Cycle camping holidays are not all about ‘the cycling’, or ‘the camping’… they are first and foremost: a holiday. It doesn’t have to be hard. In August 2024 I took two weeks and a fully loaded bicycle down to the West Country of England, with nothing more than a vague plan book-ended by train tickets.
I love the combination of trains and bicycles, it feels like a match made in heaven. Trains cover the long miles swiftly, and bicycles help you to explore the delightful bits easily. Like a hyperspace jump, I caught a train from Slaithwaite to Manchester, and onward to Bristol. In one morning I had swapped the South Pennines for the Mendip Hills, stepping out into the warmth of the west country climate.
Riding a fully loaded tourer is a statement: I’m out for a long time – not a fast time. Others watch you from the corner of their eyes, wistfully wishing they were in your place. Your presence whispers, ‘holiday’ into their lives. Being a solo holiday-maker removes the pressure to meet the unvoiced expectations of travel partners, and replaces it with the opportunity to pause-where-you-please. In Bristol, in the afternoon sunshine, I rolled effortlessly along cycle paths beside the docks, marina, and lock gates and admired the urban graffiti on the walls and buildings beside the canal. As I left the city through Long Ashton on quiet B-roads I met a commuter on his way home, he talked about his cycle camping plans for the late summer I began to envy him… and then remembered, “I’m on holiday!”
My first night was at a small campsite, but with the threat of a storm rolling in the owner suggested I use (free of charge) one of the huge bell-shaped tents he had permanently pitched on site for glampers. My bike dropped its camping luggage throughout this vast tent. Food and beer later, I sat outside beside a firepit as the storm clouds gathered over the Severn estuary.
Rising with the light of the dawn, I said morning prayer, and headed out for somewhere the other side of the Quantock Hills. Plenty of flat land lay between the Mendips and the Quantocks, so I playfully rode up and down Cheddar Gorge for fun – and at a time early enough to be traffic free in both directions. Once my hill climbing demons had been satisfied, I headed out into the levels of Somerset, and with a slight tailwind breezed along to Bridgewater for lunch. I love the way children on bicycles shout out, “do a wheelie”, so I challenge them back and laugh as I watch kids wheelie through town center queuing traffic, shouting encouragement to each other. They epitomize a carefree attitude, and long may it continue.
The contours of the Quantocks look like the ripples on an Oyster shell, back and forth they describe steep climbs and hidden valleys, all through the shade of woodland. I dripped with sweat as I levered myself, luggage and all, up into midst of them and found that I was retracing a road I’d used 20 years ago to ride from Lands End to John o’Groats. The edge of the hills was steep enough to test my braking skills as I felt like I dropped into Seven Ash and found a modern looking campsite to call home for the night.
That afternoon my not-so-trusty tent failed. The fibre glass rods snapped leaving me with a puddle of nylon on the floor. Thankfully there was a camping shop a mere 10 mile time-trial away in Taunton. Unencumbered by baggage, I powered there and back along the A358, and celebrated with a beer as I pitched my brand new Vango Nova 200 tent.
Cycle camping requires decisions. One of the earliest happens before you leave home, its the “what to bring” decision. These choices made at home impact the holiday experience, and finding a balance between packing for comfort without being heavy-laden is like a quest for the holy grail: you’ll never find it, but you may discover much about yourself along the way. I had packed everything I need for freshly brewed coffee, so I enjoyed a breakfast of pastry with a rich dark mug-full of Darkwoods.
I wanted to cycle to Bude and see the sea, but I knew it was too much to make it there in one day. I have found that the ‘cycle.travel’ website suggests optimal cycle routes and identifies places to stay, and a quick search of the campsites 75km away gave me my travel goal. I was aiming for a vineyard with campsite that offered wine tasting throughout the summer.
Somerset had been easy, and Devon felt easy at first: the roads were smooth and I’m sure I had more downhill than up. That was, until I found myself in the tiny country lanes near Dulverton where the going was more challenging. The contours grew closer together and the valleys became harder to climb out of, as I bumped into the edges of Exmoor National Park. Thankfully it was a short lived challenge and the further I escaped from the edges of the moor, the easier it became to cycle. At one point I felt as though I was back in the Yorkshire Wolds, as the valleys became long and the road followed a ridge.
There had been a glorious isolation and emptiness to the roads, and it was only as I crossed the A377 that I saw where all the cars were. A never ending stream of cars containing the faces of bored looking children. I thought about the stunning countryside I’d ridden through and how my experience was the opposite of theirs. To me these roads and hills were part of my holiday. To them, they were just the dull bits between the places they wanted to reach quickly.
I found my campsite near Winkleigh, pitched my tent, and headed to the village for the most amazing pub grub and a headless beer or three. On return to the campsite/vineyard, I joined the wine tasting. English sparkling white wine, consumed where it was grown, in the light of a peach sunset. I slept well that night.
I hoped to paddle in the sea, and was looking forward to visiting Bude. I took the straightest route at first, before motorists were awake: the A3072 to Holsworthy. Being a Sunday, I also searched for a church, but found none open. Villages were deserted, shops closed, pubs abandoned: finding water to refresh my bottles felt a challenge. Communities felt as though they’d been gutted, and had become nothing more than dormitory villages for commuters. This was my lowest emotional ebb, however, there is a wonderful cycle route into Bude… I had moved from traffic free country lanes to a traffic free cyclepath as I approached the town, and the closer I got the more I was anticipating that moment when I would see people and have a splash in the sea beside a golden beach.
In hindsight it was funny. In the moment it was awful. The cyclepath ended in a car park jammed with bloated SUVs draped in top-boxes and cycle carriers. The same bored children longing to escape the cars as soon as a space could be found. Adults exhausted from driving and queuing, held the hands of children pulling them beach-ward. There was a boating pond, with pedal driven plastic boats queuing round the lake, and to top it all off: the boats were in the shape of cars. Were people unable to see they’d driven through queues of traffic, to queue round a car park, only to queue for a boat in the shape of a car, and float round another pointless queue of boredom on a small pond. I left Bude: looking for a campsite anywhere but here.
I now discovered that the north coast of Cornwall has some terrifically hard cycling. The road goes up and down, and is steep. Not “quite” steep: but actually “very” steep. I was in an unplanned part of my day, and as I descended into Crackington Haven, I could see I was going to have one hell of a climb out. It looked like North Yorkshire’s Rosedale Chimney, but longer. When I eventually found a campsite just outside Boscastle, I was ready for a rest. Food and beer in Boscastle was great, but that last ascent back to the campsite was brutal.
An old University friend (and her partner) live in Boscastle, and I spent a few nights with them. I fixed a puncture, went swimming in the sea, cycled to Padstow and caught a ferry across the River Camel to Rock. We ate in, and we ate out. They showed me around Boscastle and I made the most of being on holiday. Their hospitality was unconditional and their generosity was second to none. In their home I found that tension faded away, and peace unknotted my body. I give thanks for them both and the love they showed me, may their home continue to be a blessing on them.
When I eventually returned to cycle camping, it was with a Cornwall coast to coast: from Boscastle harbour, south to Fowey harbour. I reused the Camel trail to avoid some hills, but eventually had to face some climbing around Bodmin and found a cream tea for the calories. Just beyond Bodmin I remember passing Lostwithiel as I climbed to Newtown. I searched for the ferry to cross the River Fowey to Polruan, and got a little lost in the steep lanes. Eventually I caught the boat across the river, and met more steep lanes, heading uphill to my campsite on the cliffs.
The day had been short, and I fancied some lunch, so I rode back down into Polruan for a pub lunch and a beer, before repeating the climb back to the campsite. Now, fully fed and with my tent pitched for the evening I once again wanted a swim. Walking along the South West Coast Path, I made my way to Lantic Bay where I could see boats moored just off the golden looking sandy beach. It was a tough walk and the climb down the path to the beach was steep. Once at the bottom, I dumped my bag on the beach and dove into the sea. After the initial cold shock, I blissfully floated in the swell of the bay.
My bag of coffee lasted long enough for one more evening and morning, before my final leg of the holiday to Plymouth along the south coast. This final ride was almost as hard as the ride on the North Cornwall coast, with multiple climbs and descents. I loved Seaton and stopped for an ice-cream in the mid-morning sunshine before tackling the long hill away from the beach. After Polbathic, the road was dead flat along the Lynher River to Cremyll where I had delicious fish and chips at the Edgcumbe Arms and caught the small ferry across the River Tamar into Plymouth.
I was done, all bar the shouting: literally. I made the mistake of a stay in the worst hotel in the world, Plymouth Travelodge, which is above a nightclub. Throughout the night: humans screamed as though tortured in the upper circles of hell. I couldn’t save them, and I couldn’t sleep while they were in such obvious pain.
…the train ride home from Plymouth to Manchester via Bristol, and on to Slaithwaite was a total delight. The sun bathed my face through the train window, as the views unfolded before me… including the wonder that is the Dawlish breakwater.
What did I do on my holiday? Oh yes, I had a holiday on my holiday. And that doesn’t always happen.
Camping:
- The Batch, nr Churchill, Somerset, £7 cycle camping fee and the possibility of a bell tent!
- Quantock Camping, West Bagborough, £10ish I think, drying room!
- Ten Acres Vineyard Campsite, nr Winkleigh, Devon, £10… and English sparkling wine
- Trebyla Farm, Boscastle, £10 with warm showers
- Polruan Campsite, Touring Caravans but with a special space for cycle campers, £10
Ferries:
- Padstow to Rock across the River Camel
- Fowey to Polruan across the River Fowey
- Cremyll to Plymouth across the River Tamar / Plymouth Sound, in sight of Drake’s Island
Trains:
- Manchester to Bristol
- Plymouth to Manchester via Bristol
