Stories from
the road
(and beyond!)
Three key ways to survive a family cycle tour
When we’re on the road, we find that the progress we make in a day is defined far more by the time we spend off the bike, than the time we spend off it.
Riding The Hebridean Way
Late in the day (as in, we only really decided for sure once we were already on the M6!) it was unfinished business that drew us back to the Outer Hebrides…
It's raining midges - crossing the Uists
Taking the West side of the island, it was time to crack on and hit our first new roads since Vatersay. Almost in celebration of this fact, very shortly afterwards Rhoda suddenly decided she would start pedalling forwards continuously for the first time ever. Jelly babies all round! It's amazing how, when you're touring by bicycle, your children hit all sorts of developmental milestones.
The graveyard shift - where is it OK to wild camp?
We had turned off the main road when it finished abruptly at a neat and well tended graveyard. Tom walked around the perimeter wall to see if there was anywhere we could go to the other side of it that might be less directly in the face of the fierce wind, and the foamy sea. He came back, eyeing up the ground next to the wall.
Mrs Risk-Averse is alarmed, and the inner monologue is running away with me.
Steaming socks on the ‘spine road’
Readying ourselves to get off the boat, we were in the invidious position of knowing that we were about to tackle our nemesis from our last visit here - the short, sharp climb from the slip, over the hill to the village and the causeway to South Uist. We decided not to put on an ‘ambitious, but rubbish’ display of heroic failure for the other tourists, so as we usually do now, we waited for everyone else to hit the beach and get up the road before setting off.
Vatersay - Barra(bados)
Rhoda is next, and then we are off to the shore, ready to play and explore.
There is no-one else around, at all. We have the most beautiful beach, right outside our tent door, and it is all ours.
This is what it’s about.
Odyssey from Oban: the beginning
Last time, we had set off with high hopes and, thwarted by strong headwinds, had cut short our trip at Lochmaddy. This time, we had a far better idea of where we were going, places we were keen to revisit, places we had missed last time that we wanted to explore, and a whole lot of local knowledge bestowed by our generous host from the night before (including a hand drawn map of highlights and camp spots for us to visit on Barra).
When a cycle tour becomes a night hike…
"Are there any lions, Mummy?", ponders Ruth aloud. I stifle the urge to giggle. The indistinct shapes around us start moving. And mooing. I reassure Ruth that there are no wild lions in Scotland. No, darling, no tigers either. Ruth is satisfied. Mummy and Daddy hold our breath - what will a field full of cows make of a family of cycle tourists turning up in the pitch dark and tramping across their field?
Who will buy?
“Who will buy this wonderful morning...".
I can only attribute to the invigorating power of the road, the slowly settling change in me.
That's not to say we didn't have things to do today, because that spoke wasn't going to fix itself, and our bikes were literally caked in sand and grit after many miles on the voies vertes.
Religieuse, Ribot, Rayon, Relax
A short but very sharp climb later (ideally accompanied by the 'Hovis' music, played on an accordion) past a number of encouragingly-named but distinctly 'ferméed' buildings, we arrived at what turned out to be the only outlet in the village these days, a sports bar with an en suite village shop.
Thomas Ivor and I walked into the bar and practically everyone turned to look. It was like I'd burst into a wild west saloon with a gun in each hand. I had a quick scout of the place, looking for signs of food, but was aware of the eyes following me…
Making up the miles: Mäel-Carhaix to Loudéac
We became something of a tourist attraction ourselves as we stopped to consult the map for options for the next stretch of our day's mileage. One lady got her camera out and started snapping pictures of the girls in their trailer, which was a bit surreal. The lady and her family stopped for a chat and she was amazed at Thomas Ivor's proficiency and the distance we were hoping to cover. She told me I was mad to do this with my "remorque". By the end of the day, I was starting to agree! Today's mileage was a PB for me towing the trailer.
Chasing the day
Back we rode towards the Réseau Breton. As we did so, Katie took her first 'scalp' with the trailer, overtaking a family with a horse-drawn caravan. I'm not sure where they stood in comparison to one another on power:weight ratio, but downhill, the horse and steel-tyred caravan were no match for Mrs J and her Croozer!
How do you say 'broken spoke' in French?!
I set off with the wheel in the back of the car. My A-level French did not include bike maintenance vocabulary. For our next trip, I must spend some time creating a crib sheet for bike terminology. I know the words for wheel, tyre, puncture and brakes, but after that I'm officially stuck.
Roscoff to Le Clôitre St Thégonnac. Deuxième désastre!
The road into Morlaix that we chose at Lanvéguen (D769) in preference to the signed cycle route was lovely- wide, smooth, lightly trafficked. We rolled into Morlaix, under the motorway viaduct and towards the double height railway viaduct feeling good.
Then disaster struck.
"TWANG!!".
Broken down and befriended
The 'walk of shame' through the Warren, as I cursed my having said only yesterday that we were 'due a mechanical', reminded me just why we do what we do on holiday. People with few clothes and many tattoos, poorly behaved dogs and children, carrying cheap-jack inflatables and the spoils from the arcades. I reckon I would sooner visit hell itself than spend a week in a static caravan in Dawlish Warren. What they would make of our kind of holiday, one can of course only conjecture at!
Our guide to what you forgot to bring on your bike tour
This is the bit of the trip where I always think of the MacCallisters on their plane to Paris. We can be sure we've forgotten something - it's just a question of what, whether our guesses are right, and how severe it is.
Here we have the Family ByCycle guide to things you forgot, with apologies to Donald Rumsfeld...
Lumbering Up
The trip, then, became a case of making a route up to fit between two fixed points and times, in a place I had scarcely visited, a language I do not speak, in the peak holiday season, with three children, one of whom, in Thomas Ivor's case, would be riding their own bike for the first time, on the other side of the road. Not much to go wrong there!
Donkeys, parking, 'splash and crash'
ed with the prospect of riding on into the now steadily falling rain, for more miles, away from the bridge, that might be fruitless and force us to retrace, I looked dead ahead as I waited at the junction for Katie to catch up, and something told me the hotel I was facing was worth an enquiry.
Getting out of the door
With a growing family (numerically and in stature!) it follows that you are forced repeatedly to break one of the golden rules of bicycle touring - get to know your kit and your capabilities, and once you have a setup that works, stick with it unless there is a compelling reason. It's just not possible to do that long term, when the number, size and capabilities of your 'team' is ever-changing.
A night out on Tiree
Tiree had such a friendly air, perceptible as soon as we rolled off the ferry. Lots of locals were there meeting friends, family and guests from the boat. Our trailer and trailer bike outfit drew a few glances, and kind enquiries.
We cycled a couple of miles from the quay and pitched our little tent in the dunes…