Friends: Not much remains of the 74-mile long Hadrian's Wall, only fragments and stubs, so there was no hope it would be a weather barrier, holding back Scotland's rain and cold, providing at least a hint of summer to its south. Here it is, nearly July, and the only indication that these might be the warmer months are the long, long days, with the sky never darkening to pitch dark.
I did shed my tights my first day back in England, but only because they were still sopping wet and frigid cold in the morning. I've set up camp in the rain previously on this trip, but last night was the first night that the rain didn't relent for my last couple of hours on the bike, leaving my feet and legs thoroughly soaked. All it takes is a ten-minute reprieve from the rain, which I am ordinarily granted, for my shorts and tights to dry a bit from my body heat and the breeze. I kept waiting for that reprieve, intending to keep riding until that rain-free window, but it never arrived.
I finally called it a day near nine p.m., as I began a climb up into the white-out of the low-lying clouds, at about the same time a rare patch of unfenced forest turned up in this terrain of rolling moors that is predominantly wide-open and fenced in for sheep. The next morning began with a prolonged climb, so despite the 50-degree temps I quickly warmed up and didn't miss the tights. Not only didn't Hadrian's Wall bring about a climate change, it did not put an end to the long, steep, punishing climbs of Scotland. There were some right alongside Hadrian's Wall, which runs east to west from one side of England to the other, a bit south of the Scottish border.
The Wall dates to 123 AD, built by the order of Roman Emperor Hadrian to keep out the "barbarians" from the North, who would swoop into England looking for things other than under-the-table work. The Wall was an impressive structure of large, uniform-sized stones chiseled into bricks, piled eight feet wide and stacked as high as fifteen feet. At every mile there was a small fort and 16 regularly spaced major forts, garrisoned by approximately 500 soldiers each. Ruins remain of some of these as well. They are part of a National Park. An 84-mile hiking trail follows the remnants of the wall, winding to include some of the forts, which weren't always along side the Wall.
I biked about 16 miles of the road that hugs the southern side of the Wall. Its few remnants greatly dwarf the stone walls that the farmers have constructed to mark their fields. Now that I'm back in England I may have seen the last of the midges, the clouds of smaller-than-gnat-sized bugs that swarmed about me at a couple of my campsites as I hurriedly erected my tent and later took it down while waving and slapping. They are so tiny that when I'd smash the few that would get into my tent, clapping my hands together, they didn't even leave a mark, but they do bite and are pesky. For some they are their strongest memory of Scotland. A popular postcard is one of someone flailing away at a herd of the critters surrounding his head.
England is by contrast the land of rabbits. There have been stretches of miles where I couldn't look down the road without seeing a carcass, some fresh and others of varying pancake thickness depending on how many times they'd been run over. It wasn't unusual to see young 'uns along the road peering at their mangled mother. They are wise enough not to dart out haphazardly into the road, unlike the sheep. There are areas without fences along the road,just occasionally perpendicular to it with a cattle guard providing the final barrier for someone's property, allowing the sheep to roam freely across the road. The sheep mindlessly disregard motorized traffic, but me on my bike spook them into thinking I am there to round them up to be shorn or injected, so they go darting off into any direction, sometimes in front of me across the road.
A fawn ran ahead of me for a couple of miles at 14 mph fearful of cutting across the road and unable to disappear into the brush, contained by an eight foot-high deer-proof fence. I didn't speed up past it fearful it might dart in front of me at any moment. It finally halted in its tracks and doubled back past me. Such incidents will begin to wane as I descend into industrial and densely-populated England. The Tour de France prologue is a week from today. The night before will be the grand opening ceremony introducing each member of the 21 nine-man teams. I'm 350 miles from London. I hope to arrive by Thursday to have a day to rest and orient myself before the three-week 2,000-mile race begins. My hermocrit level and VO2 Max and Lactic Acid tolerance are all where they need to be. I am ready.
Later, George
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Dunbar, Scotland
Friends: After a day of exploring and museuming in Edinburgh, trying to avoid the hail and rain, I had the option of heading south seven miles to Roslin, where the world's first cloned sheep, Dolly, was created in 1999, as well as home to the Rosslyn Chapel, reputed repository of the Holy Grail and site of "The Da Vinci Code" climax, or heading east 25 miles to Dunbar, birthplace of John Muir.
Even though I needed to be heading south to London, there was no debate about which direction I would take. Muir has long been a hero and inspiration. He was a life-long wanderer/explorer and lover of nature and the wilderness, and, above all, god-father of the conservation movement. His stature has only grown over the years since his death in 1914. California elected to put his image on the recently issued quarter representing the state. He has graced a couple of stamps. At the millennium he was named one of history's most influential people. There are countless parks and trails named in his honor, including a Muir Way along the coast here in Dunbar, where he lived from 1838-1849 until his family moved to Wisconsin.
Muir has been acknowledged in several of the museums I have visited here. Quotes from his prolific writings dot Scotland's National Parks. A quote of his is also chiseled into the side of the new Parliament building in Edinburgh. His family's three-story home in Dunbar abounded with them, some even on the window panes. It would be impossible to select a favorite--"Do something for wilderness and make mountains glad...I live only to entice people to look at nature's loveliness...How lavish is nature, ever changing, ever beautiful...Go quietly alone; no harm will befall you."
He was a reluctant writer, bemoaning, "I find the literary business quite irksome." He would have much preferred to be out in nature, but forced himself to write out of his devotion to save the wilderness. He was a luminary in his time, giving speeches, and sought out by his era's titans including Emerson and President Teddy Roosevelt. He and Roosevelt spent four days alone together in Yosemite shortly after Roosevelt assumed the White House. Shortly thereafter Roosevelt launched legislation creating a host of National Parks. Muir founded the Sierra Club in 1892 and was its first President. He didn't devote himself to the out-of-doors until he was in his 30s after he suffered an accident that left him temporarily blind. He vowed after that to give up his life to nature and set out on a thousand mile walk from Kentucky to Florida. He planned to continue to South America but contracted malaria. A year later in 1868 he found himself in California and fell in love with Yosemite, making it the center of his attention, eventually establishing it as a National Park.
A class of 12-year olds joined me at his museum. Their assignment was to find their favorite fact about his life. They each clutched a writing pad. One girl said she was up to 14 facts. The museum is only four years old. It was established after a group of American mountaineers made a pilgrimage here and paid for a plaque, at least, to be put on the place of his birth. The museum lauds Muir as a "Conservation pioneer, Scottish hero."
The nine-tiered Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh also paid tribute to Scottish heroes. One floor was Scotland's sports hall of fame. Robert Miller is the only cyclist enshrined so far, tho the bicycle that Graeme O'Bree, recent subject of the movie "The Flying Scotsman," set a world record on was there. Bobby Thomson of baseball fame was one of the original 50 inductees. In the section of Scottish Innovators Alexander Graham Bell was featured. So was John Logie Baird, inventor of the television in 1925. Adam Smith was mentioned and the three great Scot writers--Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson. Edinburgh's main thoroughfare had a towering monument honoring Scott that one could pay six dollars to climb, who was born in Edinburgh. It was erected in 1846, several years after the 70' high similar monument to Burns in his home town, greatly upstaging it.
Despite its all too many brick and cobbled streets that were hell to bike on, especially descending in the hail, Edinburgh was a most captivating and vibrant city with loads of character. Its too bad its renowned film festival is in late August, overlapping Telluride's. Now its on to Hadrian's Wall, just south of the English/Scottish border.
Later, George
Even though I needed to be heading south to London, there was no debate about which direction I would take. Muir has long been a hero and inspiration. He was a life-long wanderer/explorer and lover of nature and the wilderness, and, above all, god-father of the conservation movement. His stature has only grown over the years since his death in 1914. California elected to put his image on the recently issued quarter representing the state. He has graced a couple of stamps. At the millennium he was named one of history's most influential people. There are countless parks and trails named in his honor, including a Muir Way along the coast here in Dunbar, where he lived from 1838-1849 until his family moved to Wisconsin.
Muir has been acknowledged in several of the museums I have visited here. Quotes from his prolific writings dot Scotland's National Parks. A quote of his is also chiseled into the side of the new Parliament building in Edinburgh. His family's three-story home in Dunbar abounded with them, some even on the window panes. It would be impossible to select a favorite--"Do something for wilderness and make mountains glad...I live only to entice people to look at nature's loveliness...How lavish is nature, ever changing, ever beautiful...Go quietly alone; no harm will befall you."
He was a reluctant writer, bemoaning, "I find the literary business quite irksome." He would have much preferred to be out in nature, but forced himself to write out of his devotion to save the wilderness. He was a luminary in his time, giving speeches, and sought out by his era's titans including Emerson and President Teddy Roosevelt. He and Roosevelt spent four days alone together in Yosemite shortly after Roosevelt assumed the White House. Shortly thereafter Roosevelt launched legislation creating a host of National Parks. Muir founded the Sierra Club in 1892 and was its first President. He didn't devote himself to the out-of-doors until he was in his 30s after he suffered an accident that left him temporarily blind. He vowed after that to give up his life to nature and set out on a thousand mile walk from Kentucky to Florida. He planned to continue to South America but contracted malaria. A year later in 1868 he found himself in California and fell in love with Yosemite, making it the center of his attention, eventually establishing it as a National Park.
A class of 12-year olds joined me at his museum. Their assignment was to find their favorite fact about his life. They each clutched a writing pad. One girl said she was up to 14 facts. The museum is only four years old. It was established after a group of American mountaineers made a pilgrimage here and paid for a plaque, at least, to be put on the place of his birth. The museum lauds Muir as a "Conservation pioneer, Scottish hero."
The nine-tiered Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh also paid tribute to Scottish heroes. One floor was Scotland's sports hall of fame. Robert Miller is the only cyclist enshrined so far, tho the bicycle that Graeme O'Bree, recent subject of the movie "The Flying Scotsman," set a world record on was there. Bobby Thomson of baseball fame was one of the original 50 inductees. In the section of Scottish Innovators Alexander Graham Bell was featured. So was John Logie Baird, inventor of the television in 1925. Adam Smith was mentioned and the three great Scot writers--Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson. Edinburgh's main thoroughfare had a towering monument honoring Scott that one could pay six dollars to climb, who was born in Edinburgh. It was erected in 1846, several years after the 70' high similar monument to Burns in his home town, greatly upstaging it.
Despite its all too many brick and cobbled streets that were hell to bike on, especially descending in the hail, Edinburgh was a most captivating and vibrant city with loads of character. Its too bad its renowned film festival is in late August, overlapping Telluride's. Now its on to Hadrian's Wall, just south of the English/Scottish border.
Later, George
Monday, June 25, 2007
Findhorn, Scotland
Friends: Findhorn was one of the mystical, other-worldly places Andre, of "My Dinner With Andre" from 30 years ago, glowingly describes to Wally during their legendary dinner filmed by Louis Malle. It is also featured in "The Secret Life of Plants" and countless other books and publications. Findhorn has long beckoned me, making it a prime objective of my visit to Scotland.
Findhorn rocketed to prominence back in the '60s when a small group of counter-culturalists on the dole began to miraculously grow 20-pound cabbages and other over-sized vegetables in seemingly infertile, sandy soil near the shoreline in a derelict trailer park in the far north of Scotland. Their success baffled all conventional experts. Their secret was communing with the plants and nature spirits, abiding by their wishes, including soothing them with classical music. When word spread, Findhorn became a mecca for those freed of mainstream strait-jackets, such as Andre. It has grown into a center for the new-age set and has become a virtual synonym for alternative thinking. Its gift store had shelves and shelves of books on the occult and subjects outside the confines of rational science.
The founding member, who had the gift of communing with the nature spirits, is no longer at Findhorn. The plants have returned to normal size, but that does not concern its residents. That was just a means to establish the place, they say. The community of several hundred live in a variety of unique, environmentally friendly dwellings. Few of the original, semi-slum, dilapidated dwellings still stand. The original caravan the three founding members and their three children lived in remains as a shrine of a sort, right beside their miracle gardening plot, still lush with plants, though of normal proportions. Their old caravan, almost as legendary as the bus of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, is presently used as an office.
There is quite an array of original and imaginative living quarters--yurts and bee-hive hexagons and giant whiskey vats. Some have sod roofs and solar panels. Nearly all the community's power is supplied by four mini-windmills. A single full-sized windmill would have sufficed, but the neighboring Royal Air Force base would not allow such a high structure. On the grounds is a uniquely modern theater that seats 300. A cello solo filled it the night before. There are also several buildings and rooms reserved exclusively for meditation. The community offers a wide range of classes and seminars and internships. The members of Findhorn dine communally for lunch and dinner, sharing in cooking and cleaning and gardening and construction.
Being at Findhorn was a superlative way to celebrate my 50th day on the road, just past the half way point of these travels. I've wished to visit Findhorn for years, having heard and read so much about it and having met an occasional person who has spent time there. I was racing to arrive in time for the daily two p.m. tour. I arrived with 20 minutes to spare after coming 52 miles in a non-stop cold drizzle, the temperature not even 50. A couple from Vancouver and another from England and I were led about the premises for two hours by an Australian woman who'd been a resident of Findhorn for four years.
I had camped the night before on a wooded hillside overlooking Loch Ness. Trees lined both sides of the road along the loch, preventing me from uninterrupted peering in search of a serpent's head poking out of the water. At the occasional pull-off, there were official signs describing Loch Ness as "The Loch with a Monster" and "A Monster of a Loch." The signs acknowledged that intense search, even with sonar devices, had turned up no evidence of there being a monster. The myth of the monster goes all the way back to the sixth century, then was hyped in 1934 when an Englishman faked the famous picture with the head of a sea serpent peering from the Loch like a periscope.
But people still flock from all over to this lake, so much so that there are regular signs in four
languages reminding motorists to drive on the left side of the road. Loch Ness is the fourth and largest of a string of long, narrow lakes that extend to Inverness, the largest city of the Scottish north. It is 24 miles long and as deep as 750 feet, deeper than the North Sea. It contains more water than all the lakes and reservoirs of England combined. I was warned not to call it a lake, rather a loch. If I did, I might be mistaken as English and could suffer for it.
Both the air and water temperature were much too cold for swimming. It was barely warm enough to be bicycling in shorts. But the waters of the Moray Firth, which lead into Inverness and extend 31 miles out to Findhorn and beyond to the North Sea, are not too cold for the world's northernmost colony of porpoises. Just as at Loch Ness, there are outfitters who cater to tourists who wish to go out on the waters in search of them.
Its another 125 miles north to the tip of Scotland, but I need to turn south to be back to
London by next Thursday with lots to see in between. I have finally begun to see other touring cyclists, and quite a few hostels catering to them, as the run along the four Lochs is the prime route up to John O'Groats, the terminus for those cycling the length of the UK. After a couple of days of non-stop cold rain, I am happy to be heading south. My super deluxe Gore Tex jacket has been put to the test and has kept my torso toasty dry. I have also been able to test the warmth of my damp sleeping bag in 40 degree temperatures, and survived that as well.
Later, George
____________________________________________________________________________________
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Comedy with an Edge to see what's on, when.
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Findhorn rocketed to prominence back in the '60s when a small group of counter-culturalists on the dole began to miraculously grow 20-pound cabbages and other over-sized vegetables in seemingly infertile, sandy soil near the shoreline in a derelict trailer park in the far north of Scotland. Their success baffled all conventional experts. Their secret was communing with the plants and nature spirits, abiding by their wishes, including soothing them with classical music. When word spread, Findhorn became a mecca for those freed of mainstream strait-jackets, such as Andre. It has grown into a center for the new-age set and has become a virtual synonym for alternative thinking. Its gift store had shelves and shelves of books on the occult and subjects outside the confines of rational science.
The founding member, who had the gift of communing with the nature spirits, is no longer at Findhorn. The plants have returned to normal size, but that does not concern its residents. That was just a means to establish the place, they say. The community of several hundred live in a variety of unique, environmentally friendly dwellings. Few of the original, semi-slum, dilapidated dwellings still stand. The original caravan the three founding members and their three children lived in remains as a shrine of a sort, right beside their miracle gardening plot, still lush with plants, though of normal proportions. Their old caravan, almost as legendary as the bus of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, is presently used as an office.
There is quite an array of original and imaginative living quarters--yurts and bee-hive hexagons and giant whiskey vats. Some have sod roofs and solar panels. Nearly all the community's power is supplied by four mini-windmills. A single full-sized windmill would have sufficed, but the neighboring Royal Air Force base would not allow such a high structure. On the grounds is a uniquely modern theater that seats 300. A cello solo filled it the night before. There are also several buildings and rooms reserved exclusively for meditation. The community offers a wide range of classes and seminars and internships. The members of Findhorn dine communally for lunch and dinner, sharing in cooking and cleaning and gardening and construction.
Being at Findhorn was a superlative way to celebrate my 50th day on the road, just past the half way point of these travels. I've wished to visit Findhorn for years, having heard and read so much about it and having met an occasional person who has spent time there. I was racing to arrive in time for the daily two p.m. tour. I arrived with 20 minutes to spare after coming 52 miles in a non-stop cold drizzle, the temperature not even 50. A couple from Vancouver and another from England and I were led about the premises for two hours by an Australian woman who'd been a resident of Findhorn for four years.
I had camped the night before on a wooded hillside overlooking Loch Ness. Trees lined both sides of the road along the loch, preventing me from uninterrupted peering in search of a serpent's head poking out of the water. At the occasional pull-off, there were official signs describing Loch Ness as "The Loch with a Monster" and "A Monster of a Loch." The signs acknowledged that intense search, even with sonar devices, had turned up no evidence of there being a monster. The myth of the monster goes all the way back to the sixth century, then was hyped in 1934 when an Englishman faked the famous picture with the head of a sea serpent peering from the Loch like a periscope.
But people still flock from all over to this lake, so much so that there are regular signs in four
languages reminding motorists to drive on the left side of the road. Loch Ness is the fourth and largest of a string of long, narrow lakes that extend to Inverness, the largest city of the Scottish north. It is 24 miles long and as deep as 750 feet, deeper than the North Sea. It contains more water than all the lakes and reservoirs of England combined. I was warned not to call it a lake, rather a loch. If I did, I might be mistaken as English and could suffer for it.
Both the air and water temperature were much too cold for swimming. It was barely warm enough to be bicycling in shorts. But the waters of the Moray Firth, which lead into Inverness and extend 31 miles out to Findhorn and beyond to the North Sea, are not too cold for the world's northernmost colony of porpoises. Just as at Loch Ness, there are outfitters who cater to tourists who wish to go out on the waters in search of them.
Its another 125 miles north to the tip of Scotland, but I need to turn south to be back to
London by next Thursday with lots to see in between. I have finally begun to see other touring cyclists, and quite a few hostels catering to them, as the run along the four Lochs is the prime route up to John O'Groats, the terminus for those cycling the length of the UK. After a couple of days of non-stop cold rain, I am happy to be heading south. My super deluxe Gore Tex jacket has been put to the test and has kept my torso toasty dry. I have also been able to test the warmth of my damp sleeping bag in 40 degree temperatures, and survived that as well.
Later, George
____________________________________________________________________________________
Sick sense of humor? Visit Yahoo! TV's
Comedy with an Edge to see what's on, when.
http://tv.yahoo.com/collections/222
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Fort William, Scotland
Friends: It was graduation day yesterday at Glasgow University. The quad of this centuries old
institution was aswarm with graduates, the women draped in a flimsy black cape of a sort and the men clad in kilts and knee-high socks, looking most proud and dignified.
institution was aswarm with graduates, the women draped in a flimsy black cape of a sort and the men clad in kilts and knee-high socks, looking most proud and dignified.
It wasn't until today, though, that I encountered my first bag-piper--a lone gentleman full kitted-out along the road at a scenic overlook. His tunes drew me upward as I climbed in a cold drizzle from the valley up into the mist-shrouded Highlands. I wasn't certain at first if I was actually hearing what I was hearing or if it was the ancient echoes continuing to reverberate in this grand and vast natural amphitheater. But the sound become more distinct and real the higher I climbed. Then, at last, there he was, as authentic as the rugged peaks all around, but at his feet a blue plastic bucket, a Scottish busker out in the middle of nowhere, posing and playing for the tourists at a summit overlook. An hour later, as I approached a small village along a lake I heard those Scottish tunes once again. I soon came upon a small church where a wedding was just concluding. A piper in full regalia stood at the door to the church, serenading all as they exited.
Just 25 miles from downtown Glasgow is Loch Lomond National Park. There was so much traffic along the western, most scenic, side of this 22-mile long sliver of a lake, framed by mountains all around, that the traffic heading north was forbidden from turning int the occasional scenic overlooks. There was a serene bike path down below that artery, however, hugging the shore of the lake. It was the old, quite narrow, road that was slowly being swallowed by vegetation. I had it all to myself.
I did pause in Glasgow to give two of its outstanding museums a look--the Hunterian at Glasgow
University and the Kelvington in the sprawling grounds below. Both were housed in castle-like buildings. The Kelvington had a gargantuan building all to itself, while the Hunterian had just several rooms of the main four-story university building.
The Kelvington was constructed for an International Exposition staged in Glasgow in 1901, back when Glasgow was one of the premier cities in the world. It was so prominent and affluent that it hosted a World Exposition in 1888 as well. It is a combination museum/art gallery, celebrating things Scottish as well as from all over the world. It has a Dali of Jesus on the cross seen from above and a life-sized sculpture of "Saint Elvis--King of Rock and Roll," pot-bellied in blue, holding a microphone belting out a tune. A full room was given to French painters with quotes from many of them high on the walls above their paintings that lent some insight into their character. "I want to conquer Paris with an apple"--Cezanne.
There was a painting of Robert Burns, Scotland's national poet, bedecked in a beret, imitating Che. He lived from 1759-1796 and was known as the "Ploughman's Poet," a working class hero and a rebel. Of religion he said, "Of all nonsense, religious nonsense in the most nonsensical." The day before I stopped by his childhood home. It is part of a National Heritage Site which includes a 70' tower erected in his honor in 1823. It overlooks the River Doon and the Brig 'o Doon (a bridge that dates to 1400) that is featured in his most famous poem Tom O' Shanter. He's also famed for penning the lyrics to Auld lang syne--times gone by.
The Kelvington also honored Mary Queen of Scots, who was beheaded at the age of 44. And it
acknowledged famous Scottish artists the Glasgow Boys and the Colourists. There was a special exhibit on John Quinton Pringle, an optician/painter. One of his paintings was "Repairing the Bicycle" from 1889.
There was an exhibit on mental health care in Glasgow, which acknowledged R. D. Laing, Scottish pop-shrink, who denounced normality and maintained that schizophrenia was a "break-through" rather than "break-down." Nearby was an exhibit on sectarianism and another on violence against women. It displayed a bridle from the 1600s used to punish women for nagging or gossiping, preventing them from speaking. In present times a woman is killed every three days in the UK by a partner or ex-partner. Another women-oriented exhibit was titled, "Woman Adored, Woman Adorned." An exhibit on the Scottish interest in American westerns was equally engaging.
It was an exceptionally well-curated museum that had the usual fossils and vases and stuffed animals and sarcophagus to go along with many pertinent and fascinating subjects. It truly emphasized what a fascinating world we live in, while piquing one's curiosity to learn more. There were quite a few school groups walking through and receiving commentary from teachers and staff. Many exhibits were mounted down low at child's eye level. There were also two sets of railings on the stairways, one for adults and another for children.
The Hunterian was much more modest of a museum, but it was interesting in its own way. It was largely the private collection of a physician who lived from 1718-1783. He collected
over a million objects. This museum opened in 1807 and was Scotland's first public museum.
Tonight I'll sleep along the banks of Loch Ness. I'll have my camera cocked and ready. Tomorrow its on to Findhorn.
Later, George
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Girvan, Scotland
Friends: The ferry from Belfast to Scotland deposited me at the small port of Stranraer, 85 miles south of Glasgow, the largest city in Scotland with an urban sprawl of two million. Most of the passengers and vehicles, however, were headed south to London, 400 miles away, so I had the fabulous coastal road north almost to my self with the bay of Loch Ryan to my left and wide open grazing land and spots of forest on the hillsides to my right, plenty of breathing room after the comparative density of Ireland.
Ireland appeared to be in a state of rapid growth with construction projects everywhere, both residential and commercial, and baby carriages streaming down the sidewalks, many of which were pushed by teen-aged girls, who didn't look like much like nannies. Pushing a baby carriage is such a national pastime that toddlers freshly graduated from them could be seen tagging along with their mother pushing their own miniature version with a baby doll wrapped in a blanket. A contributing factor may be that abortion is illegal in the Irelands, forcing some 50,000 Irish women to cross to England every year to have one.
Ireland also distinguished itself by offering the best roadside scavenging I've encountered anywhere, perhaps due to the density of population and high rate of alcohol consumption. Bulbous, vein-lined, red noses were as common as pubs and baby carriages. I may have just benefited from a fluke lucky stretch, as 48 hours and 150 miles don't provide data enough for truly viable conclusions acceptable to the scientific community, but, nonetheless, I did harvest more worthwhile stuff in my brief visit than I've collected the past four years in France, other than during the Tour de France.
I came upon two pairs of socks, one of thin wool that may prove handy as I proceed to the north of Scotland. I've already had days no warmer than 60. I've been wearing my rain jacket more often for warmth than to keep dry. I also came upon a tin of tuna and a canister of chocolate cookies and also a pink ten euro note. I was back to euros and kilometers in Ireland, but miles and pounds in English-controlled Northern Ireland. There was no indication of the border between the countries other than a sign saying, speed limits were now in miles when I crossed to northern Ireland. Nor was a passport required upon arriving in Ireland via the ferry.
Similar to England and Wales, Ireland was devoid of the picnic and rests areas along the road that are so common in France and are a touring cyclist's delight. But that deprivation has been more than compensated for by the great luxury of town libraries, comparable to those in the US, and open more than a few paltry hours as those of the token, facsimile libraries of France, and with free Internet. Food is much more expensive here, so the Internet savings is most welcome.
The British Isles have also had better town toilets than those of France, and nearly always stocked with toilet paper and soap. The toilets are almost an institution. One English community was in an uproar because there was a threat their town toilet was going to be closed due to budgetary concerns. There were signs and banners all over the town proclaiming, "Save Our Toilets." Other towns had signs of "Save Our Hospital," another social service under threat.
Now its on to the highlands of Scotland. I can continue north for four days before I need to head
back down to London for the start of The Tour. The opening ceremony is two weeks from tomorrow. There is much to see along the way. I'll have to save much of it for another time. Its just nice, as always, to be out on the open road, riding through terrain fresh and new. When its this exceptional, its hard to stop, whether for noteworthy sites or to sleep or eat. It was still light at eleven last night when I finally forced myself to quit riding.
Later, George
Ireland appeared to be in a state of rapid growth with construction projects everywhere, both residential and commercial, and baby carriages streaming down the sidewalks, many of which were pushed by teen-aged girls, who didn't look like much like nannies. Pushing a baby carriage is such a national pastime that toddlers freshly graduated from them could be seen tagging along with their mother pushing their own miniature version with a baby doll wrapped in a blanket. A contributing factor may be that abortion is illegal in the Irelands, forcing some 50,000 Irish women to cross to England every year to have one.
Ireland also distinguished itself by offering the best roadside scavenging I've encountered anywhere, perhaps due to the density of population and high rate of alcohol consumption. Bulbous, vein-lined, red noses were as common as pubs and baby carriages. I may have just benefited from a fluke lucky stretch, as 48 hours and 150 miles don't provide data enough for truly viable conclusions acceptable to the scientific community, but, nonetheless, I did harvest more worthwhile stuff in my brief visit than I've collected the past four years in France, other than during the Tour de France.
I came upon two pairs of socks, one of thin wool that may prove handy as I proceed to the north of Scotland. I've already had days no warmer than 60. I've been wearing my rain jacket more often for warmth than to keep dry. I also came upon a tin of tuna and a canister of chocolate cookies and also a pink ten euro note. I was back to euros and kilometers in Ireland, but miles and pounds in English-controlled Northern Ireland. There was no indication of the border between the countries other than a sign saying, speed limits were now in miles when I crossed to northern Ireland. Nor was a passport required upon arriving in Ireland via the ferry.
Similar to England and Wales, Ireland was devoid of the picnic and rests areas along the road that are so common in France and are a touring cyclist's delight. But that deprivation has been more than compensated for by the great luxury of town libraries, comparable to those in the US, and open more than a few paltry hours as those of the token, facsimile libraries of France, and with free Internet. Food is much more expensive here, so the Internet savings is most welcome.
The British Isles have also had better town toilets than those of France, and nearly always stocked with toilet paper and soap. The toilets are almost an institution. One English community was in an uproar because there was a threat their town toilet was going to be closed due to budgetary concerns. There were signs and banners all over the town proclaiming, "Save Our Toilets." Other towns had signs of "Save Our Hospital," another social service under threat.
Now its on to the highlands of Scotland. I can continue north for four days before I need to head
back down to London for the start of The Tour. The opening ceremony is two weeks from tomorrow. There is much to see along the way. I'll have to save much of it for another time. Its just nice, as always, to be out on the open road, riding through terrain fresh and new. When its this exceptional, its hard to stop, whether for noteworthy sites or to sleep or eat. It was still light at eleven last night when I finally forced myself to quit riding.
Later, George
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Dundalk, Ireland
Friends: Ireland was initially refreshingly flat as I stuck to the coastal road heading north out of Dublin to Belfast, 100 miles away. The traffic was extra thick, as I was swallowed up in the evening rush hour after my three hour 15 minute ferry from Wales. There was a bike lane of a sort, as I swept through the heart of the city, but it was a shared lane with buses, and at this hour it was clogged with battalions of the double-deckered monstrosities, forcing me and the few other cyclists out in the gridlock.
It wasn't a bad time to get a feel for Dublin, as the sidewalks were teeming with its inmates on
temporary furlough from their day-time office imprisonments. Some were hot-footing it, as if they were in pursuit, to the nearest dispenser of Guinness, never more than a few doors away. Others looked more dead than alive, lugging an invisible ball and chain. There were quite a few bikes locked to trees and posts without a bike rack to be seen, or hardly a u-luck, just skimpy cables and chains that would have had a New York bike thief salivating.
I stuck to N1 for 20 miles with its off and on bike lane. Despite a four-lane superhighway
paralleling it, there was more traffic than I'd care to ride with and unrelenting commercial and
residential buildings, so I turned inland for some peace and camping possibilities. Though the traffic instantly evaporated and the scenery turned rural and agricultural, the farms were being crowded out by country estates. If I'd been desperate, I could have slipped into one of those under construction, but they were circled by dirt that was more wet than dry. The potato field I eventually settled for was also muddier than I would have preferred and was even muddier in
the morning after a night-time drizzle. I've had rain just about every night since I crossed the Channel but hardly any during the day-time hours.
Mud tracked onto the highway from construction sites and fields has been a peril all through the
British Isles. I thought I was a goner on a steep descent with a grade in the upper-teens beyond my braking power in England near the Welsh border, when I saw mud covering the road at the bottom of the hill I was descending. I was ready to go splat but luckily found a dry track through the middle of it.
My brakes are only at about two-thirds of their strength after I snapped off the left arm of my front v-brake back in France when riding with Craig and had to replace it with a conventional side-pull brake. Craig, riding ahead of me, came to a sudden stop at an intersection in a small village we were passing through When I slammed on my brakes, the boss protruding from
the fork that the brake was attached to broke off. At first I thought I had broken the cable, but unfortunately it was much more serious than that. The boss is part of the frame and couldn't
be soldered back on.
It was 15 miles to the next town with a bike shop but flat most of the way, so having just a rear brake wasn't too hazardous. Two different people we stopped to ask gave us directions to the same Peugeot bike shop. When we reached it at 12:15 it was closed, the proprietor either taking an early lunch or off on vacation. As we peered it, it was hard to tell which. We wandered about the city hoping to find another.
The tourist office luckily was a rare one that didn't close for a lunch break. We learned of three
other shops to try. The nearest was also near a grocery store, so we could do our daily shopping, eat lunch and be there when the bike shop opened after its lunch. The one we chose adjoined a Renault car dealership. It was very well stocked, but it turned out it didn't do repairs. Between Craig's skills and my tools, we figured we could handle the repair ourselves if the shop had a replacement brake. It had two to offer, but one had too short of a reach, and the other too long. But the most helpful proprietor dug out an ancient CLB brake that looked as if it would fit. He had already drilled out the hole in my fork with two different drill bits, as the rear hole had to be slightly bigger than the front one. This brake worked just fine, though we needed to scavenge
an inch or so of housing cable.
The operation took about an hour, as the man helping us hopped back and forth from the phone to check on our progress. He even lent a hand making a final adjustment for the brake. Craig greatly charmed him with his French patter, even testing out a slang expression he had learned from me, that my French friend Yvon had used. He said I was a "crocodile", "an adventurer." The man only wanted five euros, but I gave him a ten and wouldn't take any change. It was great to have taken care of this calamity with such relative ease and expense, but it has reduced my braking power to what it used to be before I acquired this bike a little more than two years and 25,000 miles ago. Once again my wrists turn sore on those long braking descents.
The day of the brake breaking was a day of Craig coming to the rescue of people in distress. A
stopped motorist along the road flagged us down later that day, asking us to call his wife to come rescue him. He was about the only person other than us in all of France without a cell phone. It was ten minutes to a Renault dealership. The man in charge was happy to make the call and offer his tow truck. We had started our day with a woman in a small town in her apron on her bike hailing us as we exited the town cemetery after filling our water bottles and rinsing our bowls and eating utensils. We thought we were in for a reprimand. Craig quickly removed his hat and was prepared to be as polite as possible. She was just wondering if we had seen her husband, who had Parkinson's disease and was on the loose. Craig also was able to direct a couple of guys in a truck to a nearby grocery store in another small town. The French government ought to hire Craig to meander its roads as a service to those in need.
Later, George
It wasn't a bad time to get a feel for Dublin, as the sidewalks were teeming with its inmates on
temporary furlough from their day-time office imprisonments. Some were hot-footing it, as if they were in pursuit, to the nearest dispenser of Guinness, never more than a few doors away. Others looked more dead than alive, lugging an invisible ball and chain. There were quite a few bikes locked to trees and posts without a bike rack to be seen, or hardly a u-luck, just skimpy cables and chains that would have had a New York bike thief salivating.
I stuck to N1 for 20 miles with its off and on bike lane. Despite a four-lane superhighway
paralleling it, there was more traffic than I'd care to ride with and unrelenting commercial and
residential buildings, so I turned inland for some peace and camping possibilities. Though the traffic instantly evaporated and the scenery turned rural and agricultural, the farms were being crowded out by country estates. If I'd been desperate, I could have slipped into one of those under construction, but they were circled by dirt that was more wet than dry. The potato field I eventually settled for was also muddier than I would have preferred and was even muddier in
the morning after a night-time drizzle. I've had rain just about every night since I crossed the Channel but hardly any during the day-time hours.
Mud tracked onto the highway from construction sites and fields has been a peril all through the
British Isles. I thought I was a goner on a steep descent with a grade in the upper-teens beyond my braking power in England near the Welsh border, when I saw mud covering the road at the bottom of the hill I was descending. I was ready to go splat but luckily found a dry track through the middle of it.
My brakes are only at about two-thirds of their strength after I snapped off the left arm of my front v-brake back in France when riding with Craig and had to replace it with a conventional side-pull brake. Craig, riding ahead of me, came to a sudden stop at an intersection in a small village we were passing through When I slammed on my brakes, the boss protruding from
the fork that the brake was attached to broke off. At first I thought I had broken the cable, but unfortunately it was much more serious than that. The boss is part of the frame and couldn't
be soldered back on.
It was 15 miles to the next town with a bike shop but flat most of the way, so having just a rear brake wasn't too hazardous. Two different people we stopped to ask gave us directions to the same Peugeot bike shop. When we reached it at 12:15 it was closed, the proprietor either taking an early lunch or off on vacation. As we peered it, it was hard to tell which. We wandered about the city hoping to find another.
The tourist office luckily was a rare one that didn't close for a lunch break. We learned of three
other shops to try. The nearest was also near a grocery store, so we could do our daily shopping, eat lunch and be there when the bike shop opened after its lunch. The one we chose adjoined a Renault car dealership. It was very well stocked, but it turned out it didn't do repairs. Between Craig's skills and my tools, we figured we could handle the repair ourselves if the shop had a replacement brake. It had two to offer, but one had too short of a reach, and the other too long. But the most helpful proprietor dug out an ancient CLB brake that looked as if it would fit. He had already drilled out the hole in my fork with two different drill bits, as the rear hole had to be slightly bigger than the front one. This brake worked just fine, though we needed to scavenge
an inch or so of housing cable.
The operation took about an hour, as the man helping us hopped back and forth from the phone to check on our progress. He even lent a hand making a final adjustment for the brake. Craig greatly charmed him with his French patter, even testing out a slang expression he had learned from me, that my French friend Yvon had used. He said I was a "crocodile", "an adventurer." The man only wanted five euros, but I gave him a ten and wouldn't take any change. It was great to have taken care of this calamity with such relative ease and expense, but it has reduced my braking power to what it used to be before I acquired this bike a little more than two years and 25,000 miles ago. Once again my wrists turn sore on those long braking descents.
The day of the brake breaking was a day of Craig coming to the rescue of people in distress. A
stopped motorist along the road flagged us down later that day, asking us to call his wife to come rescue him. He was about the only person other than us in all of France without a cell phone. It was ten minutes to a Renault dealership. The man in charge was happy to make the call and offer his tow truck. We had started our day with a woman in a small town in her apron on her bike hailing us as we exited the town cemetery after filling our water bottles and rinsing our bowls and eating utensils. We thought we were in for a reprimand. Craig quickly removed his hat and was prepared to be as polite as possible. She was just wondering if we had seen her husband, who had Parkinson's disease and was on the loose. Craig also was able to direct a couple of guys in a truck to a nearby grocery store in another small town. The French government ought to hire Craig to meander its roads as a service to those in need.
Later, George
Monday, June 18, 2007
Holyhead, Wales
Friends: There was much to like, if not celebrate, at the National Cycle Collection Museum in Llandrindad Wells, Wales, but nothing more than its location. It is housed in what was known as the "Automobile Palace," formerly a giant dealership and showroom for that four-wheeled monster of doom whose time is rapidly coming to a close. Just as one civilization is built on the ruins of another, so here too.
The museum was established ten years ago when three collectors of all things bicycle combined their holdings to share them with the public. One of the collectors is the grandson of the man who built the Automobile Palace, Tom Norton. Norton started out in bicycles, opening a shop in in 1899 in Llandrindad Wells, but he shortly succumbed to greed, forsaking the bicycle for the automobile and its seeming riches. He sold the first Model T Ford in Wales in 1909. But he didn't entirely forsake the bicycle, as he held on to many of the bikes and parts from his early days in the business, which can now be seen at the museum.
There are some 250 bikes on display, making this the most significant bicycle museum in Great Britain The museum also includes a vast array of bicycle memorabilia and components--signs, photos, posters, and a wide variety of lights and bells from cycling's infancy. Special tributes were given to Dunlap, inventor of the pneumatic tube, and Raleigh. There was tribute as
well to The Milk Race, the English national bicycle race, a mini-version of the Tour de France. There were also the usual oddities that never caught on, such as the Simpson Lever Chain from
1895, a five-wheeled Pentacycle from 1882 with wicker baskets fore and aft used by English postal workers for a spell and a 1935 Triumph Molle recumbent with a steering wheel rather than handlebars.
There were no videos nor much of an interest in making it a Hall-of-Fame for English cycling. There was barely mention of Simpson, Boardman, O'Bree or Kelly. Nor was there much on the 850-mile Land's End to John O'Groats cycle route from one end of Britain in Cornwall to the other in Scotland that has captured the imagination of cyclists from the beginning, both
racers and tourers. Nor was any recognition given to H. G. Wells and his considerable writings celebrating the bicycle. Maybe all this will come in time as the museum matures from a hobby to a true commitment.
There was no doubting the thoroughness and passion to the cause championed by the Centre for Alternative Technology--saving the earth. It was fifty miles up the road just beyond Machynlleth on the southern fringe of Snowdonia National Park. The Centre was founded in 1974 by a group of idealistic hippies and determined environmentalists on a seven acre abandoned slate quarry. Their initial goal was to establish a self-sustaining community. Over the years it has grown into a world-renowned advocating agency of wind, solar, and water energy. It had a wide variety of displays demonstrating how to harness renewable energies, construct energy efficient buildings, and how to live reasonably in concert with the environment, rather than destroying it. It has grown into one of the premier tourist attractions in Wales. It also offers dozens of two to five day courses ranging from Building With Hemp and Lime to making your Own Biodiesel. Its offers degrees in environmentalism through its affiliation with the University of East London.
Its too bad Al Gore didn't include a visit to this place in his movie, but its message would no doubt have been too hard for him to swallow. Among its exhibits was the "Treadmill of Happiness" that urges those upon it to "work more, buy more, earn more, need more" with
the promise that "happiness is just around the corner." There was a bamboo couch for those in need of "Retail Therapy," advising them against the "quick fix that cheers you up briefly but leaves you with yet more stuff that you don't need cluttering up your home." It asked, "Are the fruits of past shopping trips lurking unworn in your wardrobe? What's more valuable to you--memories or material things." It concluded with the advice to spend one's money doing
things with friends and traveling and going to the cinema.
A repeated message was not to buy things you don't need, to think before you buy, and to recycle things you don't need--"sell it, share it, swap it, donate it, don't just dump it." Reduce/Reuse/Recycle should be everyone's mantra, and in that order.
There were multiple exhibits on "Mad Car Disease," preaching that the car has us on the road to ruin. They didn't fully demand that people dump their cars in the nearest quarry, but strongly advocated car-sharing, rather than car-owning, to reduce the numbers of cars on the road. It cited the figure that the world's population of six billion people own 551 million cars with 44 million new cars bought each year.
A tee pee structure with a pile of car tires in the middle formed "The Vicious Circle of Car Dependency." One could walk round and round reading the message, "People drive because they think the roads are too dangerous to cycle, this means more traffic, which makes the roads more dangerous, so fewer people want to cycle." Throughout the seven acres there were messages to eat less meat, not to leave the water running while you brush your teeth, to buy from farmer's markets, to compost, but it emphasized that it is in the area of transport that people have the
biggest opportunity to reduce the damage they are doing to the planet, lessening their ecological
footprint, and with the added benefit that bicycling is good for one's health, as cyclists have a fitness of someone ten years younger.
People who bike to the Centre are given a reduced ticket, but unfortunately it was a flat rate and not relative to the distance one had cycled, as I biked over 2,000 miles from Paris to get there. It is less than three weeks now to the Tour to France and my conditioning is just about where it needs to be. Craig helped to accelerate it a bit with his fast pace, at least in the early part of our days together. And the steep, steep hills of Wales have topped it off. Grades of 15% and more have not been unusual My legs were strong enough for them, but all the climbing exhausted me more than I thought when I slept solid from 9:30 to 8:30 after one hard day. Now its on to Ireland. My ferry leaves in less than two hours.
Later, George
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