The weather has been pretty horrendous this week. It only was due to get worse, as the most serious storm in 30 years (Storm Eunice) was headed our was on Friday - and living on a small promontary on the Atlantic coast of the most westerly county we were due to get the brunt of it.
The BBC predicted 80mph winds on Friday morning, and the Met office released the most serious (red) warning on disruption and power outages, specifically over North Cornwall. The yr.no site described this as a "fresh gale", which I suspect is something of a euphemism.
Now, frankly, this weather is not that spectacular on a global scale - those of you in the midwest might be thinking it's not exactly a tornado. But you mustn't underestimate the British capacity of making a big deal out of any adverse weather, and for all sorts of infrastructure to come crashing down.
When I dialed into my morning meeting, my first words were "there's a huge storm going over at the moment, so if I drop out unexpectedly, you know why". After some fun weather-related chat with my Dutch colleagues, I was just about to mention some actual work when, naturally, out went the lights.
The whole town (apart from the supermarket, which has its own generator - don't want all that milk going off) was out of power and everything was out. The odd thing was, apart from the howling wind it was really quite sunny and pleasant. After fidgeting about for an hour I realised getting any work done was impossible, and there was no indication when the power might come back ("could be all day - I'm getting a drink" was our neighbour's assessment).
The biggest storm for a generation. What better time for a bike ride? As long as I kept going east, no worries, right?
My plan was to try to follow the coast, as closely as possible, to the north-east. I'd plotted out a somewhat ambitious route along these lines a while ago, and since I'd (nominally) have the wind behind me the whole way, thought to give it a go. At the end I'd get to a train station and let the train take the strain upwind to get me home.
The first stop was Portreath, following the same Tehidy route as last week. I wanted to try a different route out of Hayle though, so took the B road out towards Gwithian and Godrevy head and its prominent lighthouse. Then the idea was to weave through a series of obscure lanes, only some of which were public rights of way, and hopefully get through to the Red River trail. The road was quiet but I was blasted with sand whipped up from the towans (dunes).
Climbing out of Hayle behind the sand dunes. This area is known as Dynamite Towans, as there used to be an explosives factory up here, safely away from the town.
Jon AylingTo Kathleen JonesYep, wouldn't like to be out at sea in such conditions. Normally there are quite a few big ships (and surfers), but they must have either stayed well away from shore or hunkered down somewhere (not the surfers). I did keep saying to myself "well this is jolly fresh" as the wind threatened to blow me over... Reply to this comment 2 years ago
Massive waves crashing against the dunes near Godrevy. It's difficult to get a sense of scale here, but those little marks on the dunes are paths. This is the mouth of the Red River, the valley of which I was aiming for.
The lanes were rather elaborate, but I was pleased to find I could easily access a way through. I passed a farmer, but gave him a wave and he didn't seem to object to me going through. This makes it a good route to the north coast avoiding Conor Down.
Then I emerged into the Red River valley, familiar from last time, and took the nice maintained trails through Tehidy.
There were fallen branches and pine cones everywhere. Just to spite Putin, to save a little gas I gathered these up to burn later in our fireplace. I then completed the rest of a ride with a pannier full of pine cones.
From Portreath the plan was to climb back up away from the coast to get around the big disused airbase on the cliff, and then descend down to the next settlement, the even smaller village of Porthtowan. I had to pedal against some brutal winds as I turned north and made my way back to the coast - the wind was howling off the sea.
It was a very stiff climb up out of Porthtowan, but the wind helped me again. At this point I realised that the bumping progress had dislodged the memory card in my GPS, meaning I effectively had no map. No matter - I could still follow the route, and knew St. Agnes head was next, including a potentially fun section.
This was a rare stretch of the coast path which was a public bridleway, and hence it was allowed (if not, perhaps, advisable) to cycle on it. Generally the coast path is extremely narrow and precipitous, and in many places falling into the sea - so generally isn't rideable.
On reflection it may not have been entirely wise to try this during a gale.S
Climbing out of Portreath, some graffiti captures the changing fortunes of our hapless ex-leader of the opposition.
Heading towards the cliffs, the surface was fine but the wind became very intense. To my embarrassment, I was slowly driven over to the right, and then - quite literally - blown over. Since I was going about 3mph I was unhurt, but felt very silly as the family walking in front gave me a thumbs up (which I assumed meant "are you alright" rather than a sarcastic "well done").
Approaching the edge of the cliffs was completely unrideable. The wind stole the breath out my lungs, and my helmet strap flapped so hard against my chin it left a mark. The other people on the cliff probably thought I was a idiot, but this being England, nothing was said.
I actually cycled (or scooted) this bit, though it was a little hairy. At the bottom was a National Trust toilets, but I was disappointed to find them locked, as I'd just discovered that what I thought was a full water bottle I'd actually poured out at the end of the last ride and I hoped to refill it.
Inevitably, there was then another climb out of Chapel Porth to get back up the cliff to St Agnes head. As I climbed away from the sea, though I was at least half a kilometre away, I was surprised to see small flecks of white foam blowing past me: sea spray whipped up by the wind.
Old mine on the horizon. This is Wheal Coates, I think.
As I rounded St. Agnes head, I remarked on the dark clouds that had replaced the jolly blue. About 2 minutes later, I was struck by a small, hard pellet. It then proceeded to hail with increasing intensity for the next 10 minutes, as I sped as fast as I could towards the village of St. Agnes amid an increasingly unprintable stream of expletives.
The hail was driven spectacularly in front of me as I rode the wind east, and then as I turned the corner was blown right into my ear and bounced off my knuckles and sunglasses (I needed the eye protection). It was a good job nobody else was around as I must have cut a bizarre figure, pelting along at 30kph, squinting through dark glasses, muttering "Jeez ... fuuu ... shii ... you bastard! ... ow!" increasingly loudly.
Of course it stopped just as I reached St. Agnes itself. I orientated myself and headed off for the next challenge, which was a descent of the steep unpopulated ravine of the Blue Hills tin works at Trevellas cove.
St. Agnes is a very pretty little place, and seems to be built on about a dozen levels. A tin mine has squeezed into the background here, too.
Fortunately climbing out wasn't quite so steep. It was a very tiny road, but this was all to the good, as it was perfect for bikes and traffic is discouraged.
The next station along the coast was the bigger town of Perranporth (from St. Piran or Perran, the patron saint of Cornwall, and Porth, which is a recurring element). The saint, bringing Christianity to Cornwall from Ireland, founded an oratory near the town in the 7th century - it was actually unearthed in 19th century, giving hard archaeological evidence to what are sometimes mythical figures from the murky post-Roman ages.
I had plotted out an ambitious route along rather obscure bridleways that were not even known to OpenStreetmap. As my map had failed on the GPS I tried to follow them, and got a bit lost. Though I was effectively wondering round his garden, a friendly farmer pointed me in the right direction - good fellow - and I amazed myself by making it through to Perrancoombe (or Coombe as the farmer called it).
This is a comical trick of perspective, but the lane is even so extremely narrow. There was a sign saying max width 6' 3'', which means I wouldn't fit through there lying down.
This bus is someone's house - you can see curtains in the windows. The bus stop sign is for fun I think (though I'm a bit puzzled by the adverts still attached to the side).
Perranporth is a bigger - and it has to be said, fancier, place. I finally had the opportunity to buy some food and drink - I still hadn't eaten lunch - and ate it near the seafront.
Bright sunshine now in the park in Perranporth. The weather was really messing with me.
From here the plan was to leave the coast and make my way down to Truro, where I could get the train home (I hoped).
I actually had an ulterior motive here. On every drive to Cornwall we pass a sign to a place with the frankly incredible name of Ventongimps. It's a tiny place, not even listed on some maps. But I had to go there. So this was a pilgrimage to Ventongimps with a pannier full of pine cones. As is traditional.
Ventongimps is deep in the countryside. It's actually a bit of a mission to get to. First I would get a few bonus funny names.
Yes I stopped especially to photograph this sign, despite some withering looks from the locals.
After some incredibly obscure rough tracks, in which I met not a soul, the last challenge was this ford. Fortunately there's a kind of bridge off to the left, as it was about one foot deep.
Regaining the road, I took a detour off to the west, in the teeth of the wind just to visit Ventongimps.
Unfortunately I was a bit disappointed. Not only is there bugger-all there - it's really a hamlet with just a few houses - but there were no road signs with the name on. I looked in vain for signs pointing back the way I'd come for the next half hour, but through Goonhavern featured heavily, no Ventongimps.
Leaving Ventongimps, it wasn't far before I could pick up a national cycleway that would guide me over the A30 and into Truro. I was pretty much done after the battering wind and 1,000m+ of climbing, so was glad to have a reasonably straightforward ride to finish off.
Very pretty wooded lanes in the vicinity of Ventongimps.
All of a sudden in lush West Cornwall you can come across a despoiled and barren valley - the remnant of an old mine, in this case West Chyverton. This must have been closed for a century or more, but evidently the workings are still so toxic that nothing grows.
Truro is, in fact, the only city in Cornwall. This is despite it having a population of only 18 thousand, which in UK terms is tiny (Biggleswade - a small town most people outside Bedfordshire have never heard of - is one and a half times as big).
The reason it's a city is because it has (rather a grand) cathedral. In medieval times cathedral cities were the centres of dioceses, and as such were politically important.
Truro cathedral is imposing, and can be seen far over the countryside, long before the town itself.
Truro has been an important city in Cornwall for many centuries - but on this windy and increasinly cold Friday night, was dead as a doornail. I pedalled through the empty streets, lugged myself up a rather steep hill to the station - where, once I actually found a way to the platform, I was greeted with an automated notice letting me know that all trains were cancelled. Completely.
A quick call to Caroline and she kindly agreed to pick me up (no way was I cycling back west). I waited in the station, where a very jovial guard chatted to me - "there's no-one here, but I need to wander around anyway. You're best staying here out the rain".
There were a number of other lost souls waiting to be picked up, including a rather lost looking chap in hiking gear and a German accent, who looked a bit crestfallen when I told him there were no trains. I didn't know where he was headed, but almost offered the poor guy a lift - but then remembered there really wouldn't be any room in the Caroline's small car with a bike. It seemed unlikely he wanted to go to Hayle, anyway.
Very cold dissembling the bike, but we got it stuffed in the back of the car. The drive back was a bit scary - even a one-tonne Corsa was being blown around the road, which lead to dodgy moment during an overtake on the A30.
Anyway, survived that, and no tiles have blown off our house. Our TV aerial already blew off last month anyway.
Today's ride: 65 km (40 miles) Total: 242 km (150 miles)
Scott AndersonQuite the adventure! Glad you made it home safely. I was thinking of you when I saw this storm was heading your way, so thanks for the fine on-the-scene reporting. Reply to this comment 2 years ago
Rich FrasierKathleen beat me to it. I had exactly the same thought. Loving the place names, too. Glad you’re home and dry. Reply to this comment 2 years ago
Jon AylingTo Kathleen JonesCheers Kathleen, glad you enjoyed it! I really excelled myself (in foolhardiness) this time. On the drive back my ears were ringing with the wind, my eyes were bloodshot from all the air/sand/hail that had been blown into them and I even managed to dehydrate myself. No bruises from toppling over though, so I'm calling that a win! Reply to this comment 2 years ago
Jon AylingTo Scott AndersonThanks Scott - yep it was a bit of an exciting one. While there are definitely more storms like this down here than back East, I'm not sure/I hope we don't see one like this again for a while. I was sort of hoping for an excuse to ride in it! Reply to this comment 2 years ago
Jon AylingTo Rich FrasierCheers Rich! I've made up for it by not leaving the side of the fire the rest of the weekend. Cornwall really does excel itself with the place names - the odd thing is you start to take them for granted (I passed through a place called Goonbell and Merry Meeting and failed to mention it...) Reply to this comment 2 years ago
Jon AylingTo Mike AylingHaha, for sure - it won't be the first time I've needed bailing out (and doubtless won't be the last). I have only myself to blame, too, as our neighbour remarked when I told him my plans just before I left that the trains might not be running. I was still sort of surprised when they were *all* cancelled though. Reply to this comment 2 years ago
