Coalville to Uttoxeter to Buxton

Date: August 6, 2010
Route: Uttoxeter to Buxton
Miles: 40

Description: This morning, we woke up at 7, but with two tires to repair, we didn't leave the camp until 9 o'clock. Anticipating fewer villages along our route today, we stopped at the Tescos in Uttoxeter on our way out to purchase food for lunch. In the Lonely Planet Cycle Guide, an elevation chart warned us that our first ten miles today would be uphill nearly 1000 meters, and with a climb ahead of us, we put our heads down and began to pedal. The unspoken and mutual agreement is this: we do not stop until the top.

After about 5 miles of gentle incline on busy A and B roads, we began to cycle past the traffic. As the hill grew a bit steeper, I noticed that the landscape and architecture changed. In each part of the country, the homes are made from the materials that available in that particular region. In Cornwall, the homes are made of grey stone bricks; near Bath, the homes are made of golden limestone bricks; in the Cotswolds, the homes are a mixture of brick, semi-timbered homes with thatch roofs and even more golden limestone bricks; and while most of the homes from Long Buckby to Uttoexeter have been brick, now they are evolving back into large grey stone bricks with detailed brickwork near the windows and doors. The homes in the Peak District are both solid and charming, and the landscape has become hillier, greener, and mistier. I like it (even if it means there are more hills.).

After 6 or so miles of climbing, we took the turn for Weaver Hills, the section of the route that our guide book warned would be "steep." Curious to see what "steep" means to the professionals, we again buckled down. The climb lasted for nearly two miles, and as we huffed and puffed up the hill, the mist rolled in. It was steep, but thankfully, it was also doable. We managed to reach the top without getting out of the saddle, and with the thick spirit-and-soul mist hiding the summits above, we were able to focus on the task at hand.

When I say "spirit-and-soul mist," I mean it. Up on Weaver Hill, the trees disappeared, and all I could see were cows drifting in the middle of the air. Ten feet in front of me, I can see the ghosts and phantasms blow across the road. It's spooky and beautiful, and this time, now that I know that the whole damn country isn't one obscene uphill after another, I can appreciate it (this was a bit more difficult in Dartmoor).

Past Weaver Hills, we took a few more dips, ups, and turns through the clearing highlands of the Peak District. The views were dramatic and green, and by the time we reached Waterhouses, we were completely in love. From Waterhouses, we joined the Manifold bike trail, and we sailed through the next 8 miles. This particular bike trail is an old converted railroad, so the inclines are gradual. It's really the best of both worlds: while our path was level, the surrounding vistas were not, and we appreciated steep cliffs and valleys on either side and around every turn. Near the path, rhubarb grew in enormous, long patches, and we drifted leisurely through a sea of expansive, green leaves. In one of these valleys, we stopped to eat our baguette and cheese on a fence while we gazed out over purple flowers and happy English families with thicker and thicker accents bike past.

At Hulme's End, we turned onto a B road that brought us to Hartington where we were supposed to meet our next trail. With our cyclometer off (our guide gives directions according to the distance on the cyclometer), we missed our turn, but happily, we found ourselves on one of the most beautiful roads yet. Our thin snake of a highway led us between green, swelling pastures with sheep grazing in furrows high above our heads. Beneath the soft, green grass, grey stones tumble out of the earth, and along the edges of pastures, these have been stacked and ordered into a grid of silver fences. As we passed, we baa-ed at sheep and stopped for photos.

Up over another hill, we spied another cycle trail and followed its well paved path to the end. Rejoining with another A road, we biked for a couple more miles and reached the town of Buxton, our home for the next two days. The campsite we had chosen from our Camping and Caravaning Guide led us under a viaduct and onto some farmland jam-packed with tents and caravans. The kids got off of school a couple weeks ago, and now English holiday is in full swing. Luckily, our tent is absolutely minuscule, and we were able to find a patch of grass under some trees to shelter us from the rain.

After setting up camp and having a hot shower, we cycled the mile into town. Buxton is an old spa town (like Bath), and most of the buildings are from the Edwardian period (turn of the 20th century). With Art Nouveau wrought iron and tile work and a fabulously beautiful conservatory and opera house, this town is my favorite so far. After we locked up our bikes, we walked through the beautiful gardens in the center of the city, and we passed a crescent of residential homes, much like the Royal Crescent in Bath. After a few photos of the Art Nouveau decor, we wandered in search of some grub.

For dinner, the smells of India Palace drew us in, and we ordered the Vegetarian Meal for two with a bottle of white Lambrusca. For starters, we crunched on poppadom with different hot sauces and devoured hot onion bhaji and vegetable samosas. For our main course, we mixed and matched spicy vegetable curries with spiced rice and a side of tasty, spicy mushrooms. The wine tasted like grape juice with a little bit of fizz (which was a good thing), and while we ate ourselves silly, our cheeks grew pinker and pinker from all the warmth and good food. Outside, the sky continued to drizzle, and every time a new customer blew in, I received a welcome gust of cool air.

Completely full and happy, we walked back to our bikes and went in search of a supermarket to buy food for our day of hiking tomorrow. Strapping our goods to the back of my bike, we climbed up the steep hill out of Buxton and back to our campsite. Right now, it's raining lightly, and the drops pass through the leaves above us in heavy, intermittent splatters, pinging on our tautly staked tent tarp. I'm cozy in my sleeping bag, typing, hoping the battery won't run out.

August 5, 2010
Route: Coalville to Uttoxeter
Distance: 42

Description: After 6 miles on the trail, we entered the small town of Ashby, just outside of Coalville. Although the morning had just begun, we took the short detour to see the old Ashby Castle. From the parking lot, we took a couple of photos and elected to not spend 7 pounds each to see the bombed-out shell of a very old Castle. Call me a cheap-skate.

From Ashby, we headed towards Calke, and for the first time in while, we climbed a series of hills. For our next little detour, we went in search of Calke Abby, and that was a bust too. We never found it, and instead, we added four miles of seriously hilly countryside onto our route. Oh well. The knee is ok for now.

Through Tacknail, we passed a number of sweet and small villages, and at Repton, we joined an A road head for Tutbury (yes, that DOES sound like Tetbury). At first, we thought that another A road was no biggie, but after 1/16 of a mile, we discovered that our lives would probably end abruptly if we continued on our course. Josh was super pissed and writing a letter to the Lonely Planet Cycle Guide when we discovered that, hey, we were doing the route backwards, and as such, the bicycle trail was on the other side of the four lane highway. Risking life and limb in a break of traffic, we darted across the road and found our wide cycle lane into Tutbury.

Hungry from 30 miles of cycling, we found a supermarket and bought pre-prepared food for a little picnic in a proper picnic park just off a round about. Joshua bought a chocolate cake, and yes, we ate the whole thing (chocolate cakes aren't as big in this country, but still). I had a piri piri chicken wrap and Joshua had 6 onion bhajis and couscous, too.

Back on the road, we tried to stop in at the supposedly haunted Tutbury Castle, but they wanted to charge an arm and a leg too. We took pictures from the car park, and the only spook we saw was a mean old lady who told us we would have to pay in order to take photos.

The road from Tutbury to Uttoxeter wound past a series of twee brick villages and one very large prison, and in our last stretch downhill, we looked up at skies threatening Armageddon. Finding our campsite (on a Horse Racecourse, no less!), we set up camp in a little field, trying to beat the rain. While we set up, a little boy named Jack came over and introduced himself. Jack, like the other boy we met, was very curious about where we slept and what we ate, and once he was done with the semantics, he wanted to know why. Why would anyone bike the length of Great Britain?

The boy was gregarious and inquisitive, and although 10 year olds usually scare the piss out of me, we seemed to hit it off. Jack even decided to come and do stretches with us in the middle of our grass field, and when Josh tried to do a headstand, he tried to do one too. Jack then told me that he could run 12 miles and do 200 hundred push ups. I told him to do 200 push ups right now, and he dropped to the ground for five shaky pushes. Collapsing on the ground, he explained that he needed to eat fruit first. Firing up our camp stove, I told him to go get a mug and I would serve him South African tea. He ran off, and when he returned, we spooned a healthy dollop of honey into the bottom and then filled it with rooibus. He thought it was great.

Hungry for dinner, Joshua and I biked the mile into town, and at Tescos, we bought bread and soup for dinner. We also bought a rhubarb crumble for dessert. My man likes sweets. While we wandered through the isles, I sipped on a hot mocha that I had bought from the coffee shop immediately inside the entrance. I never buy hot drinks, and I don't drink coffee, but for some reason, I've been craving a mocha for weeks. With the temperature hovering below 50 degrees outside, today was the day, and I relished my little splurge.

Back at the campsite, we cooked dinner and read our books (mine just got really, really good). A gentleman with a large pack showed up to join us in the empty field for tents, and we chatted for a while. Our new neighbor is going from Lands End to John O'Groats as well, but he's doing it on foot. Self-employed as a gardener and landscaper, he's taken off just over two months to accomplish the task, and he hikes an average of 17 miles a day. Last year, he took some more time off, and he wandered about Great Britain, exploring intentional communities. Although he enjoyed his tour very much, he decided he didn't want to live in any of them, and he's now settled in Hastings, near Brighton. Very much intrigued by the intentional communities he had found, we prodded him further, and he explained that they were pretty diverse: some were large, others small; some salary-shared, others didn't; some had farm based cottage industries, others found work outside of the community; and some shared most of their food growth and preparation, while others didn't. Most of them, however, were fairly educated, middle class, and liberal, and in that way, they were fairly similar. In particular, he recommended a visit to Findhaven, an intentional community with an eco-village just outside of Inverness on the coast. Apparently, it is very well established, very beautiful, and has a large educational component. Consider us intrigued.

Besides considering communes, we chatted a bit about wild camping. Tonight was our neighbor's first night in a private campsite; otherwise, he had been pitching up in fields along the footpaths where he was hiking. Although wild camping is not technically legal in England (it is in Scotland), he hadn't had a problem yet. One farmer told him to watch out for pheasant poachers with crossbows, but he has, thus far, escaped arrow-free.

Once we had finished dinner and said goodnight to our new neighbor, we slipped into the tent for some respite from the cold. Joshua's cyclometer read 45 degrees. While Joshua drifted off to sleep, I kept reading, and although I'm sure I stayed up way too late, I finished the book. It was sad and sweet and very, very funny. I recommend it: gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson. If you hang in there for 20 pages, you won't be disappointed (although, at first, it's a bit too colloquial for my tastes).