Silloth to Carlisle – 36 miles, luckily very flat, miles

Health not great after yesterday’s strike of the rhinovirus, but set out with the avowed intention of going very slowly, which I accomplished. And of walking up the slopes. Ditto.

The first historical highlight of the day was the neat and attractive St John’s Church Newton Arlosh (“New Town on the Marsh”), an old pele-tower (pronounced peel, I learnt from the friendly vicar) church built as a fortress and watchtower in the 14th century, with enormously thick walls (31 inches at the door, so the guide says). The internal staircase is narrow and steep, so even if the door was forced, the upper floors could still be defended.

It was a monastery church, and fell into ruin after the Reformation, but it seems an amateur sculptor from the local gentry, Miss Sara Losh, who ran a school of carving at nearby Wreay, was responsible for its restoration. The rams are probably hers.

Around the Solway peninsula, you disappear into another, very quiet world. Road hazards, as left, were mostly of varying animal origins, like this very bossy bantam cockrel rounding up his harem. (The cows had also definitely left their marks.) Overshadowing it all is an enormous radio array dating back to WWII. Presumably these are still military, although there’s little sign of security. The gun emplacements around the peninsula have been converted into cowsheds and haybarns (a nice variation on the old ploughshares…)
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Whitehaven to Silloth: theoretically 28 miles…

That was the theory. Unfortunately, I woke about 2am with a raging sore throat, and by morning had a nasty cold. I entirely blame Richard Branson. I’d been thinking on the Virgin train that it seemed airless and dry, in a very airplane-ish way, and several people around me were sniffling…

I considered giving up, which would probably have been the sensible thing to do, but … also seemed a bit lame. Then the organiser of the trip, who was coming anyway to pick up my bags, offered to take me on to Silloth, so I collapsed into his mother’s Nissan Micra, bike stuffed in the back, and tried to pretend it was a Roman legion’s pack mule and I was an ill soldier offered a ride for a day to recover…
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20-plus miles, Ravenglass to Whitehaven

The day begins with a detour, to Muncaster church, mostly to check out a “Viking Cross”, which doesn’t look as good as the drawings in the guidebook, although it is curiously arranged – lined up in the churchyard apparently with all of the 18th and 19th century graves – presumably not its original position. In the church is a broken bell – rather roughly cast, with lots of air bubbles, but then it was made about 1470 to commemorate Henry VI’s stay at Muncaster after the battle of Hexeth.

On the wall are many plaques to the local lords of the manor, here since the 14th century, eg. “In memory of Will Pnyngton Arm: whose first wife was Joan Wharton, daughter of Thomas Lord Wharton, the second wife was Dame Bridgett Askew, daughter of Sir John Hudlleston by whom he had three sons… William Pnyngton and all his tried horsemen were called upon in service at the borders 1543.”

The local ladies cleaning the church – doing community duty but curiously uninformed about its history – were cheeringly impressed by what I was doing – well I may have played it up a little… “It’s only about 160 miles,” (airy wave of the hand), “no big deal…”

Then it was back to the official start of the ride, the Roman bath-house for the obligatory mugging at the camera start of the ride picture…
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