With a new trip planned soon there’s nothing else for it – new panniers and rack:

1 x TorTec Expedition Alloy Rear Rack Black
1 x Ortlieb Back Roller Classic Panniers Red 40 Litres (Pair)

The rack looks much longer than my old one so hopefully will make sure the bag keeps out of the way of my spokes, and my heels. Am I alone in finding that an issue? Maybe it’s the shorter bike?

Wiggle is processing the order – will let you know how it pans out (sorry!)

Supported with nods from the Chef and others, she suggested the George. Then I wondered if I should have asked the question ….

From outside, the George didn’t exactly ooze ‘appeal’ so whilst the others were locking up I went to check out the food situation inside.

I need not have asked for there in front of me was a board of so many choices for every taste.

But were they serving? This is rural life where food service is not as us metropolitans know it.

Relieved to hear the answer was yes, the lovely barmaid tantalisingly added that the Sunday Roast Carvery was still on.

I asked Nut Roast question with which she parried that if I ordering one of the Veggie main courses that came with ‘veg’, I could visit the Carvery where I could have as much of whatever veg I wanted plus…. I could have Yorkshire Puddings.

Yorkshire puddings? The others were interested in my Yorkshire Puds. I tried to decide what was best for me.

After ordering food and drinks (pint of Timothy Landlord please) we found a table outside to observe the merry Locals gearing themselves up for the evenings karaoke whilst a shower passed us by.

Food swiftly arrived and was soon devoured.

Tricky and Bear vote: Tricky 1 thumb up, 1 middle (neutral). Bear 1 thumb up, 1 middle. 2 thumbs up, two middles. Good place.

It didn’t take me as long as previous post-lunches to get going even though Mr Wallace was again setting the pace. The wind was against us and I tucked myself behind Mr Wallace as we travelled along a fabulous gravel cycle track that paralleled the winding road to Camber for miles.

Sadly this meant our pace was running faster pace than Jim & Elisabeth’s.

Waiting for them at Camber, on arrival they were gracious in urging us on knowing we planned to cover more miles than them so said their good-byes to us before Rye where they would end their ride.

It had been fun having our first guest riders. There will be others. Incidentally, Jim was off pretty much the next day to South America to Mountain Bike there for three weeks. Chapeau Jim!

Soon we arrived in Rye however our pace was such that Rye was done in a flash although it must be said the NCN signage is totally crap there leading us this a way and that.

In the end, going with our instincts, we were soon heading out on country roads past Sunday cricketers.

A final signpost for NCN2 goes this-a-way (again wrong) left us at the foot of a daunting hill, the right path.

A pause for thought and the realisation there was nothing to do but go for it.

And go for it we did with hearts pounding, lungs bursting making our way up the first serious climb we’d done for some time which galled us at the crest by carrying on further, upwards.

Thereafter, it was the same towards Hastings. Climb after climb with mileage signs saying you were getting a little closer or were you? I was getting flashbacks to Day one, Faversham.

The hills were relentless in quantity and deceptive in height for as soon as you thought you had conquered the hill you of course hadn’t seen from the foot that beyond the bend at the top there was still more to climb if that makes sense?

Oddly, having been mainly hanging on Mr Wallace’s backwheel I found my uphill pace left him behind.

Only once did I find the gradient too much that I dismounted on a particular horrid road where two lanes are given to traffic climbing, one for traffic descending.

I headed for the nearby path yet even that had its dangers with dogs barking like mad running up and down on the other side of the hedge that followed the path.

I tried to remain steadfast in the belief there was no way for them to get to me particularly at the point where they stopped being just ‘barks’ on the other side of the hedge but barks coming from two huge dogs bayed by the sight of their prey when the hedge ran out. I wasn’t too sure what my heart was thumping from now.

I turned around to see Mr Wallace in the distance walking up too. At least he was safe as I hadn’t seen him for a while. I wondered what he would make of these huge dogs.

Mounting my bike at the crest I continued attacking the hills to finally arrive on the outskirts of Hastings with glee.

Collapsing onto the grass verge waiting for Mr Wallace to catch up I looked on at my bike.

I felt good, not broken in spirit like after the first days ride to Faversham.

We’d both gone further than either of us had imagined in one day. A sense of achievement pervaded when I considered my perseverance with the hellish hills to Hastings.

Single-speed, fixed around the coast of Britain? What were we doing?

With that, we bowled into Hastings (after one more hill), bought train tickets to Hove (my place and our base for the night) and made an obligatory visit to the local JD Wetherspoons for a well earned pint.

Cycling in the wilderness with 23c tyres is a strange experience on what I would call ‘grass’ but crunched under the tyres like freshly laid snow.

For those who are not au fait with what 23c means – its relates to the cross-section width/circumference of your tyre (someone help me here!) which translates to one of the skinniest tyres you can buy and what you would typically find on racers.

What would have been better on this terrain is mountain bike tyres.

Well, at least you could ride on crunchy grass whereas when there wasn’t any it was stones and shingle that invariably meant you either got off and pushed or took your chances and fell off.

When we found the road, we were nowhere near civilisation so unless we wanted to head all the way back into Dungeness we’d have to carry on in the hope of finding food.

Typically there was a strong headwind.

It was a case of gritting your teeth and getting on with the job. Triston and Jim soon disappeared into the distance, I hung back for Elisabeth in support.

Eventually the desert turned back into soil meaning fields, hedgerows that in turn led to bushes and at last around a bend loaded with trees a civilised roundabout pointing to nearby civilisations. Yey!

We headed to the nearest village, Lydd, and came across the promising looking Dolphin, diving in and promptly ordering drinks.

What we should have first ordered was food.

There was a food board with ‘basics’ and the mention of Sunday lunch but whilst we were waiting for our drinks I couldn’t help noticing no one seemed to be eating. Was it that late?

Indeed the kitchen looked empty and I became more concerned when I noticed the warning along the top of the food board that said, “‘Food is made fresh to order meaning a wait for up to 1 hour”.

Surely not, with no one apparently waiting and it being a Sunday. I went in with a swerve-ball to the Landlady, “Do you do a Nut Roast”. Landlady looks to a Lady Punter drinking at the bar who turns out to be the Chef  but the utterance of, “No.”

Oh well. Time for a Tricky & Bear vote:

Tricky 2 thumbs down. Bear 2 thumbs down.

Nice pints though albeit limited in choice but perhaps pints always taste nice when you’re parched.

Finally united with Jim & Elisabeth our ride along the front was short-lived with no evident path ahead.

As we started heading away from the sea, Jim’s GPS showed the path continued along the front even though the road we looked down seemed a dead-end. Deciding it was worth a shot we heading down and as we got to the dead-end of bolted gates it dawned on us we were right next to a live firing range. Good grief! Suddenly it all felt too close for comfort.

A U-turn and soon we were turning out of what was called Range Road! The thing is, there were houses along that road. Who on earth would live there? But as I ask myself that question, perhaps it some poor soul who has returned from a theatre of war and is comforted sunbathing, drinking G&T’s in his back garden listening to shot flying through the air.

Where my spirits had been flying higher and higher throughout the morning, they were taking a dip riding along a busy road that ran for miles alongside countless MOD shooting ranges that all seemed busy. I thought of taking photos but signs forebode me and there is nothing like live ammunition to keep you in check especially at some points we were cycling right behind the Infantrymen practising. It was surreal.

The sounds of bullets being shot is nothing like you hear in the movies. Why can’t it just be “BANG!” and that’s it. I felt uncomfortable listening to the cacophony of firecrackers that I reminded myself maims/damages/kills. I laughed nervously when Jim called out to the Infantrymen “Rubbish!”. I think I started cycling a lot faster at that point.

Finally the never-ending Range came to an end and we left the road to cycle along the top of sea defences heading towards the ominous distant shapes of Dungeness that suddenly began looming.

Through Dymchurch, St Mary’s Bay and Littlestone-on-sea we past marvellous solitary houses and the oddest looking tower that I have no idea about.

At Lydd, things got a little crowded on the narrow path with tourists lapping the sun on the walkway and on the tinniest of beaches. I couldn’t see what the attraction was except Ice-cream vans and tea huts.

Surroundings were beginning to feel retro and I couldn’t pin-point what it was in particular. The quality and type of ‘noise’, sights and light were interacting to make it all seem so different that I could have been unwittingly partaking in an episode of ‘Life on Mars’.

It was though I felt comfortably lost in this place, as if I could just live there to the end of my days.

Onwards. It is silent again. The road bends to the right, away from the coast, then an immediate left sees us suddenly in Dungeness at Derek Jarman’s house, a solitary building in what I can only describe as a destitute landscape that is actually classified as Desert – the UK’s largest!

Derek Jarman’s garden is subtle and delight to see, all the more so when you come across other Dungeness gardens that try mimic his style but fail.

Jim & Elizabeth had caught up and it was time for lunch so we cycled on coming ever closer to the Nuclear plant that seemed to rule this landscape.

For some reason the Shepherd Neame pub didn’t appeal and then we hit an impasse to decide which way was the Way.

GPS’s (we had two now) were consulted. A direction was set that led us into the brush as we became the misfit cast of Lost.

There were few landmarks to guide us forward, plenty to bring us back. The path narrowed to a single narrow track with threatening thorns and nettles either side.

Triston made a break from the group and disappeared into the expanse we knew existed either side of the thicket.

Soon the silence prevailed over his departure.

Had he made it? Then crunching footsteps coming closer. He hadn’t made it. For some reason we laughed.

With Mr Wallace rejoined, we headed forward through the ever path crushing Brush. Elizabeth yelped as she wobbled through. Not wanting to fall into the bushes or put my feet down whilst she beat a path and not wishing to get stung I decided to wait to see if she could find a path through.

She shouted back success and I pressed through only to find myself back in the open looking across barren landscape.

We were hungry and now sort of lost.

I was taking one of the first trains from Hove to get me to Folkestone for half ten where I would meet Mr Wallace.

Setting out from home the weather looked good even though there was still a nip in the air.

After one change at Brighton, I was soon settled in looking upon countryside and beach vistas we would be seeing in time as we cycled onwards from Folkestone.

Arriving in Folkestone I was surprised by the Triennial that had started featuring some 22 internationally acclaimed contemporary artists including Tracey Emin, Sejla Kameric and Richard Wentworth.

If I made any disparaging comment about Folkestone when we first arrived before by bicycle from Dover I take it back. Folkestone is a surprisingly lovely place  with cobbled streets lined with charming little shops including a number of private Art Galleries that reminded me of St. David’s in Wales.

In fact I really fancy going back to explore Folkestone by spending more time at the Triennial which is on until the 14 September however we were on a mission – to cycle the British Coastline!

Soon we were heading east along the seafront, passing Amusements, a food market, wonderful architecture and if that wasn’t enough we suddenly were cycling through a park that runs below Leas Cliff.

Today was also the first day of our tour where we would have guest riders however my plan to just ‘run’ into Jim and Elizabeth on NCN2 failed.

Where are they??

I mean, how can you miss two people cycling the same path as us?

The famous Brooks B17 Special Edition Saddle

My surprise at this seemingly unremarkable fact was in fact I was originally expecting it some months back when I first ordered it.

Not that it was Wiggle’s fault – they had been awaiting stock of the Brooks B17 Special (copper rail) saddle for months themselves and had been diligently warning me every three weeks that unless I renewed my order it would be cancelled so I kept renewing with an advised date of September.

My obsession with the B17 incarnation of Brooks Saddles was after I rode Mr Wallace’s Bianchi flat-bar road bike to which he had added a standard B17 saddle.

On a weekend visit to mine during a ride out I let him ride my pimped ride, Frank, to see if he would be tempted in the ways of the ‘fixed’, a switch he’d been toying about. Looking back on it, perhaps Frank did the trick, Well done Frank and congratulations Mr Wallace.

Frank had been born with a Brooks Swift Titanium Rail saddle which I had presumed was ‘broken in’ seeing I’d already ridden on it for over a year so sitting on Mr Wallace’s B17 I was totally taken aback how comfortable it was.

“How long have you had this??”

Not long”

“Is it new?”

“It’s new”

“How much??”

“[some simpleton price]“

“What the………..! I paid over…….. !! Where did you buy it?”

“eBay”

“eBay? How much did you say??!”

“[repeats simpleton price]“

Tricky, this saddle is stupid. I have GOT to have one!”

“Brooks B17″

Oh ye cycle Gods! I just couldn’t and still can’t understand how a cheaper Brooks could be so divine. This is the legendary Brooks leather comfort I had been hearing and reading about.

Of course I wanted something special hence the Special Edition with copper rails and its arrived just in time before our two day ride.

As an addendum to this post, Mr Wallace called this morning. Weather is looking good and plans have been made. With this saddle we could be going further than we planned.

First problem on my list is the increasingly annoying ‘clicking’ sound I’m hearing when pedalling which is fast becoming a form of water torture – an ironic synonym considering I’m always on about flow…..

I’ve tried tightening

• the chain wheel
• the crank bolts
• the crank arms

  to no effect deducing it to be a problem with the actual crank.

Not having all the tools, patience and time to try sorting a crank I pop into Baker St. Bikes on York Place, Brighton to find out how quickly they can fit me in.

I already visited the place a couple of times, liking their attitude and service even though they are Surly biased (which is fine in my rule book and surely in my favour?)

I’m genuinely surprised and appreciative that they can fit me in there and then so head off to kill some hours.

I return at the end of the day. Lewis, of Baker St Bikes tells me he’s taken apart and greased the crank which is fine and thinks it actually could be my pedal (which he has oiled).

I head out the shop, head up Trafalgar Street………………… same old click. DAMN!

Arriving in Dover, we followed roads noting nothing of exception. Indeed it seemed that Dover is about getting people in and out as quickly as possible for soon we were tangled with the dual-carriageways abused by cars and articulated lorries. Nothing really appealed particularly the steep slopes to climb out of Dover.

Soon we came to a cycle ‘path’ that was not a path next to the busy carriageways but really residential road which judging by its relative position to the carriageway, seperated by a wooded fence once must have bore the brunt of Dover traffic. I wonder if anyone still lived on this street who remembered a time when all the traffic did run in front of their home and wether they felt duped when they realised the traffic still ran in front of their house except they couldn’t see it.

Not long after we were guided onto a gantry bridge over the now fully fledged dual-carriageway arriving on the other side at one of the many NCN markers we will and have seen during our journey on the other side. I wish I had taken photos of the previous ones to have a record of the 1000 or so we will pass.

The trouble with Mr Wallace’s back wheel returned again which led to an unexpectedly long-timeout to try and get the problem sorted once and for all.

Confident in my technical skills, I offered to help to be surprised how tricky it was to stop the ball and cup from seizing up the back wheel. It just didn’t make sense compared to the ease of my Surly hubs which just required the tightening of axle bolts and go.

With Mr Wallace’s back wheel, when you tightened the nuts, the smooth running of the wheel seized up despite locking the ball & cup in position to prevent this. Why does this happen?

Nether the less, between us, using our genius powers of reasoning we finally had a working back axle and my delight quickly turned to dismay facing the climb ahead. It looked like another big climb. Mr Wallace was revelling in delight at the challenge. I seriously felt off the pace.

One good thing was losing the monotonous drowning noise of cars on the carriageway as we followed what seemed like an old service road doted with old delapidated buildings whose past use was hard to distinguish at times. Had they been part of the Second World War or used solely for farming?

We found the Emergency services present. Was it some sort of an exercise?

Soon Mr Wallace reported back with news that the fire engines and coastguard were in attendance for a dog that had gone over the edge of the cliff (for yes, the memorial is sited near the cliff). The dog had not been found.

The site itself has to be one of the most well thought out war memorials I have ever come across. Inside a huge circular flat plain embossed with three blades making up the emblematic fighter propeller of that age, surrounded by grassy mounds was a lone pilot sitting on the ground, arms embracing his knees looking out to sea. Very poignant. What was so wonderful about it was that it did not glorify war and victory. It remembered all those who did not make it back and for whom we hope will.

In hindsight I realise neither of us went to have a closer look at the pilot – perhaps out of respect and not to disturb.

But here’s a  few photos I found on Flickr:

Two spitfires sat nearby.

Being so close to them, touching their outer skins, I could not help wondering what it would have been like to fly one during that time. The memories of imaginary childhood games where you were the plane, the sound, the hero were silent.

Pressing on, we were once again led to quieter roads leading us to Folkestone.

I’ve talked about the joy of single-speed fixed ‘flow’ in this earlier blog. That feeling of flow is just something else when on relatively flat or gentle slopes which a cycle courier colleague of mine quoted as the arcane equivalent of going to wash your clothes in the river than use a washing machine. There is something inherently nice about doing so.

That flow is completely lost during steep descents because downhill is about how fast you are prepared to go and not trying to reverse pedal for four miles to keep your speed down in fear your legs would turn into the legs of the cartoon roadrunner hitting turbo.

But we arrived at Folkestone never nearing the front or town centre as the station was somewhere near the outskirts. We bought our return train tickets, had a quick drink at the local railway pub and jumped onto the train to our homes.

Hotel we had lunch at was the first place we came across as we arrived in Deal after passing through Sandwich (cue joke of looking for a Sandwich Deal for lunch) . Even though it was a great place to stop it was clear that Deal is a surprisingly lovely and cool place. Think boutique rural. Amazing how what I can only call as the tone of a town can make such a difference to your choices.

Our onward path remained flat for many miles free of main road but a slight headwind prevailed meaning more leg effort which wasn’t as forthcoming as Mr Wallace who certainly had the wind in him however I was happy to tail.

One thing for certain was I was glad of the weather.

When I awoke, the skies in Hove were blue but I became increasingly unsure what to pack after listening to not only Radio 4’s weather forecast but BBC Southern Counties forecast a few minutes later, both told another story in another part of the country of rain, respite then rain.

It didn’t sound good particularly towards the end of the day. I even went as far as to go online and look at webcams in Ramsgate and Dover. It was true. The contrast between Hove and Ramsgate made me wanted to stay at home.

I packed my waterproofs laughing to myself that the night before I had texted Mr Wallace to bring swimming gear for another dip if the location and weather allowed.

But here we were flowing along the coast with stable weather.

We began entering a much more rural Deal. Paths became broken and wallowed. Roads became fine shingle marred with gently sloping pot holes filled with muddy water. No longer could you just ride, you had to think how you were riding. Alongside, detached houses of all shapes, sizes and colours faced the sea. Some were simple wonderful and I was sorry I did not take a photo of what both Tricky and I agreed was one of the best, ‘Ghost’.

Then all change as we approaching the first cliff at St Margaret’s bay heralding Dover. Forced hard right, we began our first climb towards aptly names St Margaret-At-Cliffe.

Boy, was it a climb. It started quite steep before continuing as a constant more gentle uphill gradient that went on for MILES.

I am not sure what is worse. Having a clear view of the full uphill climb or to see only short windy sections of the climb not revealing the full scale of the climb.

The titter of fear danced on my legs. Here we were on single-speeds on a reasonable accent yet there were going to be more severe gradients in future. What were we doing!?

The continuous climbing was becoming exhausting and painful. Mr Wallace cheerfully declared ‘pain is but fear’ and ‘to push through the pain/release the fear’ or something like that!

I could not believe we were still climbing! How high were the cliffs of Dover? Here we were no longer near the sea but high, above valleys to eventually join a main road that said, ‘There’s more to climb!”

In the distance, up on high, we were presented with the wonderful vista of Dover harbour counteracting Dover Castle. Both were so big!

When I think of Dover, I think of motorways and ferries yet here we were surrounded by lush verdant countryside.

Uphill was replaced by downhill – a steep downhill as we sped towards Dover.

The day started with me realising that I had forgotten my train ticket to Ramsgate so I left Sorrell’s house and pootled back home. When I got there I thought I would also pump up the tyres and tighten the back wheel. Half an hour later I am on the way for our next stage. Then DISASTER! The back wheel tightened up. The pannier rack came off and knocked some of the spokes loose – luckily no more than, oh, 10 metres outside the house! When I took it back to base and started to fix the wheel – BANG – the front wheel inner tube exploded!

Not my day… this issue of a ever-tightening back axle was to return.

So we were a little late leaving Lewisham on this leg. The weather was good for a day out – cloudy with a little tail wind to help us on the way. We got to Ramsgate and in an attempt to re-find the cycle route we came up with our new motto “head to the beach, turn right” which will keep us true for the whole trip!

I also piloted a new service from Nokia – Sports Tracker. This monitors your progress (time, distance, altitude, speed etc) by using the GPS function on the phone – see the trip log here. The phone was in my pocket – so not too bad in keeping accurate! Anyway, we may start a new section on this blog regarding technology – both hardware and web-ware. The other new thing is the fantastic way that Picasa (Google’s own web album) can put the GPS-tagged photos onto to Google Maps – and even Google Earth! Check out the trip album and look at map view or launch into Google Earth – fantastic!

It didn’t take long to leave Ramsgate and get into much nicer countryside. The road initially stuck to a major A-road, but we were on a separate bridle way – which was full of lovely late-spring flowers – and the rear wind helped us eat up the miles. Past the castles that dot these “cinque ports”, onto a private toll road after Sandwich – free for cycles – but with a golf course on one side and the dunes on the other it made for a lovely stretch of road. And on into Deal – and lunch at the Royal Hotel – bright and airy, friendly staff, with great food! Highly recommended – we are considering a “Tricky and Bear” system of judging quality of these lunches – two thumbs each gives us a spread of 8 potential votes (two up, one up, one down, two down, if you see what I mean) and this place definitely got two thumbs up. I’ll find some graphics for it sometime!).

Over lunch, I remembered that I used to live by the sea. I was born in Edinburgh, and I spent a fair amount of early years in Mussleburgh. This cycle is not only opening up new areas of the british coastline to me – it is reminding me of old ones I had forgotten! In common with many, the sea holds a fascination with me – a sense of achievement and almost belonging every time I get to it – the Waterboys song “This is the Sea” sums it up perfectly. Go listen and you’ll know what I mean.

After lunch, the cliffs started…