged onto the Belfast dock on a grey, drizzly day, just how I imagine most Belfast days are. After a few wrong turns we found the cycle path that runs north along the coast to the university where it joins the road to Carrickfergus. Here we forked left and climbed steeply up through Protestant towns into the cloud, the wind and the rain.
It was now July 12th, a date which had previously meant nothing to us. But soon we were amongst the marching bands with their drums, union jacks and Orange Sashes. The Orangemen of Ulster were marching on this auspicious day commemorating battlefield successes in Derry, the Boyne, Eniskillen and Augrhim. We felt nervous as bystanders watching the marchers and reading their banners proclaiming, ‘no surrender’ whilst wallowing in the glories of an ancient, but unforgotten, conflict. How careless our own government has been in risking the the fragile peace of the Good Friday Agreement to force through a hideous, ideologically driven and useless no deal Brexit.
We were discomforted by the Orangemen and in no place more so than the little town of Glynn. We felt compelled to visit because Sally was born a Glynn but the Orangemen ruled the roost there and their banners and flags were most prolific.
After Glynn came Glenarm another enforced retreat to a cafe to escape the rain and rest sore muscles, sore joints, sore bums and sore everythings.
The Antrim Coastal Road though mostly flat was hard work because of the wind which always seem to turn against us at every bend. The road too was narrow and there was plenty of tourist traffic to keep us on our toes. Despite these shortcomings it was beautiful with the sea and beaches on our right and the green hills and cliffs on our left. It felt a long way to Waterfoot and our B&B but I think this was more about third day fatigue than it being more strenuous or much longer. I think the hill section heading out of Carrickfergus had sapped our strength and we had been made nervous by the Orange Sashes and the ever present threat of a soaking by the rain.
As it happened we arrived dry at Martin’s B&B where we were warmly welcomed by a strong Irish accent undiminished by 40 years of building roads in England. Martin was definitely not an Orangeman and I wondered if his scarred face and glass eye were from ‘the troubles’ or some industrial accident years ago. We didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. Martin was warm hearted and outgoing but kept his one good eye sharply on the business. A tenner for a lift into town for a meal, no glasses of water, kettles or tea in the rooms ‘because of COVID’ but curiously all were available in the dining room but at a cost.
The road to Ballycastle turned away from the sea and climbed into the hills of north Antrim where the wind found us again and, as ever, was in our faces. We went steeply up and then steadily down a gentle and speedy gradient. The rain caught us along the way but the windy dry descent meant that we arrived at our b&b not dripping which is always an advantage when staying in someone’s home.
Siobhan was our hostess and was deeply into her American Podcasts allegedly because her ancestor had been an American Senator who had played his part in writing the American Constitution. Though she didn’t know which party her 18th century ancestor had belonged to she was in no doubt about her own political allegiances. ‘I’m a massive Trump supporter’ she confided with a hint of embarrassment. Dressed in a purple robe matching hair and with a crucifix around her neck I was starting to wonder why colour was so important in the political thinking of whacky Irishmen. Orange, green and now purple.
We ate our cornflakes and sped off down the hill to catch the Kintyre Express ferry to Islay. We were waved off by the Dutch crew of an OCC boat, Vento Vivo, with whom we had had an enjoyable supper at the Marconi Bistro the night before.
With 12 passengers strapped in the Redbay 13 metre RIB roared north through the tidal overfalls at 20 knots. By noon we were tied up in Port Ellen’s marina alongside another OCC boat, Novara, whose crew, Nigel and Veronica, we met for lunch in Bowmore.
The bustling wildlife on Islay didn’t disappoint but it came as a shock to hear that Diageo, one of the biggest whisky distillers of them all, has been granted an unlimited licence to extract peat to flavour their whisky and line their pockets. This late in our climate crisis it seems insane to be digging up this precious, rare habitat and releasing carbon that’s been sequestered there for millennia.
The ferry from Port Askaig to Jura took only a few minutes and we began the steady pull up the single track road that leads to Craighouse. Mostly the cars were patient with us and passed us courteously at passing places but a few, notably vans driven by locals, honked away on their horns almost sending us panicking into the ditch.
At the crest of the hill the rain and mist came back with a vengeance. The speedy descent was made painful by the blasting rains that stung our cheeks and made us squint. By the time we had our tent up we were soaked but fortunately the Jura Hotel is used to bedraggled bikers.
The final ferry of our 4 Nation tour dropped us at Tayvallich where the sun was sparkling once more. The Argyll scenery didn’t disappoint as we wound along the loch side through lush temperate rainforests and the beaver dams of Knapdale. At the Crinan Canal we paused to admire more of our glorious industrial heritage.
The vast bog of the Moine Mohr is preserved and is not exploited by big business. It will remain a haven for hen harriers and butterflies. Kilmartin was our last coffee break before two long climbs and two thrilling descents.
The steepest hill of the whole journey was our own drive that climbs steeply from the sea to a warm welcome from our neighbours when we arrived panting and sweating in the afternoon sun. Why did we buy a house on such a steep hill?
Average speed 8.1 mph
Cycle distance 200 miles
Monty Canal
Hand Hotel at Chirk
A wet ride to Birkenhead
Entrance to the castle that Gladstone lived in
Crossing the Dee
The Mersey
Lots of nature on the Wirral
Supper on the boat before leaving with a great view of Liverpool
Komoot took us off into the green wilderness
We had to visit the town of Glynn (Sally’s maiden name)
It turns out Glynn was one of the more active areas for the Orangeman- the sign says, ‘no surrender’.
The Antrim coastal road
Clough Williams-Ellis houses
Supper with Willie and Jessica on the Marconi Bistro in Ballycastle
Aboard the Redbay RIB which is the Kintyre Express
Ferry docked in Port Ellen after crossing from Ballycastle at 21 knots.
Boarding the ferry at Port Askaig
The short crossing to Jura
A wet ride to Craighouse and a wet campsite as a couple of occluded fronts passed over
The Craighouse Ferry to Tayvallich
17 knot crossing to Tayvallich
The bog at Moine Mohr
Crinan Canal
A breather at our boathouse before the steep hill. (20%) up to Traighuaine
Roe Deer grazing Traighuaine’s wild flower meadow.