Into Lancashire

I'd chosen the campsite in Silverdale because it was in a working farm. When I phoned the (lady) farmer apologised "Sorry about the noise. I'm just feeding me calves."
It was a big place, all lush grass, dry stone walls and oak trees, with views of the sun setting behind Grange-over-sands.

I was woken by two separate woodpeckers, and soon on my way through the lanes: a bit through woods, a bit by the sea, and the I was on the miles-long Morecambe Esplanade, overlooking a muddy beach which miraculously turned to sand as I reached the sunny main town and breakfast.

"The biggest breakfast baps in town" - I was not disappointed.  They also sold Bin Lids, baps about nine inches across, just in case you were a bit hungry.  The waitress, who was generously proportioned herself, was discussing her new exercise regime, designed to give her a beach body for Spain in ten weeks. The headline in the Daily Star shouted "Hot as El" for a 29° Spanish plume which is set to blast Britain.

And so, as Morecambe welcomed me into its ample bosom, I had completed the Morecambe Bay cycle route.  Highly recommended.

Something was bothering me. Postcards.  I hadn't seen any, and at each place I thought "Ah well, there'll be some at Largs / Ayr / Carlisle / Ravenglass / , well, maybe not Barrow, but Grange-over-Sands?"  But no. Either my seaside route doesn't pass the postcard shops or they are becoming unfashionable.  So, if you were lucky enough to get a PC from me in previous years, it's not looking good. And if you didn't, don't get your hopes up.

From there it was a skip along the prom to less than lovely Heysham, with two nuclear reactors you can see from Barrow. You can also catch a ferry to the Isle of Man. I did consider it, but it's the TT races this weekend and with everywhere booked up and roads closed it's not practical.

So it was on down the coast, or rather up the river Lune, northwards again, into Lancaster, all on cycle track and passing a British Cycling road racing track.  Crossed the river and back out on another cycle track, all very nice but the river is all I saw of Lancaster.   Down the river and on a disused railway line to Glasson which could have been named Port Glasgow or Port Carlisle, there were so msny similarities.  But this one was thriving, eith pleasure boats and several cafés and a pub.

After that it was heads-down, easy cycling on flat road very reminiscent of Lincolnshire.  There was even a dyke to keep the sea out.

I'm currently at the bustling town of Knott End, feeling very pleased with myself.  I resisted the urge to stop at the attractive looking tea shops, but couldn't say no to the Co-op, where I bought an inexpensive and nutritious meal, and sat on the grass opposite eating it.

Knott End is at the mouth of the river Wyre, andyou can get a ferry to Fleetwood, and then ride miles along the prom to Blackpool.  Which means ... Postcards.