An average nights sleep because I was sticky from the days ride before because I forgot to have a wash. I drift in and out of sleep as dawn breaks and decide as my camp has already been found out, I'm not going to bother scarpering too early. I pack up at a leisurely pace and encounter a few more dog walkers out exercising with the dawn chorus. Eventually I leave the comfort of the tent and attend to my abloutions using the "trowley" method. Had I got up a minute later I would of been caught mid-trowel , as it is I try to put my intruder off his guard by asking him where I am and directions to Knutsford. I'm sure he knows my game but neither of us acknowledge the deed. The trowley involves digging a hole with a trowel, depositing in said hole and filling in the hole. All non man-made waste is burned or disposed of in the next bin. Rememeber kids. LEAVE NO TRACE. Being caught mid-trowel no matter how embarassing for either party is when all said and done a natural exercise and can not be avoided. What happened next however was quite a different story.
As I am no hardened cyclist I have given myself all the help I can get to survive many hours and days in the saddle. Much of it is probaly pyschological but either way I hope it helps. One of these aids is Udder Creme. Spread this liberally on you nether regions and parts that chafe and its antiseptic healing properties keep you clean and lubed!!! So imagine lady dog walkers horror as she comes round the corner looking for Chalky and I'm in mid lube. Yet again lady luck is smiling on us both and that extra minute and Chalky being well ahead of her mean the Police do not need to be called out to a pervert on the canal.
Breakfasted up on oats and banana and powdered milk, I head off to my next point of call, I arrive in Knutsford about 11am. Perfect time for a coffee as the museum is really a coffe house with the penny farthings exhibited all over the place. Unfortunately Mr Stockdale wasn't there to meet me, I had written to him about a month ago but never received a reply. He is the owner of the bicycle collection and current member of the Anfield Bicycle Club. His grandfather John Stockdale was the founder of Liverpool Football Club and second president of the ABC and probably rode out with Stevens from Liverpool to Warrington. The owner of the coffee shop said he had been ill. Never mind a lovely place to have a coffee and chatted loads to various people when they heard why i was there. Two brothers over from Ireland with their chattels as they described thier lovely wives offered me shelter if I was in Dublin but alas Mr Stevens did not travel there in this episode. I also met two fascinating ladies Regina and Cynthia, the latter had gone down to Southern Spain on a BSA Lightning (may be wrong) with a group of five in 1950 i think it was. She informed me how when reaching villages in Spain it was not acceptable for a woman to be seen wearing trousers so just before they entered a village the girls would hop off and get changed whilst the men would hold up their macintoshes to shield their deceny. Two cups of strong coffee and many tales of velodromes and steep hills from various other people later and it's almost 1 o'clock. I pack up and head South towards Stone in Staffordshire.
It's an ok day for cycling hot enough , a bit humid but dry. A few miles later I ask directions to Holmes Chapel to be told I'm in it. The miles seem to be flying buy at the mo. Lots of road cyclists out this way. About a 50/50 response from them as they pass the other way deep in concentration leaning on their aero bars and flying along about four times the speed that I'm going. I raid the local co-op for bargain near to out of date reduced food and together with yesterdays haul have enough to easily last me home and a few more days beside. Off i go ever Southwards and try to aim for somewhere near Stoke for lunch. A few miles shy of Stoke I find a nice spot and look forward to tucking into my Cheese and bacon panini that i got from the co-op for 15p. I delve delightedly into my carrier bag of goodies only to find that it needs to be microwaved. Epic fail! No probs, learning to adapt is what it's all about I keep telling myself as I pull up at a set of traffic lights. I look to the left and a I see a big pub. In I go ready for ridicule and decree “this is probably the cheekiest thing you've heard this week, but could you heat up my Panini in your microwave?” I explain my quest and he is more than happy to oblige. He even fills up my water bottle. Many thanks to the top men of The Caldwell Arms near Stoke-on-Trent.
I only manage to get another five miles or so up and down the steepest hills I've encountered so far and mainly in bottom gear. As I come out of Stoke I see a fast food restaurant that might have some wifi I can use for free so I stop in for a "natural break" and explain to the Manager about my quest and before I know it some food and a drink have arrived free of charge and I get to use the wifi too. I'm over whelmed at the man's generosity and leave absolutely stuffed. He asked me not to mention who it was just in case he gets inundated with similar requests. I've I should be so lucky to receive any such other offers I'll make sure to check if they want the publicity or not. This feast gives me plenty of energy to push on to Stone, the next place mentioned in the book. The weather is lovely and although a few more slopes are encountered I roll into Stone before to long. I stop to take a photo of an Outdoor Pursuits shop and notice the pub next door. I pop in here for a water refill and take some photos of photos of Stone at about the Period Thomas would of passed through. I then track down the oldest Hotel and asked at reception if they know of him? They don't but show me a photocopy of a brochure from near that time, all very interesting and more photos are taken. Outside of the Hotel I get talking to a fellow cyclist and explain I'm camping. He points me in the direction of the old road to Birmingham and takes the time to tell me where some remote spots are for camping. When I get there they coincide with where I thought would be a good place when I looked at the map earlier in the day. I stop off at the Hollybush Pub in Salt, and get a water refill and can't help but notice they have a beer called Peleton . This is the word used for main group of cyclists in a race. I only have 40p of my days money left and ask if I can have 40p worth. I'm given a free taster instead. This is too much, the whistle has been whetted and my £1 a day rule will have to change to take into account bicyle/penny farthing/elephant new beers I may come across. I think you'll agree this is best for the cyclist in question not just for his sanity but also for his tastebuds. I leave the pub as the darkness starts to descend and yet again the canal is my campsite. I find a lovely spot at least 300m from any boats and snuggle down for the night in Anglers pitch No 17.
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