Ben Elves
Ben Elves
Jul 21, 2017 · 20 min read

The Five Day Trip; Norfolk to Cornwall and Back by Motorcycle.

Tuesday.

The alarm on my mobile phone beeped, signalling that it was time to get out of bed. I had been awake for about a quarter of an hour already, but now it was 4 am and I had to throw myself into the shower and load up Ruby; my Honda Transalp. I had packed the Givi panniers, tank bag and top box the previous evening, but my usual fear of forgetting something vital made me wish to unpack and check it all again. I drank a coffee and forced the notion to the back of my mind; knowing it was silliness.

I wheeled Ruby from the garage, clipped on the luggage, and strapped on my sleeping bag, mat, and rucksack containing a few essential tools.

It was early April, and the air was cold and damp. It could have been worse; it could have been raining. I walked back into the house, pulled my jacket on, and stepped back outside with my crash helmet in my hand, locking the back door. Damn- it was raining. Not much, just the odd spot. The forecast had said there would be the odd light shower overnight, so I was not concerned.

I slid the key into the ignition, and fired Ruby up. Her 700cc V-twin engine thudded solidly as I threw my leg over the saddle, stood her upright, and kicked back the side-stand with my left heel. I felt the warm rush of excitement in the pit of my stomach as I pulled in the clutch, put her into first gear, and slowly pulled out onto the street. As I headed down the hill to the traffic lights I smiled to myself. The 405 mile trip from Norwich to Cornwall had started. It was 5.30 in the morning.

Riding through the ancient city was beautifully relaxing as there was very little traffic about. Over the railway bridge, left at the football ground and on up Carrow Hill; past the site of the old Colmans Mustard works. Left at the traffic lights and past County Hall. Within minutes I was riding on the A47 Southern Bypass; Ruby chugging along happily as if she shared the same anticipation of a wonderful long day as I did.

Motorcycling is not just about the getting there; it is about the journey. It is about the experience. Sat astride a motorbike, one finds that instead of the world going past on a TV screen; as it is when driving a car and staring at the road through a windscreen whilst sat in a comfortable armchair in an hermetically sealed metal bubble, you are very much part of the world through which you are travelling. Only the cyclist and the horse rider share this experience, and there is a beauty to be found in experiencing the changes in temperature, the smells of the cities, forests and fields. Also the rain.

The A47 was no longer a dual carriageway. The road took its curving way ahead of me and Ruby and I leaned into the gentle bends which guided me on towards Kings Lynn, and the rain fell steadily. Only 15 miles done, and my fingers were already feeling the cold. Still 390 miles to go.

20 minutes from Lynn, I decided it was time to stop for a little while to warm up, grab a coffee and a bite to eat, and see if the rain would pass. The globally recognised Golden arches were ahead and to my right, and I put my dislike for this establishment to one side and pulled into the car park.

Sitting inside the diner, sipping away at my hot shot of very sweet caffeine, I watched life go by the other side of the window for 45 minutes. I had discovered when I had removed my jacket that the sleeves of my fleece were damp, and as the time slid past the heat of the diner dried my clothes. The morning brightened, those destined for a day’s work stepped inside; ordering coffee of their own along with breakfast muffins, and returned to their vans and cars. Men in suits, or faded jeans, navy blue fleeces and hi-vis jackets.

The rain stopped; patches of early morning blue sky appeared amongst the dull clouds, and I put on my jacket again; stepping outside into the chilly air to resume my journey.

Kings Lynn passed, but the A47 continued to wind its way westwards; sometimes turning into dual carriageway. As the morning passed, the level of the land dropped below that of the road. This was the really boring bit. I have always found that stretch of countryside between Kings Lynn and Peterborough to be immensely tedious. The road stretches out ahead as a main east-west artery, usually clogged with lorries, tractors, slow moving cars, and those fools whose impatience far outweigh their common sense. They are the ones who take daft risks to overtake a car in the face of oncoming traffic, and have to force their way into the stream of traffic again to avoid a collision. All to be 50 feet ahead of where they had been.

More dual carriageway, and at the first opportunity I opened the throttle. Ruby gave a meaty rumble and surged forward. Now I was the one overtaking.

With a dull ache in my shoulders and neck from the battering of the wind, I powered onto the M6; the A43 and A14 now behind me. With hardly any distance done at all, I saw all lanes ahead were at a standstill. I slowed down and raised the chin-guard and visor of my helmet; flicking on the hazard warning lights to tell those behind me that there was a problem ahead.

This side of the M6 had become a car park. The other side was deserted. That’s usually the sign of an accident. I checked my mirrors and threw a glance over my shoulder. Seeing nothing moving behind I pulled out of my lane to slip up the middle between the two lanes of static vehicles; wary of the fact that Ruby was much wider than usual thanks to the big aluminium Panniers.

The miles went past slowly; courteous drivers edging their way to the sides of their lanes to allow me room to pass. I gratefully gave the biker’s wave to many as a thank you.

The day was warming up and the sun was shining brightly when I spotted the blue and red flashing lights ahead and on the other side of the Motorway. As I approached, things did not look good. A smashed up wreck that had once been a car. A jack-knifed lorry. Police cars and an ambulance. Behind the lorry, a crushed van and more badly damaged cars; all piled against each other. Black uniformed Policemen scurrying about hatless; wearing bright yellow waistcoats over their jackets. More flashing lights. And behind all of this; an immense string of stationary vehicles with no-where to go.

It looked like a sad day for some-one.

The traffic on my side of the motorway started moving again.

Here it was. My turn-off for the M5. And time for another fuel stop. I had a hot drink in my thermos, and thought it time to have some.

I pulled Ruby into the car park and switched off the engine. Side-stand down and I leaned her over to take a rest. She ticked and pinged as the exhaust cooled, and I stiffly climbed from the saddle; removing my gloves and helmet. The sun had hidden behind grey clouds, and the air was noticeably cooler. A well dressed businessman walked past and gave me a slight smile and barely perceptible nod as he headed to his car. Respect for my being a biker? Jealousy that I was the image of the free spirit of travel? Pity because of my frozen appearance? Was he a biker in his free time too? I did not know; I could only smile back and guess.

I shuffled over to a wooden picnic bench and sat, stretching my legs ahead of me. With numb fingers I pulled my tobacco pouch from my pocket and did my best to make a cigarette. Having lit it I poured myself a coffee and sat watching fellow travellers make their way between their cars and the service area; wondering where everyone was going, and what their motives were for going there. With my drink taken, it was time to give Ruby liquid too.

The M5 went on forever. By the time I reached the signs proclaiming the Cheddar Gorge was none too distant, a vicious cross-wind had made the motorway its home. I was down to 45–50 mph to maintain control of Ruby as together we fought the gusts which slammed into us from the right like hammer blows; at times almost pushing us from the road.

A beautiful and elderly green coach hummed its genteel way past me in the outside lane, and ahead of me I saw yet another road sign which proclaimed that a short distance ahead was a service area. I was getting cramp in my left hand, and thought I could use another break. Possibly food too.

The M5 came to an end and the sun welcomed me to Exeter. The hateful crosswind had thankfully vanished, and I pushed my way along the A38, curving below Dartmoor and on into Plymouth.

The hillside ahead opened its mouth and swallowed me into the Saltash Tunnel. Ruby sang a sweet and lusty song which echoed back from the curved walls, which was joined by an in-line four as a sports bike passed on my right. Her rider waved and slammed open her throttle and they launched themselves forward. Is it wrong to feel excited by the sound of motorcycle engines? I don’t know; but I do know that I wish we had a tunnel in Norfolk.

I turned from the A38 near Dobwalls, and made my way along the small winding roads. The signs ahead counted down to my penultimate destination; the Cornish village of Fowey. I was by now glad to see I was nearly there, and my backside was pleased too. I had taken to standing on the foot-pegs whilst negotiating the last of the B-roads to ease my discomfort, and before long pulled into the queue for the Bodinnick ferry just as they were waving vehicles on. Perfect timing.

Down the wet concrete ramp we went and onto the deck. That will be a Pound seventy please. There you are. Thank you- ride safe. A tortured groan as the boat’s ramp was lifted, and we were away over the river. There was another tortured groan as the ramp in front was lowered, and off we jolly well went. Up the wet concrete incline, a hairpin left, and on up the hill for a mile. Then on the left; the campsite. Ruby and I had arrived. The sun was blazing, it was a quarter past five in the evening, and all I had to do was put up my tent.

By half past seven I was back in Bodinnick, gratefully drinking a pint of Sharp’s Own in the Old Ferry Inn with a plate of ham, egg and chips on the table in front of me. The day was ending perfectly, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Wednesday.

I was cold, a bit stiff but tremendously happy when I woke. My watch told me it was 6.20 am, and my bladder was shouting at me.

Within 10 minutes I was making a brew using my mini gas stove on the grass in front of my soaking tent. It had been a damp and chilly night, and the mist had settled everywhere it could.

Shower. Another cuppa. Listen to my little radio for half an hour whilst I organised a few bits and pieces for the day; stuffing them into my tank bag. I was in no hurry.

At ten o’clock I fired up Ruby, and we headed for the ferry again. The mist had gone and the sun was blazing as we explored the B-roads around Fowey for an hour or so. Then it was down the road to St Austell, and up the A391 and A30 to Boscastle via Bodmin. The countryside reminded me of Donegal in Ireland where I had lived for several years; but the roads were much nicer. Ruby was in her element. Gentle hills, steep hills. Gentle curves and sharp bends. Ruby seemed to enjoy herself as much as I did. A happy bike is hard to beat.

The lane down into Boscastle is beautiful. Tight hairpins as the road drops down into the valley with the little river glittering and dancing along at the bottom under pretty little bridges. A far cry from the river it was a few years ago when it was an angry raging torrent which threatened to rip the town out by the roots and throw it into the sea.

I parked Ruby in the sunshine at the upper end of the town and strolled down towards the harbour. By now my stomach was rumbling and the word “Brunch” had casually levered its merry way into my thoughts.

It was a small cafe, but the full fried breakfast was perfect.

The casual wander along the river to the harbour was beautiful. The sun glinted of the river surface, and I could hear the lazy chugging of a diesel engine as a small fishing boat rounded the end of the stone harbour wall; pushing aside the lush turquoise water as it made its way towards a mooring point next to a larger vessel. There was the happy laughter of children mixed in with the raucous screeching of the coastal Gulls, and I felt myself lucky to have had the opportunity to visit such a wonderful place. After several minutes of sitting on the harbour wall in the sunshine, I took a slow walk back to Ruby and we set off up the hill to find the coast road west.

The road towards Padstow from Boscastle is another of Cornwall’s delights; passing as it does through the tourist hotspot of Tintagel; supposed home to King Arthur. More gentle hills and sedate bends; not the type of road I would wish to travel on my sports bike, but for me that day; just perfect for a rally-tourer like Ruby. Down past Padstow the air became cooler, and the sky hinted at the possibility of rain.

The long hill back down to St Austell made Ruby burble and pop as I slowed for the multitude of roundabouts that lead from the rugged and windswept moorland down to the south coast and the English Channel. I don’t think I had stopped smiling since the previous night in the Old Ferry Inn.

It wasn’t long before I was back on the campsite, heating sausages and beans from a tin which I had laced with curry powder. The sun was shining again, and I could feel its gentle heat on my back. Tonight I would take a walk back to the pub and read my Book; “Sons of Thunder”, a motorcycling anthology. I was really in the mood for a bit of a read in the warm with a Southern Comfort or two.

Thursday.

I woke at seven in need of a cigarette. I had barely managed to light it, when the retired and very polite gentleman from the caravan next to my tent called out a tentative “Halloo”. He then appeared with a smile and a hot cup of sweet tea and a couple of biscuits.

“I thought you might like this.” He said, handing me the steaming mug. “It was damned cold last night; we came close to a frost I think. The Caravan was freezing, so you must have been chilled to the bone in that tent.”

The truth was; he was right. I gratefully took the mug and he asked of my day’s plans. I told him my first notion was a hot shower in the ablutions block to warm up, then I wanted to head off to visit the Eden Project.

“When you are finished in the shower, pop into the caravan.” He said. “Might as well get warm and have a coffee too.”

What a lovely, thoughtful fellow; and as I soon found out, his wife was lovely too.

We chatted for about three quarters of an hour, and then I bade them farewell, for it transpired they were heading off further down the county in an hour or so; by which time Ruby and I would be several miles away.

The Eden Project is a place well worth seeing. Built as it is in an old chalk pit, their ethos runs along the lines of showing how good can come of man-made desolation. They have certainly proved their point, and proved it well.

As I rode into the car park, over to my left I could see two great silver domes constructed from hexagonal panels set nestled in what once was a large clay quarry. The left of the two bio-domes contains a rain forest, and the right houses a miniature piece of the Mediterranean.

Once through the reception area, a walk down hill took me through a great spring garden to the domes.

Something that may be self-evident, is the fact that Cornwall in April is; climatically speaking, a world away from the rain forests below the equator. When wearing two t-shirts, two fleeces, a touring jacket, armoured trousers and boots, this becomes very apparent. Within moments of entering the jungle I was sweating like…..something really sweaty.

I suffered the heat and humidity for an hour, and made my way outside. I admit i was not feeling the most relaxed at this point, but it was well worth it.

A view of the huge leaves, thriving plants and alien flowers left me feeling somehow at home. Next time I visit, it will be in shorts and a t-shirt.

Because I was so hot, I was forced to purchase a caramel ice cream; purely for the sake of my health you understand. Twenty minutes later I entered the other dome. I instantly felt wowed by the statues of the Roman festival goers with their drums and trumpets paying homage to the Gods of the vinyards.

I wandered round slowly; this dome being cooler and drier than the first, looking at the hardy plants and delicate flowers. A place like the Eden Project really does show some of nature’s beauty in the world. It is many years since I have visited the Mediterranean, but now I have determined that I must go back again soon.

Before I knew it the day was gone, and I took a slow and gentle ride back to the campsite to make something to eat. That evening I walked back to the Old Ferry Inn with my book. The landlord told me I had chosen a good week to visit- for as of the weekend the county would be packed with Easter tourists.

Friday.

I woke at 7am, damp and cold again. My shoulders were stiff as a board, and I was desperate for coffee. I slid out of my sleeping bag, started boiling water and did a few decrepid stretches; all sorts of clicking and grinding noises were going on, and I realised that my days of sleeping comfortably and without effect on a thin piece of sponge were probably over. Next trip I should really allocate some packing space for an air mattress. And invest in a better sleeping bag.

Suddenly the mist dissipated, and the sun burst out. The temperature rose quite quickly as I packed my camera in my tank bag, and I headed off to investigate the local lanes.

It was not just me out and about in the beautiful warm sunshine, as the dink dink noises on my crash helmet were to prove. It was Cornish insect day. I pulled down my visor before I did that thing which every motorcyclist has found themselves doing at one point; and that is realising you are absently-mindedly chewing on something that you weren’t chewing on a mile or two before.

The walkers were out in force too, but happily the traffic was virtually non-existant. I rode slowly down a wonderful leafy lane, trying to stay near the coastline to the east of Bodinnick, and before long I was riding up a gentle hill and the trees were left behind me. Open moorland and fields, and wonderful rocky coastline far below me. After a couple of miles there were houses ahead and the road ahead dropped away sharply. I had entered Polruan, with its incredibly steep road downhill and magnificent view across the meeting place of the English Channel and the Fowey River.

Riding back the way I had come, I stopped for a few minutes to admire the view across Lantic Bay, and then turned right at the first opportunity. Following the dusty lane I found myself in yet another beautiful village; Polperro. Nestled in a coastal gorge, the village exudes a relaxed atmosphere as the odd tourist wanders about. I rode slowly through the narrow central street, turning right and back up the steep side of the valley. Back on down the dusty lanes.

Heading east again, I caught up with the A387 into Looe; grinning madly with the happiness of finding yet another wonderful A road. Sweeping curves, a good surface, little traffic and sunshine. Who could ask for more? I had the feeling that Ruby was grinning madly too; the pair of us seemed as happy as man and machine could be.

I crossed the bridge and followed the road to the left, heading north along the valley beside the East Looe River. What a wonderful road. Up to sixty miles an hour and more grin-inducing sweeps and bends. My stomach rumbled, and I was reminded that I had eaten nothing, so I headed back to Polruan campsite to make some lunch, passing through Lostwithiel as I rode along the A390. I spotted a signpost to Restormel Castle along the way, and decided that this would be the afternoon’s destination.

By 1pm I was back on the road heading northward towards the castle. Into Lotwithiel, and up the beautiful tree-lined Restormel Road; gently ascending the hill with the River Fowey below me and to my right. A brown signpost directed me to turn left, up another sun-dappled lane to a gravelled car park. I switched off Ruby; leaving her pointed uphill on her side-stand and in gear to prevent her from slipping backwards. Next, I locked my helmet and gloves in the top box and grabbed my camera.

I paid my entrance fee, and walked across the grass of the Bailey to the crumbling Gatehouse ahead. The place was stunning. To my right the landscape fell away to give a wonderful view of woodland and lush green fields, whilst the light breeze rustled through the trees. Other than three other people wandering around with two happy and playful little boys who were medieval Knights in their own minds; the place was deserted.

Restormel Castle is a circular castle, built on a natural vantage point above the surrounding countryside. Now protected by English Heritage, the ruins hint very well at their former magnificence. A large proportion of the walls are still standing, and the layout of the castle is easy to understand thanks to well illustrated information points placed strategically around the site.

I wandered round the ruins for some time, occasionally taking photographs and picturing in my mind how the fortress would have been in its hayday. The medieval period of British history has fascinated me since I was a child; and I am lucky enough to come from a city with a rich medieval history itself.

After a while I realised I was all alone, and selected a nice area of grass in the sunshine to lay down and take in my surroundings. The daisies were out, attracting the drone of random Bumble Bees, and after a short while I found myself watching a pair of hawks, gracefully wheeling and soaring in the sky high above the trees. Half an hour later I woke up; feeling much refreshed. I decided to head back to the campsite; I wanted to be away in good time the following morning, and thought it prudent to make a start on packing the bike with all my non-essentials in readiness for my journey back to Norwich.

I finished reading my book that night in the Inn.

Saturday.

I got up at a quarter to seven, and again the morning was cold. I decided that a shower would do me no good, and after a cup of coffee I made do with brushing my teeth and hair; pulling on my bike clothing in the warmth of the ablutions block. If I was dirty- I couldn’t have cared less, for I had a long journey ahead and a nice hot bath at home to look forward to. By 8am I was fully packed and ready to go. I set my Sat-Nav destination for “Home” without any idea which route it would take me.

The sun was shining again, and it promised to be another lovely day. Within ten miles however, I realised that the sun had lied magnificently, and had run away to hide behind dark grey and forboding clouds. By the time I reached Launceston on the A30 I was getting quite cold, and my shoulders were already aching from being hunched against an incessant wind.

Exeter approached slowly, and as I rode round the northward boundary of Dartmoor I started shivering. Up ahead I spotted a service area, and thought it would be a good time to warm up and have breakfast. I parked up, unclipped my tank bag containing my valuables and spent an hour warming up with hot coffee and a fried breakfast.

My stomach churned when I returned to Ruby, and found I had left the keys in the ignition. This could have been disastrous! Luckily I had got away with my mistake, and mentally kicked myself for being an idiot.

In no time I was back on the road being battered by the cold wind, but felt much better about it with food inside me.

The A30 seemed to go on forever, and my heart sank as my Sat-Nav directed me onto the M5. I am not a fan of motorways when on a motorcycle. Once on the M5 I was cheered by the news that I was to turn off again in just a couple of miles; back onto the A30, and shortly afterwards I turned off again onto the A303.

The road was wonderful; despite the fact that traffic was building up. It was not a problem though, as everyone was moving along at a fair pace. As I headed towards London, I entered Wiltshire and the sun elbowed the clouds away. The wind died away, and the temperature rose. Wiltshire said hello to me with a smile, and boasted of its beauty.

The traffic slowed dramatically as Ruby and I passed Stonehenge, and I could see that the drivers of cars coming in the opposite direction were slowing to gawp at the ancient stone circle. One out of sight, the traffic sped up again, and the road took me nearer to home at a more pleasurable rate.

After a fuel stop, I found myself on the M3, and shortly afterwards the M25 going clockwise. Within a few miles I saw a battered red car on my left pushing into my lane. Quickly checking my mirror and over my shoulder a saw fast moving traffic to my right, and seeing I had nowhere to go I hit the horn with a long blast. The driver looked up at me with an angry look on his face, and gesticulated madly for me to get out of his way. I gestured back; “get stuffed- I have right of way”….or something to that effect, and I could see he was swearing at me. Arrogant idiot. He slid back into his own lane and went to undertake me, but this had all been seen by a fellow biker who came down my outside, pulled across my front and into the lane in front of the red car.

Together slowed to 50 miles per hour, infuriating the car driver but hopefully teaching him not to assume he was the most important thing on the road, and then with a wave the other biker accelerated away. I followed at a lesser rate; leaving the outraged driver trapped by overtaking lorries. Perhaps he will pay more attention to other road users in future, before he kills someone.

The M25 was packed, but moving well, and my Sat-Nav directed my northward onto the A1(M). No sooner was I on it, and the traffic ground to a halt. Nothing was coming the other way. Not a good sign. Thankfully everyone had left a good gap between the lanes of stationary vehicles, and I followed a beautiful red Ducati and a white Suzuki up the middle.

To my right the A1(M) ducked through an underpass, and emergency vehicles sat with red and blue lights flashing. I slowly carried on my way, as the odd police car sped up and down the empty carriageway to my right. My turnoff was up ahead; the A505 past Royston and Baldock. The sun hid again.

I reached the A11 an hour south of Norwich, and stopped for another coffee. Ten minutes later I started up Ruby, and the sun out to say hello again. Last push for home.

I entered a blossom laden Norwich with my fuel gauge flashing a warning, and ten minutes later I was home. Stiff, tired, smiling, and thinking I had just had a wonderful five days. I will go to Cornwall again; no doubt about it. I will take Ruby too, but next time I think stopovers in Salisbury would be a good idea. It is a long haul on a bike in one day, but the Honda Transalp coped admirably. Now I should take my CBR600 out for a trip round Norfolk……….

Easter 2014

)
Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade