Ups and downs

There are no ups and downs on the road from Wrexham, and before I know it I’m riding into Chester, nice and early. There are two canal boats – they look as though they’re lining up for a race – coming down through the locks between the road and the railway. That’s worth stopping to watch – these locks have been moving boats up and down for 250 years. There are eels in the water.

Chester is a fabulous place, full of black and white buildings (many of them must be Victorian re-inventions) on pedestrian-thronged streets. There are buskers stationed every 100 yards or so, and a great choice of coffee shops in between. I choose a busker first, and then a nearby coffee. The busker plays lilting Irish songs on her violin, and in between she sings richly.

The cake is a good choice too, served by a young lady from Gujarat, whose grandfather had migrated from Mahatma Gandhi’s Porbandar to Ahmadabad, the big city. She prefers Chester, she says.

“Are you with the band?” The cathedral welcomer asks. I think it’s a joke, so I reply “I am the band.” “Well, everyone else is waiting for you; you’d better hurry up.”

That sounds as though a surprise is ahead of me. I wheel the bike round a lot of corners, and find myself facing the chaos of a big band, main stage, setting up – black T-shirts, clip boards, and purpose everywhere. They’re not going to want me among all that.

Alice comes over, escorted by her security detail – who bulges his tattoos at me, and tries to interpolate himself between us. He looks as though he’s been hired for the day, and wants to make sure they know he’s doing his job.

Suddenly I remember the correspondence with Alice. They’re going to put me in the Refectory, to entertain those who have come for sustenance. This is a “pop-up” that won’t be put in any notices: “the aim is to capture the attention of people already in the space”. No, they couldn’t provide a lapel mic. No, they wouldn’t send out the attached press release to the local media. And so on.

On this pilgrimage I’ve had some wonderful cathedral welcomes. I’ve also met with bemusement, and indifference; I’ve been ignored, and patronised; and although I’m determined to take the rough with the smooth, it doesn’t get easier. Of course they’ve got more important things today, and I’m grateful they’ve given me the space at all, but it can be hard work.

Simon, the Refectory Manager, can see that. He offers me a cup of tea, and tells me gently about the group of 40 Koreans coming in for a set lunch ten minutes before my scheduled time.

I ask Alice again about a microphone. They only have headset mics, she says, and they’re for the clergy. Would she ask if I could borrow one? The security tails her out of the Refectory, and back in again two minutes later. “They’re only for the clergy,” she says.

A member of the clergy comes in just before the performance, to give an announcement and a prayer. He asks me my name. There’s a stand mic here for his use, which I’m allowed to use “before and after”, so after he’s left I position it as best I can, and get on with it. You have to see the funny side.

Gradually, as the Koreans get back to their sightseeing, and the other lunchers disperse, I realise there’s an unusually attentive audience around the edges of the room. One of them buys me a restorative tea afterwards, and the volunteer from the shop comes in to tell me she’s had such lovely comments from all those who came to buy books and cards.

Even so, there’s a feeling of shaking the dust off my feet as I leave Chester. There are steps down to the riverside path, so I divert, and try further on. More steps. Divert. More steps. Divert. Impassable kissing gate. Divert. Steps. Divert. Give up – take the main road.

And then, after 15 miles or so, suddenly I find I’m passing Port Sunlight. I learned about Port Sunlight half a century ago at university – one of the pioneering Garden Cities, established by the Lever brothers, to house the workers at their soap factory. This doesn’t just merit a diversion; it requires one.

I’m cycling slowly round the calm streets, admiring houses and trees and roadside sculptures, when I spot a calm couple sitting on their calm and open lawn. James, retired, used to tour with the Rolling Stones. He was in charge of Ronnie Wood’s autocue. We talk about Port Sunlight, about the Rolling Stones, about the impossibility of getting to Liverpool from here, except by train, eating Deborah’s pork pies and pickled onions, and playing some calm notes on the cello.

No, says James, what Google tells you is a bridge is no such thing. It’s a tunnel. You can’t take a bike through it. The nearest bridge is in Runcorn, and you won’t get there tonight.

He’s lived here 20 years, so he’s probably right. I meander past the Lady Lever Art Gallery to the little station. The ticket office get out their mat to show me. The measurements are clearly marked, 70cm x 120cm. If your bike fits on here you can take it; if it doesn’t, you can’t, he says, looking at a machine that measures 260cm. He sells me a ticket anyway.

I run up the slope to the sound of the train doors closing. The train manager shouts at me to press the button, and the door opens again. It’s a good thing the train is nearly empty.

A couple on their way to tonight’s Diana Ross concert advise me to get off one stop before Lime Street, because James Street has bigger lifts. That’s where they’re getting off too, so they can show me.

Only there are three substantial flights of stairs before you reach the big lifts. No problem, he says; give me the bike. And he just carries it up the steps, while I watch in disbelief. He’s always like that, his partner explains with pride, as they head down the street to Diana Ross and the Halle Orchestra. Now, how shall I enjoy the nightlife of Liverpool?