Day 4: Amble to London by bike

Rothwell to Bourne on 11 July 2023

I wake up around 6am with a vivid dream racing through my head: my friend, his wife and a group of their mates are hammering on the front door. I let them in and they’re eager to start making pizzas with a newly bought pizza oven but they can’t find it. They start searching everywhere; they upturn tables and chairs, ransack cupboards and keep calling to one another, using a language I can’t quite recognise. Next time I look up, they’re all wearing scowling Ewan McGregor masks. They aren’t the edgy, skinny, heroin-chic McGregor in Trainspotting but a plump, middle-aged, shiny version from a chat show sofa. I can’t tell if, behind the masks, my friend and his mates are as angry as Ewan or some other indiscernible emotion. Everything suddenly goes silent and they stop moving; the dream ends before I’ll ever know if they made those pizzas or why Ewan McGregor was in such a bad mood.

I’m wide awake by now and the power has been restored overnight so I have a hot shower and cook some breakfast. I heat up the remaining beans and eat them with a couple of fried eggs and toast, followed by yoghurt. I fill my flask and decide it’s time to go. It’s around 7am as I return the key to its hiding place. It seems strange to be leaving this house, as though I’m abandoning somewhere I’ve never been

I reap the rewards of yesterday’s climbing with an easy ride along a ridge at the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds. I almost freewheel through Thoresway and Waleby until I soon reach Market Rasen where I treat myself to a second breakfast. I call in at a community cafe where they serve delicious homemade cheese rolls. 

I tune into a simmering row between a couple at the next table. They’re talking quietly together until, every now and then, one of them boils over with a volatile criticism of the other: ‘You always have to have your own way don’t you!?’ to which the other responds with equal violence: ‘Huh! You can talk!’ And then, as though the heat has been turned down, they stop arguing and resume their quietly equable chat for a while, until another emotional outburst erupts. It’s a curious and mildly entertaining diversion, although I keep my eyes on Google maps in case I attract their unpredictable wrath.

After Market Rasen, the easy and delightful ride continues and I pick up National Cycle Route 1, which takes me through another selection of small villages like Westlaby, Snelland and Reasby. It’s an additional pleasure to find that Lincolnshire has rediscovered its landmark flatness.

I follow Route 1 to the outskirts of Lincoln and join a newly laid concrete cycle track alongside the noisy ring road. The landscape changes dramatically, leaving behind those cosy bucolic villages and emptying itself out until it becomes a kind of nothingness with only a thundering stream of traffic to follow. Like Elizabeth Bishop’s Sandpiper, I take the ‘roaring alongside’ for  granted ‘and that every so often the world is bound to shake.’ Like all sandpipers, poets and cyclists, I find myself on the edge of somewhere.

I now need to start concentrating on the route again instead of simply following those lovely blue signs. Until now, there have been a few light showers but I’ve ignored them and carried on riding but this one is heavy and persistent. I shelter under a road bridge and admire the graffiti: it’s good to see that Micky B and Deb G are in luv 4 eva. I toast their future happiness with an energy bar and tea. 

I’m still at least 35 miles from Bourne and time’s passing quickly (faster than I’m riding, that’s for sure). I’m staying with John, a friend of Ben’s, tonight so I don't want to arrive late but don’t want to get soaked either. The forecast for the afternoon is distinctly iffy so I put on waterproof gear and venture into the rain. It abates after about half an hour and the sun’s almost shining by the time I reach Sleaford, where I get hopelessly lost. 

Google wants to take me on the A15 to Bourne but I don’t want to do that. I try to work out an alternative route but, after a brief tour of the town centre, I ride round the perimeter of a farmer’s field and eventually into the yard of a tractor repair business, occupied by a loud and proprietorial dog. Luck arrives in the form of the friendly owner who’s popped out to see who the dog’s consuming. We start chatting about where I’ve cycled from and it turns out he spends his summers holidaying on the north east coast and loves the area. We strike up a rapport and he gives me helpfully detailed directions that avoid the A15 and get me out of Sleaford. The dog growls in valediction and off I go. I text John to tell him I’m running late and he responds with friendly reassurance.

By now, I’m on the final stretch to Bourne (I’ve been there before so perhaps it should be Bourne Again) and if I can ride there without getting lost how long will it take me? Subtract from my temporary feeling of confidence the length of time it’s taken me to get round Sleaford. Add the number of biscuits I have in my bag with perhaps half a point for the drop of tea in my flask. Divide this by the percentage of likelihood I’ll stop at the next cafe for cake and hot chocolate. Take the amount of road signs ahead and correlate them with misunderstood directions on google maps. If the sun shines and the sky is blue, how much faster will my pedals turn? If John’s house is on this side of Bourne and I find it easily, how relieved will I be? Calculate this lot, turn it into hours and minutes, and your guess is as good as mine.

Despite my late arrival, John and his family welcome me with beer, a hot shower and delicious lasagne, in that order. It has been a good day and, like the mystical ridge rider, I’m feeling quite blessed.

Today’s soundtrack is a homage to the morning delights of the Lincolnshire Ridge. It’s Ridge Rider by Judee Sill:

‘Bless the ridge rider, the ridge he’s ridin’ is mighty thin.’