£50 for Chapel Croft B&B in Biddulph Park
£5 for beef broth and cup of tea, Railway Inn, Marple
£20 for dormitory bed in YHA hostel, Manchester
£10.95 for burger (with gluten-free bread), chips, and pint of Guinness in YHA Manchester cafe
£3.25 for another pint of Guinness at the hostel bar
I ate my full cooked breakfast with maps spread out in front of me. This would be the first day that I wasn't using the Sustrans maps, which I'd got used to and had served me well. From now until Carlisle, I had to rely on Ordnance Survey Landranger maps with a scale of 1:50 000 and an incredible amount on overwhelming detail. Worst of all, the Sustrans routes are really hard to pick out with just small green circles showing the route. I decided to use a biro to mark my route as I couldn't see how else I'd be able to pick out my route whilst on the move (especially as the OS maps are really unwieldy, requiring advanced origami skills and an absolutely still day).
I set off from the Chapel Croft B&B in thick mist, so couldn't enjoy the views from the height I'd gained the previous evening. The B&B owner had told me a route to take me onto NCN route 55 from Congleton rather than going back to pick it up in Biddulph, and this swooped along country lanes downhill to provide an exhilarating start to the day's riding.
Unfortunately, the way onto route 55 from the road involved a very steep climb up steps that were set into a bank so I had to take the panniers off and transport them separately up the bank. This provided entertainment for three horse riders who were waiting at the top of the bank for me me to finish before they could descend on horseback. To be fair, they sympathised with me rather than ridiculed me for my stupidity at using the Sustrans routes on a tourer with panniers.
After getting a bit confused (but, it has to be said, not completely lost, for a change) in Congleton I took quiet roads across to Macclesfield and picked up traffic free paths through the city, past old industrial buildings and through sad and unloved residential areas. Maybe it was because the weather was drizzly and grey, but Macclesfield wasn't a pretty town to pass through on a bike.
I picked up the Middlewood Way, a lovely traffic free route on an old railway line between Macclesfield and Stockport. After Macclesfield, I had expected my run through to Manchester to be grim, but in fact this was delightful, with trees lining the route and even a stone labyrinth by the side of the track in Bollington.
As I approached Stockport and knew I would have to brace myself for the approach in to Manchester, the rain started in earnest. I was craving something hot to eat and drink, so pulled into a pub where I could lock the bike out of sight of the road and sit in a window to keep an eye on it. As I watched the rain battering against the glass and warmed up with beef broth, I got to chatting to a local. I commented how busy the pub was for a Wednesday lunchtime (it was packed to the rafters with folk of my generation and older, all soberly dressed). He explained that it was the funeral of a popular man, then went on to ask about my bike ride. He made suitably impressed noises and comments, and suggested I take the canal path into Manchester rather than the route I was studying on my map. I thanked him, saying I'd do that (lying through my teeth, as I had no intention of leaving the route I'd plotting with pen and that had proved successful until that point in the day).
I reluctantly left the warmth of the pub into driving rain and continued to weave through quiet roads and traffic-free paths towards the Greater Manchester districts called Romiley and Bredbury. At that point, I got hopelessly lost. It was school leaving time by now, and little clumps of teenagers looked at me with interest as I kept circling around the large housing estate I seemed to be stuck in. I didn't want to head off in a direction without being sure it was the right one as I could see from my map that I could spend a whole year cycling around Greater Manchester and never emerge.
When I got to a cycle path that seemed to lead into slightly open country, I paused to look at my compass and consult the unwieldy map yet again. Two men cycled towards me, clearly on their way home from work, so I asked them if this path would take me towards Reddish, the next district I knew I had to pass through. They said I was pointing in exactly the wrong direction, and asked where I was headed with all my luggage. When they heard it was John O'Groats, they raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. One of them lived in Reddish and said that if I cycled with him he'd take me there and then point me onto a main road straight into the centre of Manchester.
Thank you, whoever you were. I would never have found my way to Reddish on my own, and the route we went on used Sustrans National Route paths (the way marker signs kept appearing and disappearing again) so it was a pleasant ride as we chatted about green spaces in large cities, bikes, and cycle commuting. You also gave me a very quick and easy route into the centre of Manchester; the A57. This was definitely not a Sustrans route, but I figured that using A roads would sometimes be a necessity if I'm ever to get places, and in general the road was busy but safe, with regular cycle lanes to go some way to protect me from vehicles. It was very stop start with traffic lights, which I had become unused to on the trip, but this did mean the traffic wasn't travelling fast and I had time to keep checking the road signs.
I got into central Manchester much quicker than anticipated, so I was in no rush to get to the youth hostel, despite being soaked from the rain. I realised I could probably get cycling maps of the city which would help me for getting out again (as well as finding the hostel), so headed for Manchester Piccadilly train station where I thought the might be a Tourist Information booth. There wasn't, but the man on the Virgin Trains stand explained how to get to the main office in Piccadilly Gardens and I set off into the rush hour traffic.
Negotiating rush hour traffic, wet cobbles (Manchester still has lots of cobbled streets, and wet cobbles are lethal on a bike or even walking in cleats), and tramlines (Manchester also has a very active team network) took all my concentration as I also attempted to find the Tourist Information office. I did, eventually, and decided to push my bike straight in even though I was soaking wet and I'm sure they don't encourage bicycles in there. I knew that securing my bike in the centre of a large city would be time consuming, and I would draw attention to myself with my bright yellow panniers and Lycra - not usual city wear.
A member of staff made a beeline for me as I pushed the bike through the door. I thought , from the look on her face, that she was going to tell me in no uncertain terms to take the bike back out, but I think she took pity on me as I dripped all over the floor and explained I was new to the city and needed to find the YHA hostel that evening and my way out the other side tomorrow.
Oh my, city centre cycling maps are glorious! I could fit it in my map holder on the handlebar bag (unlike the OS maps which are just too big and cumbersome), and I immediately knew exactly where I was and how to reach the hostel.
On my way there, walking on the pavement rather than riding as that was quicker than staying in the gridlocked traffic, I saw a very posh and glossy Pinarello bike shop across the road. My bike had started to make nasty grating noises, and it looked like my brake pads were getting worn down, so I thought I'd pop in on the off-chance they could take a look at the bike for me. This was not the kind of bike shop that did services! It was the cycling equivalent of a Ferrari sales room on Park Lane, compared to your local motor mechanic. However, they wanted my mucky dripping bike out of the shop as soon as possible, so gave me good directions to the Harry Hall bike shop around the corner. It was now 5:30, and I had 30 minutes until Harry Hall's shut.
What a joy! Andy in Harry Halls admired the Roberts, grimaced when he saw the state of my rims and brakes, but said he couldn't do a service without booking it in for a few day's hence. I explained my LEJOG mission, and Andy became even lovelier. He sold me some brake pads, showed me how to fit them, and threw in a free inner tube as well. I went away a very happy woman, knowing the youth hostel had a secure bike store which would perhaps have space for me to do some quick mechanics first thing in the morning (I was too tired and wet to attempt it that night).
Having checked in to the hostel (very smart, with an en-suite shower and toilet in the four person dorm), and warmed up in the shower, I decided I really didn't want to venture out in the rain again to buy pasta sauce. The hostel bar and cafe had free wi-fi for YHA members and was warm and comfy, so I settled myself there for the evening with a burger and two pints of Guinness. Bliss.
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