Day 1

 When I woke up, I was ready to go. I plan these trips quite meticulously. Absolutely everything is on a list. If everything is ticked off then I haven't forgotten anything. Barnard Castle is an hour and a half's car journey up the road. I spent most of the journey listening to radio 4. How often it is that you arrive somewhere and realise that the plight of those stranded abroad by airport staffing issues doesn't fascinate you enough to warrant 50 minutes of invasion to your headspace but only too late do you realise as you switch the engine off at the end of the journey. Still, it kept me from tiresome thoughts concerning why I was actually doing this. 

It's the same every time. I want to go and i don't want to go. I want the adventure of surviving with all that i need balanced on two wheels but i don't want to be on my own. It always takes me about 24 hours to get into it. It then gets easier to the point where i wonder if it might get too easy. Eat, move, sleep exactly as I like without having to consider anybody else. And so with these hopelessly muddled thoughts percolating their way through my grey cells, i arrived in Barnard Castle. I chose a street which I hopefully discerned that a car might park on for three days without arousing too much suspicion. I then changed out of my 'civvies' and set my bike up. Anybody walking past would have had no doubt that the car would be abandoned for some time. My bike is always impressively loaded for these occasions. I have cut things down and cut some things out as well as buying some good light weight equipment but at my age, the balance between amount of luggage and lightness of bike swings more towards ensuring certain creature comforts. 

In the spirit of doing what I wanted when I wanted, I cycled about 200 yards into the middle of 'Barney' as we used to call it when i was part of music courses for several years, just down the road, and promptly stopped at the one and only coffee shop which was open. Now the thoughts about why i was doing this could really flood in. I knew that tackling the impressive range of hills in front of me would help so after a quick coffee, i set off and 'got tackling'. 

The sun came out. That always does wonders for any thoughts of self-doubt. It was uphill from the start and didn't let up. I knew that the high point (both geographically and to some extent, emotionally) was Tan Hill. Tan Hill is apparently the highest pub in the UK. I had no idea that this was part of my trip until the day before. But i was pleased. It's one of those 'places to cycle to'. What i hadn't banked on was a significant section of rough track as part of the route. After about ten miles, the tarmac came to an end at a farm and was substituted for a gravelly and very uneven path. This lead on to the top of a moor in what felt like an incredibly remote area. For miles, I had no sight of any human intervention to the countryside for 360 degress of sight. Not even fences or walls. It went on for miles. 

The novelty and sense of adventure began to tire eventually and I became quite 'ready' to see a proper road surface again. I was also aware that if i got into any difficulty, it could easily be sometime before anybody found me. That certainly leant a frisson of excitement to my situation and allowed me to mentally identify with the great explorers and adventurers of our age. After much concentrating as I steered through the gravel with an overloaded bike, I eventually spied glorious tarmac. Admittedly, the tarmac was still inclined in the upward direction, but it was smooth and predictable. Before too much longer I could see the final brow and the expanding of the horizon which could only mean that I was about to summit. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if just over this brow, I was looking down on Tan Hill pub. And for one of those rare times in life, that’s exactly what happened. 

Minutes later, I was sat inside feeling pleased with myself for having survived thus far when a man with a northeast accent (I have learnt not to say Geordie, as this causes offence to those who are and those who aren’t) came over and asked if I had just cycled up. I replied that I had and he said, “You lazy sod. You couldn’t be bothered to wait for the bus!” It was a display of humour and bonhomie that I became used to over the next few days. After a coffee and a crackin’ piece of Carrot Cake, I jumped on the bike and promptly jumped straight back off as I realised that I was about to leave without one piece of photographic evidence to this significant milestone in my progress. I got snapping until I felt that I could prove beyond all reasonable doubt that I had indeed cycled to the highest pub in the British Isles, and then, and only then, did I surrender myself to the bliss of the anticipated and inevitable descent.