The Lockdown Memorial one…

This story starts 100 years or so ago with a man called John. He’s on the far right of the cover photo taken at around the time that some of this story is set.

Born in 1920 and raised in a small market town that no one's ever heard of, John had a love of cycling. Once old enough to brave the distance, he and a friend called George would cycle from where John lived in Tenbury Wells to Aberystwyth on the Welsh coast. Not much is known of the route, or the time it took, but we do know he'd leave before the sun was up to avoid the worst of the traffic.

Busy roads it seems was a concern even in the 1930s.

On reaching the coast, he'd have fish and chips on the beach, stay the night and cycle home the next day.  This was a journey of over 150 miles on what would in all likelihood have been a single or 3 speed, steel framed bike. Now anyone who's cycled through mid-Wales will know how many bumps there are through the valleys and how tough a ride this is going to have been.

Had he still been with us in 2020, John would have celebrated his 100th birthday. The rusting and faded steel framed bike still likely leant against the wall in his garage.

He died in 1998 from a stroke. 

A small group of us had an idea to mark his 100th year with a charity ride, retracing his pedal strokes to and from Aberystwyth. Unfortunately, Covid-19 had other ideas.

Undeterred, each member in the group (Pat, Sam, Worm, Tom and I) decided to ride the equivalent distance from our own front doors on the weekend of the now postponed memorial ride, to raise money for the Stroke Association.

Here's how it went.

Day 1

Greg and I left Falmouth, bound for St Ives and the Penwith Coast.

It was a beautiful, sunny morning as the early kilometres ticked by. Both of us targeting our first coffee stop in St Ives around 90 minutes into the ride. On leaving Falmouth, we took the quiet lanes towards Stithians Lake, Leedstown and Hayle, before we joined the queue of holiday maker traffic leading up into St Ives. The riding across this part of Cornwall is lumpy rather than hilly, but we nonetheless felt that our coffee was well earned.

As we took the coast road out of St Ives we immediately left the noise and busy streets behind, replaced with miles of long winding roads with spectacular views of the Atlantic. And we found the hills too.

St Ives is famed for its light and colour; just one of the many reasons why artists, along with everyone else, has loved it for centuries. And I rather like the story of how the small seaside town acquired its name.

Back in the 5th century, the daughter of an Irish Chieftan sailed to Cornwall on a leaf, apparently having missed the boat carrying the other saints. I can imagine how onlookers may have felt, thinking her unfortunate for having missed an altogether safer sea-faring vessel. And yet the leaf clearly had a better sense of direction than St la had timing, washing up on the beautiful soft sand of Porthgwidden beach.

I very much hope this tale is true, but whatever the origin, it's been known as St Ives for a very long time.

We passed the Gurnard's Head, a pub so yellow it would give the Jolly Green Giant a run for his money, freewheeled through Zennor and passed the brillantly atmospheric Tinners Arms, before arriving into St Just. My legs quite fancied some caffeine as people spilled out of what at that moment appeared to be the world's best cafe, but we pressed on, aiming for Lamorna instead. We arrived, freewheeling the 5 minute or so descent into this sleepy, narrow little cove. Stopping at the water's edge was delightful.

However, I immediately thought the small detour was a stupid idea when straight out the car park we hit the impossibly steep ramp back up. It was quite possibly a 50% gradient in places.

Back on the regular 15% and 20% climbs that frequent this part of the coast road, we made it to my all time favourite lunch spot; Mousehole.

This place has more stories than sail lofts.

For instance, in 1595, 200 Spanish soldiers with an axe to grind (presumably following the defeat of the Armada several years before) raided Mousehole burning everything to the ground, save for a single granite house. They terrorised the entire area, burning churches and houses in nearby Paul, Newlyn and Penzance too. That solitary house still stands today, as do many of the tiny houses and cottages that line the harbour front and narrow streets, rebuilt by the granite quarried just down the road in Lamorna. Then there's Dolly Pentreath, a resident of one such cottage, who is said to be the last person to speak the Cornish language.

At one time, Mousehole was the area's busiest harbour, with a successful Pilchard fishing industry employing many local people. Over time, the Pilchards disappeared, as did Mousehole's dominance, making way for Newlyn and Penzance to become the main ports.

It's seen tragedy too with the Solomon Browne lifeboat being lost, along with all 12 of its crew, just before Christmas in 1981, with a memorial hall in the brilliantly named 'Duck Street'.

And then there's the name of the village itself. Once named Porth Enys, no one's sure how it came to be known as 'Mousehole'; some say it's because of its small harbour, others, a close-by sea cave resembling a mouse hole, and others still claim it comes from the old Cornish word, Moeshayle, meaning 'young woman's brook'. Whatever the origin, it fits the village perfectly with its quaint streets, small harbour beach peppered with tiny boats, and narrow gap through its harbour wall.

And I haven't even mentioned the heroic Tom Bawcock who saved the village by braving a fishing trip in a storm of biblical proportion...

Leaving Mousehole behind, we passed Marazion and gazed out at St Michael's Mount, before turning inland and into the labyrinth of tiny lanes. The tourists don't venture here and if you see a local, it's probably because they're lost trying to find their own house.

You see different rules govern these roads. 

For a cyclist, this means hours spent playing bramble roulette. Stray too close to the side of the road and you're snagged by brambles the size of telegraph cables, coast down the middle and you're on to a 9 inch wide strip of lush green glass, aka puncture alley.

So whilst the road maybe 2m wide, there's about 30cm on which to safely cycle.

And that's before you meet the tractor.

Constructed from that timeless material known as rust and at least 50 years old, it will nonetheless be made to look in its operational prime when compared with the farmer driving it. But here comes the rub, it will always be 10cm or so wider than the width of the road you happen to be on. Thus leaving you, the cyclist, with one and only one option; to concede and turn around. 

As the clouds rolled in and we lost the brightest of the sunshine, we passed Godolphin Cross, Nancegollan, Porkellis and Carnkie, on route back to Falmouth and a fish and chip supper. Day 1 was complete having racked up a leg sapping and brilliant 134k with 2,060m of ascent.

Day 2

We were a slightly less energetic duo as we left a quiet Falmouth on day 2, though as full of porridge and coffee as you would ever want to be when starring down the barrel of an even more difficult second day in the saddle. Again, thoughts shot back to how the hell my grandfather did this in the 1930s.

Our first goal was to reach Mevagissey via the King Harry Ferry. It was only 40k or so of riding but we climbed almost 1,000m. It was as though the Strava route planner had chosen every possible hill for us to ride up. At one point we were starting to suspect we may never see Mevagissey destined to spend the entire day slogging up endless, tree covered climbs somewhere on the Roseland Penninsula.

I have never been so happy to be yelled at on my bike for cycling round a harbour (who knew this was a rule?!). We had made it to the friendly village of Mevagissey.

As we sipped coffee on the quay side, Greg and I could quite happily of taken the rest of the day off and stayed for lunch. This feeling quite often appears on rides, when my legs complain and I'm sat drinking coffee, wondering whether to get back on the saddle.

However today was different. We had a 100 year memory to dedicate this ride to and a whole load of sponsorship that needed to be honoured. We also had lunch ready and waiting for us in Ladock Woods. So with that, we got back on the bikes and headed straight up yet another hill.

The rest of the ride passed through some lovely quiet Cornish countryside. Barring some navigational mishaps which at one point had Greg concerned we were heading for Plymouth, we rode with the sun on our faces and made it to the small village of Ladock for lunch.

Refuelled we time trialled it back to Truro.

This is one hell of a road and where a number of nearby cycling clubs hold regular races. It's as flat as it gets in Cornwall and, thanks to the tree cover, is sheltered from the wind too. The result is a very fast 10k or so. It was just what we needed to eat up some extra miles with what was now 250k in the legs from the weekend's cycling.

As we reached the familiar roads between Truro and Falmouth, I couldn't help thinking there was a more direct route to take. If only we took a left here, I'd tell myself, we'd be back so much quicker. The route planner was yet again playing mind games and it was as if my legs were trying to take back control of the navigation.

However, I was determined we'd emulate those great Tenbury to Aberystwyth rides done all that time ago and I didn't want to finish short of the distance. So, we stuck to the scenic route, looping back round via Mawnan Smith and the coast road.

As we spun up the last few climbs, I reflected on the weekend. We'd all collectively achieved what we set out to. We'd ridden in memory of someone who used to enjoy time on two wheels riding through beautiful countryside. With Greg and I having seen much of the Cornish coast, Tom cycling through the Long Mynd in Shropshire, Worm heading to Snowdonia National Park and Chappers to Cheddar Gorge, we'd done exactly what my grandfather had 85 years earlier. Only with lighter bikes and more cake.