Today was hard. It was only thirty-five miles and almost totally flat as I cycled around the Solway Firth but I was lacking energy and had a sore throat and headache; I had definitely caught something, it had affected me for a day or so but until today I had managed to work through it. Now though it had really taken a hold on me and it made this, probably the easiest of days, difficult.
I left Carlisle alongside the river, following its meanders through the city centre. There was no morning mist today but it was cold. What looked from the map like a quiet road to take me out of town turned out to be quite busy, especially so this week day morning, but eventually I was on quieter country lanes that took me through occasional villages and towards the Solway Firth.
I cycled a quiet and flat road that cut through flat grassland leading down to the mud and calm flat water of the Firth. Cows grazed on the grass around me and the wide stretch of the Firth and its twinkling waters separated me from the first gentle hills of Scotland some miles distant. It was a picture postcard image of tranquility that filled the breadth of my vision, seemingly untouched by the hand of man with the exception of occasional signs warning of sinking sands and mud.
But unfortunately today was about more than the views. All day I was physically drained. I had stopped two or three times for extended periods, feeling unable to continue without rest. I had taken coffee, eaten sandwiches and sat on available benches to simply enjoy the view and to try and summon up energy. The views were uplifting, the route flat and the air invigorating but nothing lifted me far from my exhaustion; my body felt entirely in thrall to this Illness.
It was a slow and intermittent ride around the Firth, as much spent fighting my symptoms as enjoying the views. I stopped at tiny Bowness-on-Solway, the limit of Hadrian's Wall in the west, viewed a model of the fort that once stood there and then continued in a more southerly direction around the coast. Another twenty miles and I arrived at the small town of Silloth on the west coast. It was only three o’clock but it felt as if the day had been much longer. Having stopped it was as if any physical and mental momentum were lost: I had hit a wall. But it was also definitely easier to cope now that my activities were limited to preparing more lemsip and admiring the view out to sea from my room. And I did not plan on much more than that this evening.
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| Bowness-on-Solway Fort |
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| Silloth by Night |
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| Solway Coast |
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