I’ve been to a few Richmonds in my time. There’s Richmond (Victoria, Australia), where I live. There’s Richmond (Virginia, USA), Richmond (Vancouver Canada), Richmond (Tasmania, Australia), RIchmond-upon-Thames (London, UK) and now, Richmond, (York, UK) the mother of all Richmonds.

The name Richmond actually comes from the French town of Richemont in Normandy; the town was founded in 1071 when William the Conqueror gifted land to a friend. The Earl of Richmond (Henry VII) took the name to London when he renamed Sheen to Richmond in the 16th century at the time he built Richmond Palace, and from there it spread across the world. There are at least 57 Richmonds worldwide. The name has also been applied to an Australian Rules football team, beloved by my nearest and dearest.

The area is home to many well known and well-to-do, including Ian Botham, former English cricketer and now Chairman of Durham, and Lord David Dundas, famous for the 1977 hit (I pull my blue) Jeans On, who is a member of one of the wealthiest families around Richmond.

This Richmond does not seem keen for us to leave, as it throws up huge hill obstacles on our way out – with grades reaching upward of 15%. I walk. Walking is quite nice, unless you are pushing a loaded barge. However, I know that once we hit the final high point leaving Richmond, it is essentially downhill to York.

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“It’s a bit warm,” says the woman at reception as we check out of Lumley Castle.

I turn on my Garmin and check the temperature. It is 18 degrees. Celsius. I am trying to decide whether to ride in my leg warmers or not today.

Everybody wants a chat. We ride into Chester-le-street to take a look, and park near the market place, and it is on. One man offers advice about the best market stall to pick up snacks “to keep us going.” He decides we are rich because we stayed at the castle, admits that he got married at the castle (but isn’t married any more), and leaves us with a couple of packets of questionable use-by-date Reese’s pieces, direct from his favourite market stall.

A woman rides up on a bike, also near the market, and chats about cycling, and how she would love to do long distance but she has hurt her back. She offers advice on the route to take to Richmond, but I only get half of what she says, she speaks so fast.

We ride through Durham on our way to Richmond. Durham is a pretty, old town, with an iconic city profile. We stop in the main square for some lunch, and make a detour to view the cathedral towering over the river, which has some odd dam construction.

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If you ever visit Alnwick Castle, you need to be aware of the Harry Potter factor. It seems that the first two Potter movies were filmed at Alnwick, and this, of course, brings floods of Potter-crazed visitors. They pile off buses and mill around, and it is pretty difficult to get through with a loaded bike.

We don’t have time, nor inclination when we see the crowds, to visit inside, but we take in the free views from the grass out the front and prepare ourselves for the day, at the end of which will be at our own castle sleep over.

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“I hate you.”

“I hate you too.”

That is the conversation we overhear between older and younger sister as we ride out of Eyemouth, still flanked by those Herring Queens. (Neil thinks it was mother and daughter.)

It could also easily be the conversation that I initiate with almost anyone or anything during the course of this somewhat difficult day in the saddle.

It starts with technology issues, where one very silly Garmin device does exactly what it is asked, namely taking us on a defined route from Eyemouth to Berwick-upon-Tweed, but does it in such a way that we are retracing our route from yesterday evening, and seemingly heading in the exact opposite direction we want to take. …

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“It’s a great day for it.”

The woman walking her the dog in the park smiles as I go by, and I wipe the misty rain from my  glasses to look at her. I’m riding through the park on my way to Leith, the first small leg of today’s journey. It has been drizzly in Edinburgh, and the paths are wet, splashing water and grit over my bike.

I don’t know if this woman is for real. To the east, the direction we are bound today, a black cloud hangs, ominous and low. The forecast in Edinburgh today is for rain. It doesn’t feel like a great day for it at all. But it’s time for us to move on, and Eyemouth, on the eastern coast awaits. …

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Ellie B Joyce

30/10/1995 – 10/7/2017

One of my greatest fears when travelling is that one of my cats will fall ill. Just days after I left for this UK trip, my beautiful little girl Ellie fell ill and took her last trip to the vet.

Big thanks to Rachel, Peter and Carol from Burwood Road Clinic for Cats for a lifetime of care for Ellie, and especially to Dani and Fiona who were there to hold her paw as she slipped away to the great eternal princess cushion.

I love tennis. When I was a little girl I had a couple of plastic bats and a tennis ball, and I used to hit the ball against the weatherboard wall of our house, playing and winning noisy matches. In a movie I would have gone on to become a famous tennis player with a tragic back-story, but in reality I studied science at university and watched grainy black and white images beamed directly from Kooyong.

These days I do play tennis. Very, very badly. I am a fixture at number four in my section two social competition team. I watch tennis much better than I play, and I remain glued to the TV for the two weeks of the Australian Open every January – when I am not actually down at the grounds. I also make my best efforts to stay up to watch the other tournaments from around the world that are still on free to air.

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