Post: This day is the sequel to yesterday and gets him back to Bolton from North Wales and gets us into the penultimate journal entry for 1925, as he has an accident at work next week ! So please read on, but things will change next year, there will be items aplenty to read, but they will not be in the current format.
Sunday, November 1 Over the Denbigh Moors
As I awoke this morning, I looked through the bedroom window and beheld the Cyfyng falls and the autumn tinted moors and rocks and heard the wind howling above and saw the grey mists rise from the hill tops. It was but 7am when I went outside for a ten minute stroll before breakfast, when I am on tour I always like a walk early in the morning, it seems to put an edge on my appetite. Then a good breakfast, a rest, and paying my bill I enquired over the possibility of housing four of us over the New Year holiday. We should be very welcome, I was told in broken English, and we should have the best of everything at six shillings a day (each) inclusive – and there would be a roaring fire waiting for us after we had been out, and a little parlour for ourselves. That’s the stuff!
So, changing my wheel round to ‘free’ again, I made a start at 8.30am, crossing the Pont Cyfyng and running easily down the Llugwy Valley, which was gorgeously arrayed in gold and brown. Passing the Swallow Falls (which I heard quite plainly from the road) I stopped again at the Miners Bridge and soon stood on the wooden footway, watching the seething flood beneath. There is something almost terrorising in the raging cauldron beneath – something which could easily become an irresistible magnet to anyone suffering from ‘nerves’. A squirrel came running along the bridge almost to my feet, I watched it for fully half a minute, then it looked up, saw me, and in the twinkling of an eye, had gone.
I proceeded down to Bettws-y-coed, passed through the barely awakened village, crossing the beautiful River Conwy by the Waterloo Bridge, and starting the climb up Dinas Hill. Now was a wonderland indeed! The trees overshadowing the road where richly tinted, the slabs of rock, creeper clad, interwoven with moss and roots, were the bed for a brown carpet except where they broke into precipices, then they were a white-grey, newly washed. Higher up, I saw the Lledr Valley opening out on my right, with the grey road creeping down it, a road that I shall never forget, for last night it held untold wonders for me. Ah, the woods and rocks and streams around, the golden valley towards Dolwyddelan and its silvery river, Moel Siabod’s crescent of grey-white cliffs forming a seeming impasse, the Vale of Conwy with beautiful Bettws, hidden by riotous foliage, nestling at the foot of a hill of gold and brown, green and grey. Magnificent, Magnificent! As one stands and gazes at a scene like this, one finds creeping over that ‘Peace that passeth all understanding’.
I climbed onwards, intoxicated by the paradise around me; I left one wonder to be confronted by another. The Conwy was beside me now, young, vivacious, the while the road climbed through woods clad in autumn splendour. A wind sprang up, and as I gradually dropped the trees behind, it became more and more formidable until I reached the open moors at Pentrefoelas, where I had to get down to it, and almost stamp the pedals round. Then I turned off the Holyhead road – The Road of High Romance, and found myself on a deteriorating, narrow road climbing into the bleak moors. The wind was now dead behind – I could feel it pushing me, and by its aid I made childs play with the long drags that followed, walking only one to the 1,480 ft level. The scenery was wild in the extreme, bare, heaving moors for miles upon miles around. Near the latter point, the views started to open out, until from the summit, a magnificent mountain panorama was opened out to me. The great saw-edge of rocky peaks from Bangor to Beddgelert, from Ffestiniog to Barmouth were visible. They started with the ridge of Cader Idris to the south, and swinging round through the west to the northwest, all the principal peaks of North Wales could be seen. It was a sight worth seeing, and I counted myself extremely fortunate in having such a day for views for my run over the moors.
With little Llyn Alwen on the left, I tumbled down fiercely 280 ft to the River Alwen which runs into the lengthy Alwen reservoir, visible on the right. At Bryn Pellof, the road lurched upwards, at a gradient too much for me, and the road became a white, sticky, churned up mass of ruts. In front, on the hill summit, stood a big mansion, which I thought was the Sportsman’s Arms Hotel, the summit of the road at 1,523 ft, but as I climbed up to it, I found it was a private house, and the Sportsman’s Arms a little Inn similar to the Crown Hotel at Llandegla and almost a counterpart of the Snake Inn near Ashopton [long since lost under the waters of the Ladybower reservoir when the valley was flooded in the 1930’s] in Derbyshire. Then the road became an even, tarmac-surfaced first class road, and I swept down, past where Llyn Bran, coming up to the road, sent big waves across it. Wild Mynydd Hiraethog was behind me, I dropped down to more wooded, but not striking country, through Bylchau, and with the brake continually in play to Groes. The scenery now was passing pretty, and full of little hills, giving glimpses of the Vale of Clwyd and its line of guardian hills. Then I dropped down to Denbigh, with its castle-crowned and narrow, twisty streets. I had thought of lunch here, but discovered that it was only 11.10am, so I joined the Chester road, and dropped into the Vale of Clwyd. The going was exceptionally fast, so that soon I was across the beautiful valley and entering the ‘pass’ from Bodfan.
I was beginning to get hungry, but there was not a place that seemed likely to satisfy my wants. Again the scenery was good, but the road was dead straight and motorised, so therefore monotonous. Moreover, the wind, which had pushed me from Pentrefoelas, turned – traitor now and harassed me considerably. Mile after mile dropped behind, until, eight miles beyond Denbigh, near Nannerch, I saw a ‘Teas’ board outside a farmhouse, and stopped there for lunch. It was a bit of a wash-out for a cyclists place – they don’t appreciate the appetite that cycling creates, and I had to continually ask for more bread and butter and tea. Before restarting, I decided to quit the main road, for I was but 60 miles from home and had about 9 hours to do it in. I followed a steep byway to Walwen on Halkin Mountain, I got lost then, and could not locate my bearings by means of the map so I just carried on, on lanes that only just earned the definition.
Once I climbed up a rare little pass to the summit of Herseeld, and got some excellent views therefrom of the Clwydian district and the edge of Cheshire from Mold to the hills about Nant-y-Frith. Then the scenery ‘gave out’ for a while and I wandered about scattered villages, brickworks, tips etc, sweeping down at length from Rhosesmor into a pretty little lane that dropped me on to the Mold road again, one and a half miles from the latter place.
The Sunday crowds in Mold stared at the bike; yesterdays rain and wet sticky roads made it look as if it had been daubed all over with lime, and my shoes were in a similar condition. I did not care to re-traverse the Chester road again, it has become too familiar, so I followed the Queensferry road through rather dismal scenery and with a hampering cross wind, via Bryn Offa (I wonder if the name has any connection with Offa’s Dyke?) and Ewloe to Queensferry, then across the toll bridge, which, I think is rather dear at 2d a time, on to the Wirral. I see a new bridge is under construction to take place of the old road – and will be free of toll. Then a hardy struggle along the flats to Saughall, and to do a bit of main road dodging, I followed a tricky bylane route out through Mollington, Backford, and Picton Gorse to Mickle Trafford. I stopped for tea at Mrs Dennison’s, though it was yet only 4pm, but I was hungry, for I had had an unsatisfactory dinner.
It was raining heavily and blowing a hurricane – and dark too, when I left the warm fireside and donned my cape and lit my lamp. Progress was erratic, for the breeze, generally favourable, had a trick of coming round the side and under the cape, accompanied by what seemed a solid sheet of cold water, which always poured into my shoes. Yet I thoroughly enjoyed the ride, for experience has brought that ‘gift’ of revelling in rain and laughing if the odds are all against one. Often a ride of this type provides far more ‘fun’ than a month of summery excursions would, and makes one become more and more attached to this greatest game of all.
Except for a halt for a lamp wick at Frodsham, I remained in the saddle all along Chester road. I had at first thought of coming home via Lowton and the Leigh setts, for the wind would be at its fiercest across Chat Moss, but on second thoughts I said “to —- with the wind”, (Chat Moss has tarmac roads). To my surprise, when I left grey Warrington behind, I found the wind dead behind, and I fairly swept along the dreary marshy flats. Then Glazebury, Butts Bridge and dark, watery lanes to Atherton and home at 8pm. Had I been better able to judge the time, I should have found room for a couple of hours longer in Wales.
Of one thing I am convinced. Weekending is far better than single day riding, whether alone or otherwise. Whether it is the thoughts or not of having to return home at night, or the glamorous questions “Where shall we stay tonight?”, what kind of place will it be, cottage or Inn, in a village or town, or alone in a lonely county? Or the joy of exploring new country, seeing new wonders, and meeting fresh people. I don’t know, but there is something in weekending that is not found in an ordinary ‘out and home’ ride, something that verges on touring – the best phase of cycling.
This weekend has been better than I ever dared to hope for. For ‘ten bob’ I have traversed 230 miles, everyone of which I enjoyed. I have never lifted my finger in repair of my bicycle – it cost me 1d for a new lamp wick – so that is cheap, easy, comfortable travel indeed! All of which goes to illustrate what anyone with a good, light bicycle can do without fatigue, something which is within the reach of poor and rich alike – the most democratic and finest game in existence. 107 miles
Editors Note
Sadly, due to a further accident at the foundry where Charlie worked, apart from one further entry on the 13th of December, his cycling travels are over for this year of 1925. He did go to Wales for the New Year Tour, but as it did not commence until January 1, 1926, it cannot be listed under 1925 !
Charlie changed his format in 1926, not logging his travels in the way he has since starting his journals in 1921 at the age of sixteen and a half. Since the end of 1925, all his writings are literally just writings, without being a weekly, or month by month account.
The stories he wrote so faithfully, gradually became less and less in the 1930’s, not because he wasn’t cycling, his literary life just slowed down to almost nothing, but he did keep on drawing, we know, because they were all dated.
He did keep his love of cycling throughout his life, to the extent that upon his marriage to Margaret Barron, another mad keen cyclist, their honeymoon was a cycle camping trip to Scotland for two weeks starting on July 25, 1936. For obvious reasons, perhaps, no written record was kept of that tour.
He did keep a very detailed resume of all his travels, set down without any description, so we have always been able to trace his travels from 1921 to 1947. Beyond 1947, he didn’t keep any records, or if he did, they have not survived. Please note that there are still two items to come, published here on the 21st and 26th of November.
Dear Reader, do not despair. I shall be continuing with Charlie’s stories, there are plenty that didn’t make it into his four Volumes of Books, and those shorter and discarded items will all be published on this website starting in late November 2017.
But first your website Editor is taking a well earned summer break and the website will run itself over the summer until I get back into harness in the Autumn of 2017. Happy Cycling.
