Fed up with working at weekends, or just with work, I took off on Tuesday afternoon after a morning's faffing, intending to finally use my new tent. New as in had it since the winter before Covid... So I rolled out of the city under the blazing sun via Gaunt's Earthcott and Olveston, finding that Fern Hill, a big descent between the two, had been turned into South Gloucestershire's very own strada biancha by tipping several imperial skid-tons of gravel all over it. Made a mental note to return a different way. By the time I got to Frampton I was hungry, but the Three Horseshoes (see above) was closed as was the little cafe next to it. I stopped at the village shop, where I got an absolutely amazing yoghurt at the Grumpy Stubble-faced Man's shop. I noted it was from "Jess's Ladies", a dairy farm I knew I would pass just south of Gloucester.
Yoghurt digression: it was a simple natural yogurt, no fruit or flavourings of any kind, nor did it claim to be Greek, Bulgarian or Turkish, but it had an amazing tang, almost lemony. It really tasted of "yogurt" rather than "milk". The blurb mentioned organic, unhomogenised milk, which I'm sure is important but I reckon that's some top cultured bacteria they've got at Hardwicke Farm.
I also got some really good flapjacks from Beau's Bakery at the southern end of the village, just off the canal. Also lemony and gingery, but from actual lemon and ginger, not yogurt culture. Right, that's quite enough about Frampton.
So I rode through the edge of Gloucester, by the docks and out across the Island, over the hill between Maisemore and Hartpury where you can see the Cotswolds to the right and the Malverns to the left, until Ashleworth, where I stopped at the village shop – now expanded into a "hub" with cafe/restaurant, outdoor seating and so on, where I bought some courgettes and onions, which I carried in my panniers another mile or so to Rectory Farm. The farmer, who reminded me of my late father-in-law (short, broad, missing teeth, worried about his chickens, happy with pigs) claimed he recognized me.
Put my tent up, talked to a bloke from Congleton about a snake, read Hemingway, cooked cous-cous. Did the same the next day, combined with a bit of local exploring looking for a track I knew but couldn't quite remember the location of. Had an omlette at Ashleworth's hub, okay, nothing special. Then yesterday packed my tent up, cool enough to wear a jacket in the morning, rode slowly home a slightly different way (avoiding Fern Hill's gravel), thought about doing it all again. Got home, put the kettle on. End of story.
