peak district again

We've recently had our annual trip to the Peak District, with, thankfully, no repetition of last year's enormo-tent blowing-down debacle. Our new car-camping tent is much more sturdy, and even larger, and we may have to invest in a new car to accommodate it if we find any more stuff to take.

Joke doesn't help matters by her luxurious approach to car camping, especially in the sleeping department. Her usual sleeping gear, consisting of camp bed, extra thick mattress, TWO sleeping bags, two full size pillows and spare blanket, has me puffing and sweating to shoe horn it all into the car, and practically fills the Fiesta by itself. Mind you, she does get a good night's sleep.

On this trip my own luxury item, the bike, was securely clamped to the roof, with the plan that  I would do a couple of short rides up the Derbyshire hills when we weren't walking. Actually, the bike wasn't as securely clamped as I thought, as when we returned home I noticed that the front wheel quick release had completely loosened on the journey back, and I was nearly the proud owner of a unicycle.

My first short ride was a quick burst up to Monsal Head (a category 3 climb according to the people at Strava) before breakfast. I had previously assumed that Monsal Head was at the top of the hill, but I was very wrong, and was mortified to find the road climbing onwards and upwards way beyond the hotel. Mind you, I must have enjoyed it, as I repeated the climb a couple of days later, and the descent was fantastic.

My other ride was a rollercoaster of a climb up to Monyash, fantastic riding up to high ground on superb roads, and another glorious descent. That was it cycling-wise, and our first walk was a return to Monsal Head, a walk we have enjoyed many times before.

Next day, one of my favourite walks, up to Baslow Edge

Joke has always been terrified of cows. Things aren't quite as bad as they once were (she no longer comes out in cold sweats are grabs hold of me as soon as we get within 100 yards of a herd of cows), but signs like this don't help

After the Challenge blister debacle, I had invested in a new pair of Keen boots, and pristine and supremely comfortable they were too. Sadly, after a day's walking in cow country, they were pristine no more.

Our final day was a fantastic walk around Castleton and Edale, first leaving Castleton by Deep Dale and the Limestone Way

then along Rushup Edge

to this rather lovely old footpath sign. I'm not sure who the Peak District and Northern Counties Footpaths Preservation Society were, but they can be proud of their signpost, still here after more than half a century

Then down to Edale

before climbing back up to Hollins Cross and MamTor

Mam Tor may just be the most sanitised, artificial hill walk in England, with a stone staircase leading hoards of folk to the top from the car park that's only a few hundred yards away

Nevertheless, it remains a most beautiful ridge-walk, especially when combined with Rushup Edge, and I have no doubt we'll being walking it again soon enough

Tour De France and Blazing Buttocks

This week, somewhat wierdly, the Tour De France came to Essex, having spent, just as wierdly, a couple of days in Yorkshire. It's not the first time Le Tour has been to these shores, and the stunning success of this visit means it won't be the last. If anyone is wondering why the Tour De France doesn't always start (or stay) in France, it's down to one thing - money. Governments and local authorities pay megabucks to the organisers to have the event in their region, in the hope that it will drum up trade for local businesses and promote tourism, and it works. Le Tour is France's biggest national advert, an astonishingly beautiful and brutal spectacle that works wonders for the French tourism industry.

How things have changed. My own obsession with the event began thirty years ago, when Channel Four began  a half hour highlights show each evening. Until then, the only TV coverage I had seen was an occasional report from Dickie Davies on World of Sport, telling us that Eddie Mercks had won again, before ITV rushed off to the wrestling live from a leisure centre in Bolton. The sheer spectacle, in an alpine amphitheatre, took my breath away. And then there was Phil Liggett's demented commentary ("it's Stephen Roche!!" "Pedro Delgado has sprouted wings!!"), Robert Millar winning the King of the Mountains, Greg Lemond beating Laurent Fignon on the Champs Elysee to win by just eight seconds, Marco Pantani dancing on the pedals to fly up yet another alpine pass, and the spectacular crashes.The trouble was, for years I couldn't find anyone else with a similar appreciation. It was cult viewing, alien to our sporting culture.

The tour had come to England once before. In the seventies there was a stage around a newly-built by-pass in Plymouth, and one man and his dog went out to have a look. No-one expected it to come back.

Then, a momentous event in British sport. Chris Boardman won the individual pursuit at the Barcelona Olympics in 1992. Boardman, highly intelligent and supremely competitive, won it despite little help from the cycling authorities, and was the catalyst for the transformation of British cycling, and the spark had been lit. Then came lottery funding for elite sport, the building of the velodrome for the Manchester Commonwealth games, a golden generation of talented cyclists and the organisational genius of Dave Brailsford. By the time Le Tour returned to southern England in 2007, cycling was on the up, and vast numbers of people lined the streets of London and Kent. Team GB cyclists devoured the medals at the Beijing Olympics, Mark Cavendish was the fastest man on the planet, and Bradley Wiggins became a National Treasure by winning everything in 2012.

So, expectations would have been high for a good turnout for the three days of racing in Yorkshire and Essex. I'm not sure which reported figure is accurate, but at least 3 million people got of their backsides and stood on the side of English roads to watch the riders go by. 3 million. That's 1 in 20 of every person in the UK, and the Tour didn't even go close to most parts of the country. Astonishing. Holme Moss looked like Aple d'Heuz as the riders squeezed through the vast throng.

As luck would have it, the race passed not too far from us, so it was was a 56 mile cycle ride out and back to the normally sleepy village of Felsted to see the riders pass by. Felsted really made an effort, and it was a fantastic day.

(you can click on the images to enlarge them)

Big screen and bouncy castle

 Beer festival

and lots of people

Before the actual race passes through, in an effort to whip the crowd into a state of frenzy, the publicity caravan parades through along with an assortment of tour vehicles and police motorcyclists. This could be the beginning of a whole new attitude to road traffic passing through residential streets. For years to come I can see people cheering wildly as the number 87 bus comes down their street, and doing high fives with passing motorcyclists.

The caravan really is the last word in tackiness, and yes, those are giant soft drinks bottles cruising down Felsted High Street.

Then, the race itself, accompanied by a convoy of event cars and motorcycles. 

two breakaway riders first

then the peleton, in team formations

Vicenzo Nibali's Astana team

Movistar, sadly minus Essex rider Alex Dowsett

and Alberto Contador's Tinkov Saxo team, clearly in a hurry to get back to the hotel to tuck into some steaks

then the team cars

Connoisseurs of a certain cycle manufacturer may notice a rather exciting amount of celeste atop the Belkin cars

and that was it, all over in a few minutes, and everyone happily made their way home, enjoying the luxury of closed roads

We cycled home through some lovely Essex countryside. Unfortunately, I had taken the precaution of not bothering with a waterproof layer, and I got absolutely soaked through. However, by the time we got home I was completely dry, so it seems that modern fabrics do actually work.

Joke is an enthusiastic but infrequent cyclist, and 56 miles was the furthest she had ever cycled. I couldn't help noticing that the nearer we got home the more she appeared to be struggling. Being a caring and concerned husband, I asked if all was well. Her reply was short and to the point

"my bum is on fire"
A detailed visual check of her nether regions confirmed that this was not the case, but she was paying the price for not having been on the bike for a while. Cyclists who avoid their bikes because of discomfort "down below" please take note. The more you do it the less it hurts, and the less it hurts the more you enjoy it. Cycle enough, and you may just, in your dreams, be able to cycle like the peleton in the Tour De France.