I have a confession to make. Despite the fact that I cycle about 3,000 miles around Britain every year, I've never done the C2C. The classic coast-to-coast route from Whitehaven/Workington to Sunderland/Newcastle is, to me, terra incognita. So when Sustrans, the sustainable transport charity, announced that it was celebrating the 15th anniversary of the national cycle network by opening a new sea-to-sea route and that they'd take me in the very first group to ride it, my joy was unconfined. This was not, however, quite the emotion I felt a few weeks later half-way up the well-named High Side, a real cruncher of a hill that rises like some home-grown Mount Olympus from the unassuming market town of Settle, in the Yorkshire dales. I'm not entirely sure of the spelling, but my feelings could best be summed up in the word aaargheeeeeoooofffaaaargh.

But that was one of surprisingly few moments of pain on the 169-mile ride from Morecambe in Lancashire to Bridlington in East Yorkshire that makes up the Way of the Roses. (See what they've done there?) Indeed for a cycle route that must inevitably cross both the Pennines and the Yorkshire wolds, it's extraordinary how much carefree (and, indeed, car-free) riding there is to be had. Throw in the fact that the prevailing westerly wind often gives a helping hand over the hills, and you've got yourself a gauntlet that even fair-weather cyclists can pick up.

I have to say though, that I didn't expect leaving Morecambe to be such a wrench. If you should read a "top 10 hotels with great sea views" that doesn't include the town's Midland Hotel – an art-deco swirl of stone all alone on the front – it's not much of a list. In the morning I drew the curtains to gaze on what looked like a thousand islands dissolving into a blazing Irish Sea, but turned out to be a huge sweep of Cumbrian coastline and some cleverly placed sea mist.

All too soon I was joining my fellow debutants on the promenade and listening to a pep talk from Rupert, an impressive Lycra-clad man who helped devise the route and who would ensure we didn't stray from it. We said our farewells to the sea and were soon bowling along a wide cycle path next to the river Lune. The game was afoot.

In my view, and I don't think it's a particularly controversial one, there are two things that make for a really good bike ride: cracking views and plentiful refreshment stops. The Pennines, we were fairly sure, would not disappoint us with regard to the former. With four blazing hot days of cycling ahead of us, we would just have to ride in hope of the latter. As it happened, almost every time we crossed a bridge – and there was always another river to cross – a teashop or pub tempted us. There was an ancient cottage smothered in yellow roses where homemade lemonade and scones magically appeared at our table; tearooms at the back of farm shops piled high with local delicacies; cafes in the quiet back streets of somnolent towns; a National Trust teashop at a lovely red-brick Georgian mansion and the largest monastic ruins in Britain (take a bow, Beningbrough Hall and Fountains Abbey); and no end of rustic pubs.

The crunching hill out of Settle lifted us from the Forest of Bowland into a high region of the Pennines, home only to sheep, curlews, dry-stone walls and the occasional wind-blown tree. From there we enjoyed the roller-coaster ride that took us plunging into one Yorkshire dale and soaring up to the next.

But the Way of the Roses is not just about bucolic charm. In the commendably compact city of Ripon we witnessed a ceremony that, rather astonishingly, has been enacted every day at 9pm without fail for 1,124 years. An elderly gentleman decked out in impressive regalia blew an archaic horn at four corners of an obelisk in the main square. In his spiel-cum-disarming-stand-up-routine afterwards he explained how, in days of yore, Ripon householders would pay a small amount to the hornblower as the city's gates were closed. If they were burgled in the night, he would compensate them. And thus was born the concept of home contents insurance.

We had first spotted Ripon and its unmistakably chunky cathedral from Coldstones Quarry, 420m up on Greenhow Hill. Here Bob Orange – dressed from head to toe in eponymous fluorescent garb – guided us around a monumental artwork made of huge stones that we walked through and which he was confident would rival the Angel of the North as a northern icon. He was also confident that it would be finished by the launch date of 16 September – just five days after the Way of the Roses' official opening, when all the signposts will be in place .

The following day, we found ourselves cycling right past the front door of York's thundering minster and sumptuous Treasurer's House; refuelling with delicious salads at the nearby Café Concierto; and debating whether to resist the rather less healthy "fat rascals" – a sort of über-scone – at Little Bettys just around the corner. It has to be said that the last 60 miles from York to the end are not ideal for burning off such excesses. It's all pretty flat except for a short climb to the under-explored Yorkshire wolds.

The roads were incredibly quiet right up until the time we emerged from an avenue of trees to spy Bridlington down below just a couple of miles off. I celebrated on the seafront that serves as the finish line with a bag of chips, no longer a coast-to-coast virgin.

And furthermore, I was ready for the question every cyclist gets asked about a long-distance ride: What's your favourite bit? My answer? The four miles on the way to the village of Tibthorpe, about 20 miles from the east coast: huge skies, an empty road beneath my wheels and the sylvan countryside below melting away in the summer haze. I'm ashamed to say I threw my arms out wide and, coming over all Leonardo DiCaprio, shouted out, "I'm the king of the wold". Which just goes to show that country air may not be so good for you after all.