The weather was lovely, we all assembled to time, and apart from the Garmin and me failing to calibrate our internal compasses (the direction arrow was actually upside down and moving backwards for the first couple of hundred yards) we eventually found the right road with Glastonbury Tor gradually inching towards us. The 13 miles or so into Glastonbury were almost entirely flat. We found the curry house, booked a table for 8 and then demolished a large quantity of food. At around 8 p.m. we started to climb the Tor, with bikes, but this particular obstacle course proved to be too much for some and they occupied a vantage point some way below the summit but nevertheless with fantastic views to the south and west.
At the top I found, apart from many and varied specimens of humanity and a wide selection of their musical instruments, a circular steel plate pointing out all kinds of landmarks: Hinkley Point nuclear power station, Exmoor, Brent Knoll, near Brean Sands, the Brecon Beacons, the Festival tents being erected... this was my first visit to the Tor and I certainly intend that it should not be my last. We celebrated by brewing a cup of tea and TimO, who suddenly discovered that his rear brake block count was only 50% of what it should have been, was fortunately restored to a full complement when Rower40 waved the missing piece aloft in triumph. This was not before Tim and the bike lost control when walking down an especially steep bit as Tim discovered that having a working front brake is not a lot of help when the weight in one's rear panniers actually has caused the front wheel to be some 6" above the ground. How he stayed upright I'll never know.
We eventually found ourselves on level ground again and shortly before 10 p.m. we set off, in the same general direction as we had come, but on different roads. A barn owl flapped past and we set into a nice gentle rhythm, MacBludgeon and I lost in conversation about the vicissitudes of advancing age, when suddenly a large and solid specimen of meles meles came hurtling straight out of the reeds and sedges to my right and collided very firmly with my front wheel. I cannot actually remember whether the wheel went over the unfortunate beast, but it yelped, I shouted and the next thing I knew was that I was picking myself up off the road whilst my assailant had disappeared into the scrub on the far side and could be heard gallumphing about. During the next hour or so we saw at least another 6 badgers crossing the road but fortunately none quite so close as that one. My injuries consisted of a bruised and slightly grazed forearm and a small cut on my right knee. Definitely worth it...
Eventually we reached the end of the levels and started to climb. There was a chevron but, unexpectedly, occasional floodlit junctions on these tiny rural roads had barriers and "Road Closed" signs manned by young men in fluorescent jackets. The first of these was no problem because we didn't want to go that way, but at the second there were three or four of these apprentice Vogons barring our intended route.
"Excuse me! Why is this road closed?"
"Because the Festival is being set up and it's our job to stop people getting in early and setting up camp."
"That's no concern of mine. On whose authority is it closed?"
"Err... the County Council I suppose. You can carry on and take the next left turn instead."
"You mean that you are manning a barricade but you have no authority to do so? What happens if I ignore you and your barrier and cycle on this road anyway?"
"You can't do that!" whereupon we proved the young man's last statement false.
The road became increasingly undulating as we progressed, in darkness broken only by an impressive array of LED power, and lots of stars. Some hills were steep, others were long, and a couple of times we stopped for cake (Pippa's fruit cake was excellent and Tim has provided some welcome sustenance as well), turned our lights out and identified constellations. There was little wind. Not far from the Longleat estate we had one especially long climb through a wood and tawny owls could be heard hooting all around us.
Lee, who was riding to meet us, made contact and somewhere near Maiden Bradley we saw him. As he approached, lit up like an oil refinery, he reminded me of Jabberwocky ("The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame...") so from that point the Nine set off in search of the Ring.
Some time around 2 a.m. Tim's rear tyre decided it was time for a breather so we had a fairly prolonged stop for that, in which more cake was consumed, extra layers were donned and Del's pump gave up the ghost. We were on our way again and before 3 a.m. we could see some signs of the dawn which was still some two hours away. Even though it was dark we could hear the staccato bursts of machine gun fire coming from the Imber range, and we could see the massive floodlights around Stonehenge which was still some eight miles away. In Chittern, Tim's tyre flattened again, but eventually we were all up and available for the final assault on Stonehenge.
We had heard that it was likely to be crowded, and after a little easy negotiation with some police officers, none of whom spoke with an Australian accent, we parked our bikes half a mile or so from the stones and some of us walked the rest of the way. Even though the sun had not yet risen, there were far more people leaving than approaching, and my photographs were from a distance. The clouds spoiled people's morning too.
Next came the assault on Salisbury Plain, and as Lee has already reported, there were warning flags where we had been told that there would not be any. We were, however, given the All Clear, but the massive noise of a Challenger Tank in full cry, just behind a fragile margin of scrub, is not guaranteed to give peace of mind, especially when at several points the tracks in the road indicated that these tanks were wont to break cover and cross the road from any angle. The other tank, parked with engines running, just to our left, its commander standing stock still above the turret, was pure, hideous menace and just for a few moments our cosy world was disturbed by a gleam of realisation of what it might be like to live in a country in which the British government has the wrong sort of interest.
The bird life, however, seemed largely undisturbed by these weapons of war, and there were skylarks everywhere above this sad but beautiful place. Whitethroats rasped out their particular song and on two occasions I heard grasshopper warblers.
I was relieved to leave the Plains behind me, and our breakfast was hearty indeed. Pippa's bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, some porridge, MacBludgeon's sausages and bacon sandwiches, tea, coffee and more of Pippa's cake. Someone had even had the foresight to leave a couple of functional Portaloos for our convenience. We then hurtled down a long, steep hill into the Vale of Pewsey, under the eyes of a number of inanimate white horses. Within a mile of the station, my rear tyre deflated but a team effort effected a swift repair.
When we reached Paddington, Pippa guided Del and me back to Lpoo St just in time for us to catch the 12.15.
