Undoubtedly the scenery hereabouts is breath-taking, both metaphorically and literally.
Our days of extreme cycling have long gone, struggling up Wrynose with camping gear strapped to the panniers is fine for twentysomethings, now a sedate exploration of Europe's via verde is more our style. We like abandoned railways, especially when their gentle gradients are flattened completely by pedelec assistance. That being said, over recent months Gill has lost confidence in cycling. For the past few years she has struggled with an issue affecting the peripheral vision in her left eye. It makes judging distances to her left, difficult so much so that she no longer feels able to drive. When we were in Tuscany last autumn cycling began to be problematic too. Last month, after a couple of years where the medical profession seemed completely nonplussed by the condition, a specialist at Manchester Royal Eye Hospital diagnosed the problem as stemming from an un-treated squint that should have been sorted out when she was a child. Early in June she is booked-in for a procedure that might help - injecting botox into the eye muscle, sound horrible!
So far as cycling is concerned she wondered if the problem cycling was exacerbated by the design of her e-bike. We bought them in 2012 when there was far less choice. Gill's Wisper 705 was a step-though Dutch-style 'sit-up-and beg' design. It has the same frame size as mine and 26"wheels.Maybe it has always been too big, she wondered. So in February she replaced it with a smaller version, the newer model has a more compact frame, smaller wheels and a 'cadence' drive, which means the motor kicks-in as soon as you press the pedal, rather than the 'delayed reaction' you get the older 'torque' drive. The upshot of this means that Gill's new bike rides much more like an ordinary pedal cycle and so should present less of a problem. It's a lovely electric blue colour, in comparison my somewhat rusty slate grey monster looks a bit sad and unlovely now.
The Willingcott Caravan and Motorhome Club Site is a tad windswept and bleak, why we booked it in preference to some of the more picturesque club sites in Devon was due to it's proximity to the bike trail that runs from here to Ilfracombe. It follows the route of a disused railway line so ticks all the boxes so far as sedate cycling goes. The four mile route wends it way along the shoulder of the downs, you get occasional glimpses of the sea before reaching a wooded section. Spring was in full swing down here compared to home, the embankments covered in primroses, a truly uplifting sight.
The ruins of the old railway buildings are graffiti covered, I stopped to take a photo of one of the more pleasing efforts. How common is it, I wonder, to find clumps of flowers and graffiti daubed walls equally gratifying? After all human expression is part of the natural world, language as much the result of evolution as birdsong, so why not celebrate them both?
A mile or so before we reached the outskirts of Ilfracombe we passed two small reservoirs, then a nature reserve with footpaths leading to a cairn with extensive views across the Bristol Channel to the Welsh coast. Perkier, pre-lockdown versions of us would have stopped and explored both, but somehow we are still lacking 'umph' so we rode past them. What will it take to lift our spirits? Some warm sunny days would not come amiss, that might help.
The railway from Barnstable to Ilfracombe operated for almost a century, opening in 1874 until 1970. It must have been quite an engineering challenge, the terrain between Woolacombe and Ilfracombe in particular is very hilly, so much so that Ilfracombe station was built on the outskirts of the town, a mile from the centre, high above the seafront.
The traffic free cycle track stops near the site of the old Ilfracombe terminus. To reach the seafront involved a mile long hazardous ride down steep streets with parked cars lining each side, exactly the situation that Gill was keen to avoid. After 100 metres, our progress halted twice by oncoming vans heading for the small industrial estate built on the site of the old station, we gave-up, admired a distant prospect of the sea viewed across the rooftops of Ilfracombe's Edwardian outskirts, then headed back along the trail for a late lunch back at the van.
Like yesterday, it was too blustery and cold to relax outside. Gill busied herself knitting while I became increasingly bored. I decided to pedal towards the nearby village of Morthoe situated in the clifftops east of Woolacombe.
It is a much older settlement than Woolacombe, a straggling street of stone cottages clustered around a stubby towered church and a few pubs. I stopped to take a couple of photos outside the Chichester Arms wondering why a pub in Devon would be named after a city in West Sussex.
It's a steep drop from the village to Woolacombe. The view is spectacular, perhaps we should have walked along the clifftops yesterday, I wondered, instead of sitting on a bench eating a pasties, observing the absurdities of the human zoo.
Given its spectacular location Woolacombe is surprisingly unlovely. As I pedalled along the seafront it struck me that part of the problem is to do with car parking. The beach is separated from the town by two enormous car parks, both operated by a mysterious organisation called the Parkin Estates. Judging from the beach signage it seemed they managed the village's beaches too.
It struck me that it was quite unusual for the beach at a British resort to be owned and operated by a private company, most private beaches in Britain are in more remote places owned by
A list celebrities or aristocrats keen to keep the great unwashed away from their coastal hideaways. Intrigued, I found myself a bench googling 'Parkin Estates'. The result not only explained their apparent monopoly on public amenities in Woolacombe but also why the pub in nearby Morthoe was called the Chichester Arms. The Chichesters were a local aristocratic family whose ancestors were granted control of a large part of North Devon by Henry 1st in 1133. That continued until 1948 when the last of the Chichesters died, most of their holdings were gifted to the National Trust, but a family friend called Mr. Parkin bought the parts of the estate around Woolacombe. It's quite funny really that Mr. Parkin's heirs derive much of their income from parking.
Time to head back. Yesterday's failed attempt to make it up the hill at the western end of the village narked me. Once I decide to do something I find it very difficult to give in. I call it determination, the rest of the family obstinacy. Challacombe Hill is a narrow lane that connects the west end of Woolacombe to the coast road to Braunton. It rises 600' in less than a mile, when I tried to ride up it yesterday I managed about 150 metres before the electric's decided I was pedalling too slowly and the motor cut out. This time I was more determined and maybe managed 50 metres further before the same thing happened. I refused to be beaten (see - obstinate). I decided I would push the bike up by using the hand thottle, trotting alongside as the bike powered itself up the vertiginous slope.
The views were stupendous. Every so often I would pause to take a picture and catch my breathe. The problem with using the throttle is its minimum speed is 3 - 4mph, so I ascended at an alarmingly brisk pace. When I reached the top I noticed the sign that warned of a 24% slope - almost 1:4! Maybe I am not quite so unfit as I think, the fitness app on my phone keeps informing me I am thee stones overweight, moreover, I have a heart murmur and high blood pressure and in two weeks time I officially become an OAP. I consoled myself with the thought that I cannot be a complete physical wreck if I can jog up a mile long 1:4 slope.
'How was that?' Gill enquired when I got back to the van. 'Fabulous', I replied, because it was. Great to be out and about, I presume at some point I will stop noticing how weird England is, learn to overlook its peculiarities and celebrate its beauty, or maybe not.
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