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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781844546640 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bonnier Books UK |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2009 |
| Pages: | 288 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.90(d) |
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Heights of Madness
In 92 Days I Walked and Cycled 5,000 Miles and Climbed the Highest Peak of Every County in the UK ... What was I Thinking?
By Jonny Muir
John Blake Publishing Ltd
Copyright © 2009 Jonny MuirAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-85782-851-1
CHAPTER 1
A ONE-WAY TICKET TO BODMIN – MY SANLUCAR DE BARRAMEDA – CLIMBING BROWN WILLY – AN ALTERCATION WITH A COW – MR TWIT – GIVING UP – ROAD-KILL – A SWISS SEDUCER – THE MAGICAL 1,000-FOOT MARK – A BACK GARDEN IN KENT
DAY 1 – BODMIN TO OKEHAMPTON: 56 MILES Brown Willy (Cornwall): 420m
Every journey has to start somewhere. Ferdinand Magellan's circumnavigation of the Earth set sail from the Spanish port of Sanlucar de Barrameda. South Pole-bound Roald Amundsen went forth from the Norwegian capital Oslo. Neil Armstrong's mission to the Moon blasted off from the Kennedy Space Center.
Somehow Bodmin on a grey and blustery morning in May lacked that soul-stirring quality. I was on the starting line in Cornwall, the jagged foot of England that dips a toe into the Atlantic Ocean. Sitting on the town hall steps, I looked around for inspiration – something to frame the moment or simply remind me this wasn't just another unremarkable happening in infinite time. Wind-blown chip wrappers tumbled across the road and a pair of seagulls pecked at the remains. An inquisitive mongrel sniffing at my bicycle's front wheel was mid-cock when I shooed him away. Peering through a steamed-up café window, I envied the hungry eaters devouring bacon, egg and beans. Behind them, on a TV in the corner, a weather forecaster pointed animatedly at a black cloud and three blobs of rain parked over the West Country. This was my Sanlucar de Barrameda.
I emptied the meagre contents of my rucksack onto the steps. I had embraced the thinking of the French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who once declared: 'He who would travel happily must travel light.' In went the essentials: a change of clothes, bar of soap and toothbrush, camera, road map, journal, a well-thumbed copy of Apsley Cherry-Garrard's The Worst Journey in the World and a cheese sandwich. What more did I need? Unlike Amundsen, Armstrong and Magellan, I'd be able to nip into the Co-op if I'd forgotten anything.
It was time. There were no cheering crowds or rousing speeches – only one anonymous spandex-clad cyclist setting off on a long journey. Tingling with trepidation and my heart thumping with freedom, I pushed off. Before long, Bodmin was gone in a blur and I was zipping merrily along high-hedged Cornish lanes towards Camelford. Next stop Shetland, the 60th parallel.
It had to be a bicycle journey. How else? I had exhausted the alternatives. Car – too easy. Train – too complicated. Bus – too unpredictable. Helicopter – too expensive. Walking – too long. A bicycle fitted the bill. Here was a mode of transport fast enough to cover a respectable distance each day, but slow enough to absorb the changing sights, smells and sounds of the UK. When tarmac ran out, I would continue on foot. There would be no buses, no trains, no taxis and absolutely no lifts. The result? An entirely self-propelled journey between the highest point in each of the UK's historic counties – the first of its kind. There were 92 counties and 92 summits. It was logical therefore that my journey must take 92 days and no longer.
There was, however, a stick in my spokes. My quest meant I had to reach five islands: Arran, Ireland, Orkney, Hoy and Shetland. To claim a truly self-propelled journey, I would have to swim to each. When Charlie Campbell set a new record for the fastest self-propelled traverse of the 284 Munros – Scottish mountains higher than 914 metres – in 2000, he swam from the mainland to Mull and the Isle of Skye. Campbell completed his feat in 48 days and 12 hours, but his swimming amounted to little more than two miles in relatively sheltered waters. I was faced with a swim across the Irish Sea to Northern Ireland, the Firth of Clyde to Arran, the Pentland Firth to Orkney, across Scapa Flow to Hoy, and 50 miles of ocean between Orkney and Shetland, twice. Aware that the notion of swimming such distances was ludicrous, I accepted that ferries would be a necessary evil.
Today I was bound for Cornwall's highest lump of earth and rock, the saucily named Brown Willy. The hill lies at the lonesome heart of Bodmin Moor, a place famed for its beast and beastly weather. Measuring a meagre 10 miles across, Bodmin Moor's size is in inverse proportion to its sense of isolation and loneliness. Stroll for only a few minutes and you will feel lost in what seems like inescapable wilderness. Nevertheless, Brown Willy is easy to find – it is circled in every schoolboy's atlas. But if you are imagining a phallus-shaped peak, you will be disappointed, for Brown Willy comes from the word Bronewhella, simply but quite appropriately meaning highest hill.
A short way out of Camelford, I followed the whaleback rises of Rough Tor Road until tarmac gave way to moor. Faster than Superman can slip on his suit, I swapped my blue and yellow Argentina cycling jersey for a T-shirt and fleece, pulled trousers over Lycra shorts and trainers replaced cycling cleats. Cyclist to hiker in a seamless transition, and I didn't need a phone box.
To non-Cornish dwellers, Bodmin Moor is synonymous with the legendary Beast of Bodmin, a mysterious creature – a jaguar, lynx, puma or big cat – which allegedly mauls livestock when it's feeling peckish. However, despite massacred sheep, six-inch paw prints and video footage of a yard-long black animal, RAF reserve volunteers who scoured the moor one night in 1999 didn't turn up so much as a lost tabby. I kept an open mind, for Bodmin Moor had a queer air to it – an air that made me throw the odd cursory glance over my shoulder.
Treading a springy path to the granite summit of Rough Tor, I caught my first glimpse of Brown Willy a mile in the distance. In between these two elevated points the land dipped to the De Lank River, a ribbon of water that cuts a channel along the valley floor. Fewer feet trod the moor to the south of Rough Tor and the only other life was a herd of cows grazing lazily near the river. Head down, wading through gorse and balancing on wobbling boulders, I concentrated on keeping my feet. Then, something stole my attention in the distance. Perhaps it was a beast howling from the summit of Brown Willy, blood dripping from its fangs? But for a few seconds, I stopped looking where I was going and it was in those moments that I walked headlong into a cow.
Are cows happy or sad? I find it hard to tell. A cow might have won the lottery, but it would still wear the same doleful expression. That is why cows would make brilliant assassins. As the cow stared at me, I didn't know if it wanted to murder me or lick me. I glanced down. Udders. I took small comfort: at least it wasn't a bull. My thoughts flashed to the extreme survival book I had unwrapped on Christmas morning. How to survive a plane crash? Easy. What to do if Osama Bin Laden moves in next door? Not a problem. How to pacify a herd of cows? I flicked through the pages in my mind. No, I don't remember that one. I must write to the editors. How could they have overlooked it?
Daisy challenged me to a staring contest. First one to blink loses. I lost. Meanwhile, her pals had gathered around, seeking a piece of the action. I was for it. One slipped a knuckle-duster over her hoof, while another made a cut-throat gesture in my direction. Day one: trampled to death by a herd of cows on Bodmin Moor. It wasn't the kind of start I had hoped for. I could see the newspaper headlines: 'Man savaged by cow. Police hunting real beast of Bodmin.' After much foot-stamping, tail-swishing and sporadic urinating, the herd lost interest and resumed their cud chewing. Cautiously backing away to a safe distance, my foot slopped through a pile of steaming cowpat. I'm sure I heard the cows snigger as I scurried down to the river.
Marching up Brown Willy, I passed a sign with an ominous warning: 'The climate is susceptible to rapid change. Dense fog can descend quickly.' The forecast rain must have been held up over the Atlantic, for today the clouds were high in the sky and only a fine haze blocked the panorama to the north and south Cornish coasts. It isn't always this calm. The weather can be so extreme on Bodmin Moor that Brown Willy has a meteorological phenomenon named after it: the Brown Willy effect, which was blamed for the flash floods that wreaked havoc in Boscastle in August 2004.
I was on the summit of 420-metre Brown Willy, home to a stack of granite boulders and an Ordnance Survey triangulation pillar, one of more than 7,000 concrete obelisks built for the benefit of cartographers. All around was a wilderness, an endless vista of brown hillocks, grey granite and yellow and green gorse. Yes, it had been a less than glorious ascent, but I was standing on the roof of Cornwall, punching the air on my first county top.
An hour later, after skirting Crowdy Reservoir and dipping off the high moor, I was in Launceston, where Morris dancers leaped around the streets, flicking handkerchiefs and clanging bells. Clutching a Cornish pasty, I dived into a pub to indulge in an English tradition greater even than Morris dancing. It was FA Cup final day, Liverpool against West Ham.
Inside, it was standing room only and the drinks had been flowing long before 'Abide With Me' rang around the Millennium Stadium. Not being Cornish, I can only speculate that the good men and women of Kernow feel as little affinity with cockneys as they do scousers, yet today the majority of the crowd were cheering for the London club. When West Ham scored twice, pandemonium swept through the bar. A swaying fan – who looked like he'd been on a week-long bender followed by another 20 pints of lager this afternoon – led a constant 'Irons, Irons' chant. Liverpool scored and equalised, before West Ham swept into a 3-2 lead.
All this excitement was thirsty work and as the room became steadily more inebriated, the volume cranked up a notch. In the final minute, Liverpool's Steven Gerrard thumped the kind of goal every schoolboy imagines himself scoring in the playground – a 30-yard screamer into the top corner. The room erupted. The air was a sea of thrashing arms and pumping fists. Fickle Cornishmen who were roaring for West Ham moments earlier were dancing a conga around the room. A roly-poly fellow behind me discovered gymnastic skills he never knew he had, leaping on my shoulders, flinging the contents of his pint glass over my head. Another supporter jumped on the pool table, tugged down his trousers and underwear, and started frantically slapping his bare backside. Ah, the tranquil charms of Cornwall.
Across the Tamar, I swapped Cornwall for Devon and cycled 20 miles to Okehampton in a fine mist that had enveloped Dartmoor. Ten hours after leaving Bodmin, I laboured up the last slope to the town's youth hostel, an old railway building next to the train station. Dumping bicycle and bag, I set off into Okehampton in search of food. A fair was sprawled across Simmons Park, bringing with it a pack of cider-swigging teenagers, who jockeyed each other from across the Okement River and paired off to snog on a bench. Picking at fish and chips under the shelter of a bus stop, I pulled my mobile phone from a pocket and scrolled down to my girlfriend's number. Fi had been as supportive as any long-suffering partner could be. It had helped that I had broken the news of my impending trip on a drunken New Year's Eve. 'I'm going to cycle to the highest point in every county,' I had slurred in her ear.
'Of course you are,' Fi said with a knowing smile. She had heard it all before. Each year, as everyone promises to give up cigarettes and alcohol, I was coming up with some absurd adventure far beyond my means. This year I'll cycle across Mongolia. This year I'll go trekking in the Himalayas. This year I'll climb Mont Blanc. I never did. My enthusiasm tended to last as long as the hangover. But this year had been different. This year was going to be the year.
I had offered Fi the chance to wave me off from Bodmin. She stood me up. Instead, she wished me luck, gently pointed out that it wouldn't be terribly exciting for her, and fled to Scotland. Now her number was ringing. Embellished stories of fending off a heated herd of cows, of clambering across high moors and getting beer thrown over me in Launceston, were on the tip of my tongue. I wanted sympathy for my aching legs, congratulations for my first 56 miles and an ear to listen to my weather whimpers.
'I can't talk,' Fi whispered. 'I'm at the opera.' She hung up.
With the freedom of the open road came the loneliness of the long-distance traveller. Loneliness gave me too much time to think, to ponder, to dwell, and it was nourishing a nagging seed of doubt in my mind. Reality had come home to roost. Ahead were another 91 days and 4,950 miles of effort on my own. I was cyclist, walker, navigator, nutritionist, chef, mechanic, weatherman, motivator, psychologist and bed-booker all rolled into one. The first day had been tough and here I was at the end of it staring morosely at an Okehampton pavement, just thinking, thinking, thinking. It was always the same question. Why am I doing this?
My mental state wasn't helped by my exhausted physical condition. Pedalling uphill for 1,300 metres – just a few shy of Ben Nevis – had taken its toll. My legs were stiff and weary. Although today had been harder than I imagined, far more extreme days lay ahead. Days when it would hammer with rain, winds would fight my every move and thick mist on mountaintops would frighten me to half to death. On the first page of my journal I wrote: 'Totally emotionless. Void of any feelings'. Exultant is how I should have felt. This is what I had dreamed of, what I spent six months of my life obsessing about. Now the gremlin of self-doubt was murmuring in my ear, 'Give up.'
DAY 2 – OKEHAMPTON TO EXFORD: 44 MILES High Willhays (Devon): 621m Dunkery Beacon (Somerset): 519m
One of nature's most extraordinary gifts is her power to lift the human spirit, bringing peace to a tortured soul. As I stepped into the morning sunshine, golden rays threw a comforting, warm arm around my sagging shoulders. The shroud of mist that had hidden Dartmoor had vanished in the night, taking the darkness of my mood with it. The world grinned with perfection. The browns and greens of the rolling moor were sharp against the backdrop of a blue sky, and I couldn't wait to be standing on top of those hills looking down.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Heights of Madness by Jonny Muir. Copyright © 2009 Jonny Muir. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Introduction
1|
Day 1 Bodmin to Okehampton 1
Day 2 Okehampton to Exford 9
Day 3 Exford to Litton Cheney 15
Day 4 Litton Cheney to Salisbury 19
Day 5 Salisbury to Holmbury St Mary 23
Day 6 Holmbury St Mary to Camberwell 25
2|
Day 7 Camberwell to Chiswick 31
Day 8 Chiswick to Saffron Walden 36
Day 9 Saffron Walden to Jordans 39
Day 10 Jordans to Wantage 43
Day 11 Wantage to Pewsey 47
3|
Day 12 and 13 Bristol 53
Day 14 Pewsey to Cheltenham 57
Day 15 Cheltenham to Bromsgrove 60
Day 16 Bromsgrove to Coalport 65
Day 17 Coalport to Chester 68
4|
Day 18 Chester to Betws-y-Coed 71
Day 19 Betws-y-Coed to Pen-y-Pass 75
Day 20 Pen-y-Pass to Betws-y-Coed 78
Day 21 Betws-y-Coed to Bala 83
Day 22 Bala to Aberdyfi 89
Day 23 Aberdyfi to Tregaron 91
5|
Day 24 Tregaron to Newport 97
Day 25 Newport to Brecon 101
Day 26 Brecon to Talybont-on-Usk 106
Day 27 Talybont-on-Usk to Capel-y-ffin 112
Day 28 Capel-y-ffin to Hereford 115
Day 29 to 31 Bromsgrove 117
6|
Day 32 Hereford to Wellesbourne 119
Day 33 Wellesbourne to Market Bosworth 124
Day 34 Market Bosworth to Uppingham 127
Day 35 Uppingham to Cambridge 129
7|
Day 36 Cambridge to Sheringham 133
Day 37 Sheringham to King's Lynn 138
Day 38 King's Lynn to Market Rasen 143
8|
Day 39 Market Rasen to Darley Dale 147
Day 40 Darley Dale to Edale 151
Day 41 Edale to Huddersfield 155
Day 42 to 47 Lytham St Annes and Edinburgh 158
9|
Day 48 Huddersfield to Ingleton 161
Duy 49 Ingleton to Skelwith Bridge 163
Day 50 Skelwith Bridge to Skelwith Bridge 170
Day 51 Skelwith Bridge to Pooley Bridge 176
Day 52 Pooley Bridge to Alston 179
Day 53 Alston to Wall 183
10|
Day 54 Wall to Kirk Yetholm 187
Day 55 Kirk Yetholm to North Berwick 191
Day 56 North Berwick to Edinburgh 194
Day 57 Edinburgh to Airdrie 194
Day 58 Airdrie 197
Day 59 Airdrie to Innerleithen 199
Day 60 Innerleithen to Loch of the Lowes 200
Day 61 Loch of the Lowes to Kendoon 203
Day 62 Kendoon to Minnigaff 208
Day 63 Minnigaff to Minnigaff 209
Day 64 to 66 Minnigaff to Minnigaff, via Bromsgrove, Salisbury and Peterborough 210
11|
Day 67 Minnigaff to Cairnryan 213
Day 68 Cairnryan to Dungiven 214
Day 69 Dungiven to Enniskillen 216
Day 70 Enniskillen to Armagh 219
Day 71 Armagh to Newcastle 220
Day 72 Newcastle to Dunure 224
12|
Day 73 Dunure to Lochwinnoch 227
Day 74 Lochwinnoch to Rowardenn 231
Day 75 Rowardennan to Killin 235
Day 76 Killin to Stirling 239
Day 77 Stirling to Kinross 241
Day 78 Kinross to Glen Esk 243
Day 79 Glen Esk to Spittal of Glenshee 244
13|
Day 80 Spittal of Glenshee to Corrour bothy 247
Day 81 Corrour bothy to Tomintoul 253
Day 82 Tomintoul to Carrbridge 257
14|
Day 83 Carbridge to Ullapool 261
Day 84 Ullapool to Durness 266
Day 85 Durness to Stromness 269
Day 86 Stromness to Kirkwall 273
Day 87 Kirkwall to Kirkwall, via North Collafirth 275
Day 88 Kirkwall to Dunbeath 279
15|
Day 89 Dunbeath to Balintraid 281
Day 90 Balintraid to Cannich 286
Day 91 Cannich to Glencoe 291
Day 92 Glencoe to Fort William 295
Epilogue 299