June 24, 2017
Into Cornwall
Looe
We each pay a tenner for a full English breakfast which include more than enough calories to get us up a few hills. No doubt they will be needed as we now have all our panniers attached and the bikes are noticeably heavier.
Across the road is a charity shop and in the window is a butter dish in the form of a thatched cottage. The price tag says seven quid. Debbie wants it for her boss and won’t listen to reason. The clerk is helpful, wraps it up in bubble wrap and finds a bar-bag sized cardboard box for it.
Off we go, heading west along the busy A386 under a leaden sky which proceeds to drop a fine mist on us as we climb a long hill. Near the top we take off a layer.
I know there’s a small side road ahead, somewhere, but zoom down a hill which drops us to a long stone bridge. We then climb a short but testing slope to get to Gunnislake, a small town. As we wait at a red light, Ruby and the boys appear. Just luck.
We stand around under a sheltered doorway wondering what to do. It could get worse or it might blow over.
We decide to offload the panniers in to Alan's van, as we’ll be meeting up at the end of the day.
It's agreed to rendezvous at the coast. The boys can play around on the beach at Seaton, even if the sun doesn’t come out.
There's a climb out of Gunnislake and the road is busy and not much fun. I look at the map once at the top and it seems we can veer off along a side road.
We start descending and enjoy the speed of it all, not worrying too much about where we’re actually heading. It takes us to a place called Calstock, a tiny, dead-end village sitting on banks of the scenic River Tamar, which must be tidal, as there's hardly any water in it.
A couple of residents tell us we have to go back up the long hill and bear left, but tell us there’s a coffee shop open right at the foot of the hill, so that’s where we head for.
The cakes are homemade and I opt for a wedge blueberry cheesecake. We sit on high stools looking out the window. An elderly lady dressed in a tweed coat and cloche hat is occupying an upholstered wing chair. She seems part of the furniture herself and tells us she moved to the village just after the war. My guess is she’s around 90, but she’s as sharp as a tack.
After a look at the low river and its broad mud banks, with the viaduct dominating the view, we start riding back, up through a corridor of trees so dense that they make it seem like dusk. Dave puts his rear light on.
The climb out of the village eases out at a few houses after a couple of kilometers and there’s a small junction. Maybe this is where we should go left. I get my map out.
It’s drizzling but warm. My glasses are covered in rain droplets and keep steaming up.
A man of about 50 comes out of a nearby house and asks us where we’re going. I trace the route on my map, but it ends just very near where we are, so I mention a couple of villages that I’ve written down and he says it’ll be better to head for Callington - more to the west. When I say the road south from there to the coast might be a bit busy, he says not. He’s cycled it many times and tells us it’ll be quiet. According to him, it’s less hilly. He then asks if I have a pen, so I get it and my notebook out and he recites his address here in minuscule Albaston and says he’ll lend us his detailed map, which shows all the little lanes as well as contours. It's a large sheet. I assure him I’ll post it back once we’ve done with it in a day or so.
We soon get to Callington and find the road the man suggested. It’s quiet and beautiful. We only see a couple of vehicles in an hour.
However, it’s far from flat and we spend a while climbing and dropping, with gradients close to 20 percent. I hate to think what the other route is like.
All of a sudden there’s blue sky. It’s hard to believe. It lasts about 30 minutes. Then it’s dull again.
Seaton is just a bay of sand with an adjacent parking area. We can’t see café. A few people are on the expanse of sand. The tide is out. We head west and climb again, the road taking us through a tiny village named No Man’s Land.
As we start freewheeling down into Looe, Alan’s red van goes past us, heading the other way. We drop down and start exploring the streets. We won’t be camping, not in the rain.
Once in Looe we call Ruby and they make their way to where we are, at the bridge where fishing boats are moored. We then pick up the panniers out of Alan's van and make our way back to the Ship Inn, where we've booked rooms.
Dinner is in a pasta place close to the deserted beach. We sample bottled beers and later go and look out over the sand. The sky is gloomy and the forecast isn't very promising.
Today's ride: 50 km (31 miles)
Total: 130 km (81 miles)
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