Bellingham Weekend: Saturday

It was the Bellingham weekend, 17-18th July 2004, though for Pat and Drew they were days 4 and 5 of an 8-day tour, and days 2 and 3 of a 4-day tour for Gerry.

Eric was felled by a stomach bug (or possibly a chicken curry), David decided the second hill on the Sunday was quite enough for him, another David was alarmed by clicking noises from his crank but still had to do the Sunday ride, Bill was struck by the curse of Rothbury (two tubes punctured simultaneously on the way in, one puncture and a holed tyre on the way out), Lindsey fell off her bike, Gerry was heard shouting for help, Drew's puns were unforgiveable (on seeing a warning about moving machinery: 'and me out without my hanky'), and most of us were struggling to keep up with Pat's mother. Pat said it was about par for an Ayrshire CTC weekend.

The area has tourism in buckets

In the cyclists' tearoom at Elsdon: Drew, Margaret, Pat, and David

Eric, Gerry, Lindsey, and (almost) Bill

The clog dancers and accompanist

Poster in Bellingham hostel

Incidentally, it's Bell-in-jim

The secluded hostel at Bellingham

(left) Friday evening, outside the hostel

The Rose and Crown, Bellingham: It may not have had the real ales of The Cheviot, but it was a darn site more welcoming. Bellingham is a self-catering hostel. The party delegated much self-catering to the Rose and Crown.


The tearoom at Elsdon and a notice (one of many) in the vicinity. Basically, Pat and Drew took us somewhere with big hills where we could get shot at and stumble upon unexploded bombs. Compared to that, the sausage sandwich at the Elsdon tearoom was a piece of cake (not literally, obviously, though I think they did have cake).

St. Cuthbert's Parish Church (the mother church of Redesdale) in Elsdon has a gravestone with this inscription: 'Erected by a few friends to the memory of John Gallon who was drowned while hunting with his hounds in the River Lugar, Ayrshire, July 16th 1873, aged 59 years.'

The technical team at work on one of Bill's punctured tubes.

Rothbury had a greasy spoon masquerading as the ideal spot for unsuspecting cyclists who don't know the area to take afternoon tea.

It also had clog dancers and men in ribbons and funny hats, possibly with with foot fetishes. And isn't he in the Rusty Rims?

Bellingham Weekend: Saturday