In early September 2022, I did a two-week bicycle tour through the British West Country, riding from Bristol to Penzance before taking the train back. I grew up in the West Country, spending my childhood in the city of Bristol and the fishing village of Appledore, so this was very much home turf. But my immediate family left the area in the early 1990s when I was in my late teens, I had only been back once, and in many ways, I realiseed that I had never really looked at the scenery properly or explored it. So this was a great chance to reacquant myself with old haunts, see new towns and really see the area properly at the slower speed of a bike.
Below, I have done a VERY imprecise recreation of the route. I still have the GPX files of the exact route that I took so if you have any questions on the precise route, I am happy to answer.
I started from Bristol, where I had spent most of my teenage years at boarding school, catching up with an old school friend who very kindly picked me and my bike up from the airport and looked after my bike box and suitcase while I was away. I had the chance to wander around Bristol for a bit, including the very charming Christmas Steps.
The next day, I was up and out in humid grey skies, heading out through the car-choked streets of Bristol, busy even on a Sunday morning, before connecting with the route of the Eurovelo 1 and heading to Chew Stoke and Chew Magna, an initially gentle introduction though with some views around Knowle before a steep, steep climb up into the beautiful Mendip Hills then down to the cathedral city of Wells.
It was quite a lot of climbing so I was happy to have a gentle ending before spending the evening in the pretty town of Glastonbury.
The next day was much more gentle as I rode through the Somerset Levels, though it occasionally had its moments of beauty.
The final stretch from near Bridgewater though was rather tedious: lines of tall hedgerows with hardly any views. I had to keep moving as I was due to stay with my uncle in Taunton who I had not seen for over a decade. It was lovely to catch up with him, my aunt, and two of my cousins.
I spent the next day heading back to the hills, riding due West, a steady climb all day: 765m in 45km. It was beautiful… but mostly wet and windy… But when the sun came out, it was splendid and I ended the day in the small village of Oakford with a splendid rump steak and blackberry crumble for dinner and a deep red glass of wine. For purely medicinal purposes…
The weather forecast was for more rain and I knew that I had a tough ride ahead and was already exhausted after three tough and often thankless days. After a few gentle kilometres to warm the legs up, I had a stiff ascent into Exmoor proper, and faced with a 20% hill… walked part of it…
But when I was up there, what tremendous views and they got better and better as the day went on and I headed towards Simonsbath. And the rain gradually stopped, leaving me with that blasted moor.
Very soon, it was just me and about a thousand sheep, cows and pheasants… Hardly a car went by and only one rainswept cyclist.
Finally, I reached Lynton, views out to the Bristol Channel, a decent meal and a welcome day off the bike. I climbed 936m in just over 50 kilometres, including a brute of a climb – 16% – just before I got to Lynton, so I had deserved it.
But as I walked back to my bed and breakfast, the news was breaking of the death of Queen Elizabeth. It was so strange: she had been there throughout my life, a permanent in a world and life that had otherwise changed so much.
The next day, I walked down to the nearby town of Lynmouth, before walking along the coastpath to the stunning Valley of Rocks. Another day of on/off rain alternating with glorious sunshine.
Then off along that steep coast, cycling back through the Valley of Rocks. In theory, it was a short ride: less than 30km, but with nearly 800m of climbing and all this with stiff gradients, it was a tough one.
I finally reached Ilfracombe, took a quick shower, and then treated myself to a portion of scampi and chips… Then a nice walk around Ilfracombe harbour: the town rather dreary but a splendid coastal setting.
Then after my umpteenth fried breakfast, a day I had been long looking forward to: out along the old railway line, initially rather tedious but then the coast and the tremendous succession of Woolacombe, Croyde and Saunton Sands, and sunshine! After passing Chivenor, a stunning ride along the River Taw before hitting Barnstaple, the market town of my childhood, and revisiting its pannier market.
What is it to go to a place where you have not lived properly for over 40 years, your family left 30 years ago, you haven’t visited for 20, and you no longer know anyone, but is somehow in your heart still ‘home’?
Should you even go back? In Amor Towles’ novel A Gentleman from Moscow, the narrator considers this:
“If one has been absent for decades from a place that one once held dear, the wise would generally counsel that one should never return there again. [..] perhaps for those returning after a long absence, the combination of heartfelt sentiments and the ruthless influence of time can only spawn disappointments. The landscape is not as beautiful as one remembered it. […] And having imagined at one time that one resided at the very centre of this little universe, one is barely recognized if at all.
[…] But no counsel [….] is suitable for all. […] For as it turns out, one can revisit the past quite pleasantly, as long as one does so expecting nearly every aspect of it to have changed.“
So I rode on, closer and closer, reaching Instow and a first sight of Appledore across the estuary. Then on and over the ‘new’ bridge, in place since the late 1980s… Then up and down increasingly familiar roads, and rounding the corner, and there it was, scarcely changed…
I checked into my Airbnb, showered, and headed out, down to the waterfront for a local – Hocking’s – ice cream, the taste of my childhood.
I was pulled gravitationally West to the house where we grew up, dreading the thought that it would have changed totally, but there it was, a few changes here and there, but basically the same, and even the old apple tree up which I had climbed and down from which I had fallen, visible through the back gates.
I spent a happy following day in Appledore, walking along the estuary and out to the nearby beach town of Westward Ho! The town had changed: the local Co-op replaced by a deli, the newsagent by an estate agent, and the houses tarted up.
As I walked along our old street facing out to the estuary, there seemed to be a lockbox on every other house, the telltale signs of tourism taking over. But for all that, my memories had not been wrong: it was still a beautiful spot. I breathed it all in, thanked my parents for bringing us up there, but felt the absence of my family.
It was too short a stay, but already it was time to move on, retracing some of my steps and down for a brief hour to Bideford where our distant cousins had lived before heading up the Torridge river and back up and down those relentless hills…
It was a hard, thankless, and wearisome day, inland right until the end, with very little to see apart from hills and more hills. I was happy to get to Bude where the skies lightened up and I spent a happy hour watching the surfers in the setting sun before having a delightful Indian meal that perked me up.
Another day, another full English breakfast and then out for another hard ride up and down hills, this time skirting the edges of Dartmoor: beautiful… but wet. 90km and 1201m of climbing… not for the faint of heart.
Then a welcome day off in Newquay, with the sun coming back out again. A pleasant enough spot to relax.
I had a moderately easier ride to St Ives, a mere 60 km and 900m of climbing… but was rewarded with some fabulous views along the way.
My destination, St Ives, though was a tourist trap which not even a beautiful sunset could overlook. I had a small and overpriced room on the edge of a pub and then sat down to an overpriced meal and having to chain my bike to railings outside.
The pub did not even offer breakfast, so I picked up a coffee and pastries and sat outside: St Ives really was pretty. But I was still pleased to get the hell out of it.
My last day’s ride was splendid even if I did it at my usual snail-like pace – 55km and 893m of climbing at 13kph. It was actually above my average for the trip…
The sun came out and I rode to Land’s End, pausing to take the glory of reaching the very tip of the UK, with a kind tourist offering to take a photo.
Then round the corner and on towards Penzance. I had been due to pop in for tea in Mousehole to see a distant cousin, but her husband had had an accident so I got a very apologetic text message on my route. A shame because Mousehole was a beautiful spot.
And with a nice evening in Penzance, that was it, returning to Bristol on a satisfyingly long train ride the following morning.
It was not the greatest of tours: the weather was mixed and the hills steep. When I had stopped in at a bike shop on the outskirts of Taunton, the owner had warned me: people riding the famous Lands End – John O’ Groats ride the length of the country are often shellshocked by the fierceness of the start.
But it had its moments and some of the views were quite stunning. And of course, it was wonderful to step back in time for two days to my childhood.
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