Bell......

...... or cycling a suit to Skipton

This is a true account of a remarkable journey that took place over six days last month. That we came through it practically unscathed is a testament both to determination and good luck. It seemed such a good idea: combine a wedding in The Dales with a cycling holiday on the canal. Little did we know a combination of underestimating the difficulty of the trip, poor diet and immoderate drinking would push us to our physical limits.

The preparations had gone well: we'd decided where we were going to stay, done a decent amount of training, read up on the subject, kitted ourselves out with the best Lidl and Wilkinsons had to offer (including a bell with 'I love my bike' on it!), performed some rudimentary bike maintenance. Perhaps the training had gone too well; we'd picked similar routes along canals and cycle routes, increasing the distance each time, to places like Haskayne, Frodsham, Lymm and the Sankey Valley path. We felt ready.

Our destination was a guest house in Skipton, which was too far to consider doing in a day, so we headed off early that first morning for our staging post in Burnley. The early miles were unremarkable, passing through Liverpool and West Lancashire and on towards Wigan. We passed the JJB stadium, where, years earlier, I had smugly started answering Catherine's question about the structure with 'Well, speaking as a graduate mechanical engineer......'! Shortly afterwards, a dog downed Catherine by dancing in front of her; no harm was done but was this an omen?

We were now heading towards lunchtime and the first doubts about how much we had in front of us surfaced. The canal does a funny switch just after Wigan Pier and we spent a frustrating quarter of an hour working out where it had gone! The locks up out of town slowed us down too; it was hard enough going anyway but the ridiculous gates along the way that only grudgingly allow bikes through made it worse. About halfway up, we had a chat with a couple of cheerful Geordies, who were heading down the locks in their narrow boat and had just cracked open their lunch, so the swift half in a pub at the top was very welcome.

Between there and The Top Lock at Wheelton, we made decent progress and seemed to be back on track. The Top Lock is a great pub, by the way. We found it by accident when living in Darwen: great location on the canalside, loads of real ale and curry as the staple of its bar menu. Could it be better? I foolishly estimated we'd be in Burnley in about two and a half hours; fortunately I kept this to myself.

Soon, we passed under the M65 into east Lancashire; inevitably events lurched downwards. On the way into Blackburn, Catherine was grumbled at by a man who seemed too intent on getting to The Navigation to pay any attention to his surroundings, let alone the sound of a bell. After the man veered into Catherine's path, we discovered that 'cut' means 'canal' in the local dialect, as the man claimed to have nearly fallen in it (he wasn't even close). If it's possible for bells to be rung sarcastically, Blackburn heard it for the next few miles as we made sure we didn't mow anyone down.

We had walked the canal from Burnley to Rishton several years ago and it has stuck in my memory as a bit of a slog, so why I thought the reverse journey would be simple is anyone's guess. The tortuous couple of miles around Church had put a flight of steps and a plank to cross a small morass in our way. Joining the TA was mentioned but rejected as being too leisurely. Then, just as the light was fading, along with our energy, I spotted a motorway sign; must be here, I thought. That wasn't so bad: hot bath, a couple of pints and an early night to recuperate.

As we got nearer, my spirits fell. We were still two junctions away from Burnley! A horse in a particularly muddy field looked like it was going to commit suicide, by jumping from a low wall into the bog, as a mark of solidarity. The light really was going now and concentration was lapsing. After a day of cycling, it was difficult to do much more than turn the pedals; the ability to avoid hazards was vanishing in a haze of tiredness. I nearly fell off and then did fall off, not noticing the combination of mud and rock underneath me.

By some hidden reserves left in me, I managed to keep both myself and the bike out of the canal. As is customary on these occasions, Catherine went into a fit of laughter! I'd first witnessed this reaction to my near death when we were on holiday in Italy. We were doing a coastal walk in the Cinque Terre, along a rugged, steep, quite narrow part of the path. I stood aside to let a couple pass but foolishly went for the open side of the track. The ground underneath gave way and I fell about a foot but managed to stay upright. As I stepped forward for safety, what I was standing on vanished down the cliff and I fell another three feet! Fortunately, there were roots and other things to grab onto, so I didn't go any further.

By this time, the man was shouting 'Give me your hand!' and his companion told him to get down onto his front, so that I didn't drag him over. This seemed a little dramatic but, in the circumstances, I thought it better not to comment. Anyway, I was pulled back onto solid ground. After much thanking and checking that everyone was OK, we noticed Catherine, a few feet away, doubled up in pleats of laughter! I digress, as Ronnie Corbett would say.

Back to the evening in question and, perhaps as a reaction to what had just happened, I suffered a twinge of cramp masquerading as a major health emergency. Catherine was up ahead, leaving me leaden footed in her Mercury heeled wake, and the sensation around my left shoulder was making me come over all dramatic; I was trying to decide if I wanted her to stay with me as my life ebbed slowly away or to send her away for help! I seem to have recovered.

It was now night time and we were pushing more than cycling, even with the lights on. To add insult to injury, a posse of three keen cyclists, kitted out with lamps on their heads and other such nonsense, flew by to do battle with the terrain that had so recently and emphatically defeated us. We finally made it to Burnley, just about in time for the adverts in Coronation Street. A couple of pints and some stodge to eat and we were ready to rejoin the fray.

The following day was a breeze; a mere twenty five miles over to Skipton. After taking in highlights such as the iconic Foulridge tunnel and the lovely, peaceful section high in the Pennines between Barnoldswick and Gargrave, we found ourselves on a bench outside the Co-op, eating chip balms. Gargrave was, of course, the scene of another (almost forgotten) personal disaster. We were staying there on holiday and, during a walk along the canal, we noticed a few people pushing for all they were worth against one of the lock gates. I thought they were trying to open it so a boat could go through, so went over to help. As it turned out, they were joggers, stretching their legs after their run! I'll get my coat then.

Skipton is only a few miles on from Gargrave and we were there by mid-afternoon. To counteract the health giving aspects of exercise, I went for the belly pork when we ate at The Narrow Boat that evening. None of that sliced stuff, mind; a big, fat slab of it, about as big as a paperback with the crackling on top! It was up there with the roast suckling pig in Puerto Pollensa and what a pig I made of myself!

The wedding was the following day. It had been a feat in itself, which the finest military minds would have quailed at, to get our clothes and shoes there intact but we did it. Plan B had been a dash around Skipton in the morning but that wasn't necessary and we both cut quite a dash! The wedding and reception went well, with talk of old friends, what a small world it is, relatives from Darwen and cheese sweats!

A day of rest in Skipton was declared on the Saturday and we took in all manner of cake shops, museums, charity shops, pubs, ate chips (cooked in lard!) and dodged the traffic. After a couple of days off the bikes, we were ready for the return trip.

On the way back to Burnley, we noticed an A4 sheet pinned to a post, with a message to cyclists from a concerned member of the fraternity. He (I assume it was a he) had taken it upon himself to publish a code of conduct, so that cyclists could continue to use the canal and live in peace with other canal users. The fact that it was aimed mainly at those sports cyclists who would hurtle past without even noticing it is a bit sad but it set me thinking about the different groups we'd met: the fishermen, dog walkers, ramblers, narrow boaters (what do you call the people who travel on the canal, rather than next to it?). The following day, we had a conversation with a dog walker and came to the conclusion that it takes all sorts and that some people want to compete for the limited space while others are happy to coexist with each other, even the fishermen!

The final day, Burnley to Liverpool, ended up being just as tough as the first. This was despite our confidence that we were fitter and knew the route, so would be better prepared. The pints in The Brun Lea and Ministry Of Ale the previous might have offset that though. The treacherous first few miles that had so nearly seen us off on the first evening were tough again, with wind and rain to deal with for the first time on the trip.

Nothing really noteworthy happened on the trip back, although we did some more yomping around a lock at Wheelton, where the towpath was being dug up. We chatted to a one-legged cyclist, near Parbold, who I don't think quite believed how far we'd travelled; he was doing better than us by the time we got there. Once again, night had fallen long before we got home, so we took to the roads for the last few miles to get home quicker. Door to door took us twelve hours.

To finish with and to continue the theme of making a fool of myself, we took the dog for a walk in Botanic Park the following evening, after it had been raining all afternoon. I was throwing a tennis ball for her to chase. After a few good throws from the path, I ventured out onto a football pitch and set up to hurl the ball a good long way. I took a couple of steps, drew my arm back and launched. At that moment, both of my feet flew backwards to counterbalance the forward movement of the ball! I flew forward so quickly that I didn't even have chance to put my arms out and did a perfect belly flop into mud soaked pitch!

Perhaps you can guess what Catherine was doing a second later.