Welsh Coast-to-Coast (was "I may have some time on my hands...")

[Wowbagger]

I have gained an hour at no cost, which is excellent. My reservation from Crewe was valid on the 1813 but I arrived in plenty of time for the 1713. Enquiries revealed that the worst that would happen would be an extrs £10.60, well worth it to avoid having to spend an extra hour at Crewe. As it happened the was a change of crew at Crewe and I had already been chatting Iup the new guard on the platform. When she checked my ticket she smile sweetly and asked for no more money.

[Wowbagger]

Packed up and ready to go home. Currently in my brother's back garden looking east towards the Wrekin.

It's a lovely day to go cycle touring...

[Kim]

It appears that nikki has replaced her broken spokes, and consumed some well-travelled milk.  No response to my question of whether she still likes touring, as yet.

http://t.co/YFiXD3uULG

[Wowbagger]

She seemed perfectly happy with the concept when we parted company yesterday.

I am now on a train heading for Mordor Central and contemplating the 4.30 bike embargo on trains to Southend.  I should have plenty of time as  I am scheduled to arrive in Euston at 3.32. I have a bit of a wait at MC so I will probably buy my ticket there and aim for the 4.28 from Fenchurch Street.

[Wowbagger]

Now at MC watching virtual trains on the departure board. Is there another station in the country with direct trains to as many stations, I wonder?

A few minutes ago I was accosted by a person wearing a track suit in pale blue and claret and singing a song about there only being one villa. I assume he had never heard of the Romans. He looked at me, pointed and asked "Are you a geography teacher?" Before I could reply he changed tack."Do you know who you remind me of? Father Christmas!" Then, to another bloke sitting nearby, "Doesn't he look like Father Christmas?"

Once more he failed to wait for a reply but went off singing "There's only one Father Christmas!"

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of this little cameo was that the main player appeared to be about 70 years old.

[tiermat]

<snip>me of? Father Christmas!" Then, to another bookshop sitting nearby, "Doesn't he look like Father Christmas?" <snip>

Predictive text fail? If so, it's a good 'un

[Kim]

That's pretty normal for Mordor Central, apart from the talking bookshop bit.

In other MC related news, I had to carry my recumbent up^[1] the shiny new escalators for the first time yesterday, on account of one of the shiny new lifts being actually out of order rather than inexplicably switched off.  When I reached the top, I discovered that one of the people further up the escalator was the owner of the walking frame that had been stowed awkwardly in the vestibule of my train, and was having trouble hobbling away from the top at sufficient speed.  I opted to point my bike towards the handful of more agile people approaching the down escalator instead, who sensibly realised what was going on and formed a gap at the last minute.  Useless!


_{[1] Up is reasonably doable, with appropriate use of brakes.  Down is decidedly dodgy, and tends to result in knee injury and ungraceful disembarking.}

[Wowbagger]

<snip>me of? Father Christmas!" Then, to another bookshop sitting nearby, "Doesn't he look like Father Christmas?" <snip>

Predictive text fail? If so, it's a good 'un

You need more work to do. I'd edited that within about 20 seconds of posting it!

Mind you, I have no idea how it turned "bloke" into "bookshop". I can't make it do it again.

[Cudzoziemiec]

Now at MC watching virtual trains on the departure board. Is there another station in the country with direct trains to as many stations, I wonder?

Is there another station in the country so many people want to escape from?

[Kim]

Now at MC watching virtual trains on the departure board. Is there another station in the country with direct trains to as many stations, I wonder?

Is there another station in the country so many people want to escape from?

Mordor Central probably wins on sheer numbers.  The Didcot Parkways of this world would otherwise be strong competitors.

At least Mordor has trains to useful places after 9pm on a Saturday...

[andrewc]

I was teaching my sister the fine art of bikes on escalators at the weekend. Easier on an upright.

Nikki has since had a puncture & lost the valve core from one of her tyres. I think she's still rolling .....

[Kim]

Nikki has since had a puncture & lost the valve core from one of her tyres. I think she's still rolling .....

I'm thinking she's actually lost the little tube that connects her pump to the tyre valve (for it is such a pump).  The tyre is holding air, but she's effectively pumpless.  She made it to the train though, which is the important bit.

[andrewc]

Yay!   Today Bangor, tomorrow the world! 
Take a bow Kim, you've trained her well.

[Wowbagger]

I am now on a Branson train that smells of poo. The WiFi doesn't work.

[Wowbagger]

Off a train in Euston and on another in Fenchurch Street in under half an hour!

[nikki]

Small child waiting with rest of family to use lift at Mordor Central:
Why has she got a bike?

Me:
Because I've just been on a cycling holiday and, if I didn't have a bike, it would have just been a holiday - and where's the fun in that?


So, yes, still looking forward to the next touring experience   


I finally got back home at about 4:30. The last phase of the tour easily being the most stressful.

Having replaced my spokes, allowed myself a moment of smugness and packed away my stuff at a leisurely pace, I then set off in the direction of the station only to discover that I had not noticed my front tyre was as flat as something very flat.

Gnyrghghghrgh!  Still, not to worry: I still had an hour or two to play with, let's get the tube swapped over...

~#"%**~!   <- blue words

As Kim correctly interpreted, I'd lost the connecting tube for between the pump and tyre.

At the time of fixing my pump to my bike I'd observed the probability of this happening, however it seems I completely failed to do anything about it. So my fault entirely. 

There was a couple of bikes parked up by one of the other tents in the field, their owners off in a car somewhere. I went to investigate, but no sign of a convenient frame pump and they were presta-valved tyres anyway.

Next plan: I'd seen lots of kids' bikes by the caravans in the other area of the campsite - let's see if anyone's got a pump I can borrow.

No joy there, either.

I was just starting to put the tyre back on - and resigning myself to having to push my bike to the station - when the couple-of-bike-owners drove back. Fortunately one of them had a mini pump thing that I was able to borrow!

I did what I could to check the tyre for lingering sharps and put in a fresh tube. I didn't do very well with the pump, but managed to get enough air in that I could now cycle to the station. Time was such that it was now that or miss the train.

Various navigation devices seemed intent on sending me up a tiny muddy footpath as the shortest route to the station. I gave it a go, but rapidly thought better of it and headed back to the road. The next attempt was a steep up-hill (I had to deploy the 24" gear), so I knew that was the right way 

Made it to the station in time, but without enough leeway to grab some food from one of the local supermarkets. It felt like a very l o   o    o      o      o        o          o           n         g journey back.

Once in Brum I found a bike shop and they let me use their track pump to get me rolling properly again, so I was able to manage the few miles back home without too much drama. Phew!


I'll sort out photos shortly (i.e. after food), but here are a couple of visuals for you.
Both link through to larger versions if you click on them.

The bit wot I did:






Wow surveying his kingdom from the cob at Porthmadog:

[Kim]

Not that helpful as you're running on Schrader valves, but I keep a screw on adaptor (that Schraderifies a Presta tyre valve) in my tool kit to open up some more options in pump-borrowing emergencies.  Most bike pumps that can do Presta can do both (with varying degrees of mucking about^[1]), but Schrader-only pumps aren't uncommon amongst mountain bikers, BSOists and motorists.  The downside is that such pumps can't always achieve a decent pressure.


_{[1] My pump has a head of the unscrew-and-rotate-the-pingfuckit variety.  After a particularly frustrating experience in a dark, soggy Essex bus shelter, I immediately vowed to standardise my bikes on Presta^[2] valves.
[2] You can put a Presta tube in a Schrader rim (there's a little collar thing, if you want to be posh), but the reverse isn't always possible.}

[nikki]

_{[1] My pump has a head of the unscrew-and-rotate-the-pingfuckit variety.  After a particularly frustrating experience in a dark, soggy Essex bus shelter, I immediately vowed to standardise my bikes on Presta^[2] valves.}

Yes, there was pingfuckit rotation at the campsite.

[2] You can put a Presta tube in a Schrader rim (there's a little collar thing, if you want to be posh), but the reverse isn't always possible.[/sub]

Oh, I hadn't realised the rims are different for Presta too. Is it just a smaller size of valve hole, or is there more to it?

[Kim]

Oh, I hadn't realised the rims are different for Presta too. Is it just a smaller size of valve hole, or is there more to it?

It's just the size of the hole, in as much that some rims are simply too narrow to have a Schrader-sized hole in them.  Narrow rims correlate with higher-pressure tyres, though, for which Presta is (or was historically) considered desirable.

[Wowbagger]

Monday 12th August


My bike was already packed before I went to bed, but still there was a little last minute faffing to be done before I set off to the station. The train arrived and off I went. I had allowed an hour to get from Lpoo St to Paddington but must make a mental note to allow more time in future: it took me 45 minutes and my train's platform was announced the moment I pushed my bike onto the station concourse. That was cutting it a bit fine, I felt. I stowed my bike, and most of my luggage, in the bike compartment and settled down for a short journey to Newport.



On arrival I took the de rigueur photo of my bike on a platform and it was not long afterwards that the Chepstow train, bound for Gloucester,  arrived. An annoying no-good boyo was listening to some monotonous rubbish that seemed to pass for music, but fortunately Chepstow was only a couple of stops away and I only had to put up with him for a few minutes.

Cudzoziemic met me at the station and offered me some of his chips, which made a very welcome repast after the marmite sandwiches I had consumed only a few minutes earlier, and we went off in search of the river and the castle. They were where they were last time I was in Chepstow so we found them, took a few essential photographs, and then we were off.



Immediately we got stuck into an enormous hill and, as is ever the case when I go on tour, I was questioning the wisdom of my decision. I'm 59 and fat and I shouldn't be forcing myself up these huge hills. I ought to be sitting in front of the telly getting older and fatter. When I thought about it, that prospect didn't appeal at all so I attacked the hill with renewed vigour, finally reaching the top somewhere after Shirenewton. We were rewarded with some good views over the Bristol Channel, with Flat Holm and Steep Holm in the distance.



After about 8 miles, and at the top of the last climb for a while, Cudzo had to return to Bristol and left me to the Usk Valley. Now I was alone I started to go through things in my mind and it dawned on me that I had forgotten to bring a lock with me. For most of the trip I felt that this wouldn't matter at all as I would either be in some really remote village, where I would be able to keep my eye on my bike, or in a camp site somewhere, but there were also some rather larger towns, in the first instance Abergavenny, where I would be most uncomfortable leaving my bike outside a supermarket without any kind of lock on it. The fact that I would be leaving several hundred pounds' worth of camping kit just bungeed to the bike made no difference at all. If only for psychological reasons I needed a bike lock.

I wondered whether Usk would have a bike shop. I calculated that I would not be in Abergavenny, a much larger town, until after any bike shop (and I was sure that there would be one) was closed. A few minutes later, a roadie of a certain vintage went past and greeted me with what sounded like a local accent.

"Excuse me, is there a bike shop in Usk?" I enquired, "I've come on a week's tour and forgotten to bring a lock."

"No," came the reply, "but there is a hardware shop and I'm sure he'll have something."

I noted that the B-road towards Usk, which was not especially busy, cut out a significant hill which the Sustrans route included, so I stayed on it all the way into Usk. It was a very smelly place as the local farmer had evidently been spreading slurry over the upwind fields. I found the hardware shop, bought the world's least effective bike lock for £1.99, found a Spar supermarket, bought some jelly babies, fig rolls, chocolate and Welsh cakes and then carried on towards Abergavenny and my bed for the night in Llanthony. I thought that shopping for my evening meal could wait until Abergavenny.

I crossed the A40, left the B-road and then zig-zagged my way through small lanes back towards my planned route. There was a great deal of climbing before Abergavenny and I was relieved at last to be descending quickly into the town. I found some Ainsley Harriot rice, a lovely piece of rump steak, a small onion and a pint of milk, paid for them and was on my way. I knew that my planned stop at Llanthony might involve a pub, but I also knew that they may well have stopped serving food before I arrived, so it was as well to have some backup.

Once again I grimped up the familiar hill northwards from the town: we had stayed at an excellent B & B a couple of years ago in Llanfihangel Crucorny and it was definitely a low-gear job for the next half-mile and more. Eventually the road flattened out, at least to some extent, and I was able to make bretter progress, but 8 pm came and went and still I had some way to go before I could pitch my tent ad settle down for the night.

Finally I turned right into the Llanthony Priory and was met by a young chap with an Australian accent. "Another cyclist!" he declared and this accusation I found hard to deny, standing, as I was, astride my bike. I asked him whether the pub was still serving, he confirmed that it was, so in I went to the most amazing pub interior I have ever seen. The bar was effectively part of the vaults of the priory with buttresses set in the angles of a gothic arch. I marched straight to the bar, confirmed that food was still being served, ordered the soup followed by the beef stew and told the barman that I would go and pitch my tent while my meal was being prepared.

Fifteen minutes later my tent was up and my bed was made, so I sat down in the gentle company of the Rev. James to tackle the job in hand. THe soup was absolutely superb and the stew was even better. After my second pint of the Rev. I was ready for the fruit crumble with ice cream and that, followed by coffee, was sufficient for one evening's eating. I had found that there were no showers on site but just a public bog on the far side of the public car park. I marched over there, armed with my flannel and soap, determined to have what my sister-in-law describes so delicately as an "under-arm-under-leg wash" and hoped that no-one would barge in on me when so occupied. They didn't, and, devoid as I was of any sort of signal with which to let my dear wife know of my progress, I settled down to sleep, with a pair of tawny owls singing a lullaby.

[Wowbagger]

Tuesday 13th August

It was quite a long walk to the bogs at 5 am, but a necessary one. It enabled me, once I returned to my sleeping bag, to stay there until almost 8 am. In fact, the night was particularly warm, so much so that I spent a good deal of it outside my sleeping bag. There had been some rain and I put away a wet tent. That, though, is an inevitability of camping: what I found more irksome were the wasps.

I have a packing technique which is a bit faffy, but works for me. I like to empty the tent onto an old groundsheet and then pack the bags in the same way each time. The problem was that I had left some sweet things open. There was a packet of fig rolls, my breakfast stuff (porridge oats with milk and honey)m some Welshcakes and some chocolate, all of it giving off lovely sweet aromas for the wasps to home in on. Gradually I managed to isolate each source of sweetness and pack stuff away, but it was fraught with difficulty.

Before leaving I took some photos of the Priory.



A pub





Eventually I left the camp site and turned right towards Hay on Wye and the Gospel Pass. Jan and I had ridden this road a few years ago on our tandem and I knew that there were no terrors in it, even though it is the highest road in Wales. For the most part it is a long, steady grind and only in a couple of places does the gradient increase sufficiently to make it necessary to push a fully-laden tourer.

There was some rain in the air and from habit I had put my waterproof on. However, it wasn't long before I realised its boil-in-the-bag properties made it pointless wearing it. The weather was warm, I was generating a lot of heat and the rain wasn't that heavy, so I stopped to remove it and cycle in just one layer. it was at that point that my Australian acquaintance from the previous evening arrived.

We rode together and, as you do when you are touring alone, struck up a partnership for the morning. Hamish, for that was his name, is a penny-farthing enthusiast, although for this particular ride he had selected the more practical solution of a Surly Long-haul Trucker. He is acquainted with our own Joff Summerfield, OTP, and has been touring in Britain since late June. He has been doing JoGLE but with offshoots and he had taken two or three days out from his schedule to ride over the Severn bridge and enjoy a loop up NCN42 as far as Hay, and then take to NCN 8 for his return to Cardiff via the Taff Trail, thence back to Bristol by train to continue his journey to Land's End. He was very pleased when I told him that his selected route for the day was indeed Wales's highest road.



We also discussed bees. Hamish is a specialist in bee diseases working for the Australian Min. of Ag. I told him of my 9 years' beekeeping experience, brought to a sad end by the dreaded varroasis jacobsoni. Hamish told me that bee scientists now considered that v. jacobsoni was actually a separate sub-species and the real nasty is known as v. destructor. Australia is the only continent from which varroa is absent, although Hamish feels certain that it will turn up one day.



Intrepid cyclists on the Gospel Pass. I'm trying to beat the self-timer and failing: after pressing the button I had to cross a cattle grid.

Back to the matter in hand, that of climbing the highest mountain pass in Wales. I'm pretty sure that Hamish was not accustomed to riding as slowly as I do (well, very few people are!), and a couple of times his front wheel hit the bank at the side of the road. I mentioned that it was worth being aware of the "false flat" at the top of the Gospel pass and that when Jan and I rode it on the tandem I suddenly realised, with no effort, that we were travelling in excess of 30 mph. We stopped on the way up for a few photos, but once over the summit we both gathered speed quite quickly. At one point Hamish was riding so close to the edge o the road that his wheels were precariously balanced between grass and tarmac. I asked him why he rode so close to the edge and apparently he started doing this on some of the narrow Scottish roads. I encouraged him to ride closer to the middle.

The descent into Hay is quite a treacherous one as the road has a tendency to have loose gravel on its surface, it is narrow and also quite winding. I kept feathering my brakes as I find that the rims and the Swiss-stop Blue blocks take a while after heavy rain to generate any friction. Accordingly, the point at which I became aware that I had a problem with my glasses I was able to brake to almost nothing when the right lens fell out.

I retrieved it from the road surface and tried to ride with just the one lens, but it was impossible: darkened varifocals need both lenses or none. I took my glasses off and rode with them in my pocket, which was strange. My distance vision is not too bad but even so, with the wind battering my eyeballs it was an uncomfortable experience. We wandered through the town looking or an optician's and eventually one of the cafés told me where there was one. I took my glasses there, was invited to leave them and went for lunch with Hamish. I had to ask the waitress to read the menu to me.

An hour or so later Hamish and I parted company as he was intending to have an easy day looking around bookshops and was intending to camp in or near Hay that night. I couldn't tell him of any camp sites, but I did point him in the direction of a camping shop I had visited last year when cycling in the area. My glasses now mended, I pottered off along the B-road towards Glasbury, the Black Mountains now behind me.



From the bridge at Glasbury.



Is that Fan y Big in this?

This was a repeat of my ride last year when I visited Llandovery and Rhandirmwin. The Wye to my left, the ride is just a long and gentle climb. I stopped at the tea room in Erwood for tea and Welshcakes, and had a conversation with a couple of other customers. I passed "Boatside", the excellent small camp site where the owners had treated me to breakfast on the first morning, and climbed the hill into Builth Wells. I suddenly remembered, which I don't think I did when I was here last year, that we had ridden through Builth on a ride organised by Chris N, of this very parish.

I was just in the process of trying to find my route out of the town when I happend upon a prostration of Trice riders whom I briefly engaged in conversation. They were heading out towards the Devil's Staircase, up which they intended to ride. I rode down this particular feature last year and it's a succession of twists, all around the 1 in 4 mark. Quite frightening and if they made it, mucho respecto!







A red kite in a glowering mid-Wales landscape.

The road climbed an climbed and as it did so it became narrower. It was undoubtedly very pretty but eventually I met a closed gate behind which was the stony surface of a track. it was time for the dreaded Comedy Off-Road.





Cyclist have been this way!

Initially it wasn't the track's stony surface which was a problem. It was the overhanging brambles. I had to find my way through them without lacerating my legs. However, the stones became looser, and inconsistently so, so I had to pay more and more attention to the surface I was riding on and less of my attention went on admiring the view. Clearly cycles had ben along this path as there were plenty of tyre tracks, but the lack of road surface, indeed, some rather nasty pot-holes, seemed to go on for a very long time. Then there was the climbing: the sort of gradient that would have presented no problem with a decent surface became nigh-on unrideable with the loose stuff under my tyres. Include the occasional muddy puddle and that gave you about 4 miles of slow, arduous progress when I really wanted to get on with it. It had been 8.30 before I had reached the camp site the previous evening and I wanted at least some daylight by which to eat my dinner.

Eventually the road returned just before Llanwrthwl, at which point I decided I had had enough of the oficial Sustrans route for one day and took to the now almost deserted A470 for the final 4 miles or so into Rhayader. I bought milk and one or two other bits and pieces in the Spar shop and then found the campsite where I had a brief conversation with a tandemist, pitched my tent and prepared my dinner - rump steak fried with onions and rice followed by Welshcakes. Marvellous stuff!



The showers were good, the washing up facilities excellent, there were a couple of other cyclists around the place but the biggest group was a bunch of off-road 4*4 enthusiasts, whose monster vehicles took up a great deal of the camp site. There was a discussion between a couple of these blokes and someone I took to be one of the site wardens about night-time noise - it appeared that the group had gone out for some night-time environmental damage the previous day and had returned at some most unsocial hour, waking people with their roaring engines.

One life - bugger it up for everyone else!

[Wowbagger]

Wednesday 14th August

The sun shone briefly first thing and I was beginning to think that the forecast for a damp week was going to prove to be incorrect. However, by the time I had eaten, abluted and packed up, a fine Welsh drizzle was falling. I returned my gate card to the warden and asked about the weather forecast. He checked. "This has set in for the day. Sorry!"

It wasn't unpleasant cycling. I just didn't bother with my waterproof as I was warm. A bit of damp didn't matter.

My first stop for the day was the waterfall from which Rhayader gets its name. Rhaeadr is the Welsh ford for "waterfall" and the name of the town is "Rhaeadr Gwy", or "Waterfall on the River Wye". I had been sending my grand-daughter daily messages with pictures, mostly about the rivers on which my trip was based, and a photo of the waterfall was a must. It wasn't that spectacular as there hadn't been a great deal of rain in the area, but there it was.



My first village of the day was Llangurig, also on the river Wye. The A470 follows the east bank, but I was on the west, following the minor road I had ridden a couple of times previously.

I had just started along this road when I spotted two cyclists ahead of me. I suffered from the delusion that I would catch them up, but even though I could see them a few hundred yards ahead each time I started a long climb, by the time I reached the flat or a downhill they were out of sight again. I thought that they were probably the two cyclists I had seen at the camp site, but I wasn't sure.

The mist and drizzle intensified, but I had no need for my waterproof. The weather was perfectly warm enough and I was working quite hard, one or twice having to get off and push. On one descent my bar bag suddenly headed south and rested against the stem: the supporting cable had snapped as a result of the bag bouncing around over several thouhsand miles' use. I simply removed the bag and stuck it under the bungees at the back and carried on, it suddenly dawning on me what an annoying source of noise a bar bag is. The ride was much more peaceful and pleasant without it there.

Eventually, I found Llangurig, just as wet as the last time I went there. However, there was a tea room, of a sort, in a gift shop right by the junction. In I went and there were the two cyclists I had seen ahead of me. We conversed, although the chap was a bit taciturn. It turned out that he was an audaxer in remission. They lived in Llanberis and were heading home, basically along the Lon Las Cymru. He explained that he had discovered girls (his friend interjected "Somewhat belatedly!") and had given up audaxing. His decision had been helped by a falling-asleep-at-the-wheel-after-a-200 incident on the M56. I deliberately didn't mention any of the names I felt sure he would know as I could see signs of a 500-yard stare returning. I talked about cake instead.

They left a little before I did, and again he warned of the hills ahead, as though anyone would cycle the long diagonal of Wales unaware that they were in for a bit of climbing. Knowing these things, I was also acutely aware that the next 5 miles or so, over the top to Llanidloes, would see me traverse the Wye-Severn watershed, and watersheds tend to be high. (Incidentally, some while ago one of our London-based brethren once remarked how rivers didn't matter to cyclists any more. I won't embarrass him by mentioning his name but if he seriously believes that he should try touring in Wales, where every pair of rivers is separated by an enormous mountain, or Norfolk, where there just aren't any bridges over them because the economic activity has never been sufficiently great to warrant the expense of building one).

The moment I left the main road I started climbing, and it was too steep to ride. As I trudged up the hill a cheery local hailed me.

 "Don't get off - you aren't half way yet!"
 
 "Actually," I replied, "given that I started on Monday in Chepstow I think I probably am!"
 
He was suitably impressed.

The climb towards Llanidloes was actually not that long. The Wye and the Severn are quite odd in some respects. They rise within a mile or two of each other in the Pumlumon Fawr range, the highest bit of the Cambrians. The Wye then meanders gently southwards through Wales whilst the Severn heads eastwards on a slumming expedition in a great arc through England, visiting Shrewsbury, Worcester, Tewkesbury and Gloucester on the way to meet the Wye again where the old M48 Severn Bridge crosses them both, in two spans. Once I was about 1100' up I stopped climbing and had a gentle meander through the drizzle to Llanidloes for lunch. I had read of the Great Oak café and found it fairly easily, in Great Oak Street. It was rated as a very good whole food café so in I went.

Everything was veggie. I opted for a rather good vegetable madras and some tea. There was quite a lot of salad to go with the madras and rice and I felt that any flatulence experienced during the afternoon would be useful as a form of rudimentary jet propulsion to help me climb the much bigger watershed between the Severn and the Dyfi. It occurred to me that they shouldn't really be allowed to call it "whole food" because they always miss the best bits (meat) out.

After my calories I was ready for the afternoon's climb. I had done my best to keep my speed up during the day as Kim was due to meet me in Machynlleth and her train arrived at 4.46pm. I sent her a text message to say that I thought I would be more likely to arrive around 5.45, and then I set off.

The Severn was on my left but, magnificent though it is when it is more mature, at this stage it is a mere infant, tumbling merrily from pool to pool, sometimes almost narrow enough to jump across. The weather was doing its best to increase the flow, but again it was mostly fairly easy cycling. I did get back up to 1000' in the Hafren forest, and descended ust below that figure by the time I reached Staylittle. I turned left onto the B4518, which had very little traffic on it, and was diverted briefly by a large bird of prey on a post. I'm pretty sure it was a buzzard, but it had the palest colouring of any I had ever seen. It flew off when I stopped to get a better look.

Soon came the left turn towards Dylife, and the major climb of the day. The rain was still falling and very shortly I was going steeply up to meet it. I thought about stopping at the Star pub but in the end didn't bother. I knew I would drink beer if I went in there and the alcohol would affect my already substandard ability to climb. I didn't want to keep Kim waiting in poor weather.

Given that I was already 1000' feet above sea level, and that the top of this mountain was about 1650' and the highest point of NCN8 (the Gospel Pass is on NCN 42) I calculated that all I had to do was, in effect, two Mighty North Hills (Essex residents will know what I mean). Thinking about it in those terms actually made it quite manageable psychologically, although it was rather steeper than the approach to Little Baddow from Paper Mill Lock. However, there were no chevrons, at least, not on my side, so I was able to ride almost all of it.

I had read that the late Wynford Vaughan Thomas, the renowned Welsh broadcaster, considered that the view from this mountain was the finest in the whole of Wales.



Something told me that it wasn't going to be my day in that respect. However, I finally did reach the rather odd waymarker at the top



and put my waterproof on for what was going to be a long and speedy descent - about 1600' of it.

I was still in the cloud to begin with, but after a couple of hundred feet of descending the view opened up.



The photo doesn't do it justice, but I could see the roads snaking away for about 6 miles, seemingly leaping from ridge to ridge. It was pretty windy on the top so I kept my speed down initially, but then temptation became too great and I allowed the bike to go a bit more. Down, down, down I went, back into the trees, past a few houses, and then, on a straight bit a mile or two before I reached Machynlleth, there was a recumbent rider coming up the hill towards me. It was Kim.

I felt quite emotional when we greeted one another as I hadn't seen another human for quite a few hours and it was such a great feeling to be in the company of friends again. "How absolutely bloody marvellous to see you!" said I. Then practical considerations needed to be addressed.

"What are we doing about food tonight?" I asked.

"I have already got enough for me," Kim replied.

Right on cue, a Co-op appeared and I went and bought some fresh pasta with chilli, milk, Welshcakes, that sort of thing, and then we trundled through the town, over the Dyfi and up towards the Centre for Alternative Technology where we camped for the night. There were the two cyclists with whom I had been conversing earlier, as well as a couple of Italians with a Bob Yak and a rather older New Zealander who had a bike with a Y-frame trailer. He was heading south.

We pitched our tents, Kim experimented with the ladies' shower, the rain stopped for long enough for me to wash and try to dry some clothes, I found that the men's shower was rather more effective than Kim's description of the ladies', and with lots of rain forecast we retired to our tents and slept.

[Wowbagger]

Thursday 15th August

There was rain again in the night and the drizzle persisted to one intensity or another until breakfast. The river, a little below the tent, was considerably more swollen than it had been the night before. Knowing that Nikki would be joining us, I delayed lighting the stove until I saw her on the road above the camp site. Then the bacon went on.

I found it quite hard to get going this morning. Nikki, of course, was all packed up, having got off an early train, and Kim is a much more efficient packer than I am. Then I lost a tent peg, one of my lovely gold-coloured Hilleberg ones, so we searched for that for a while. Eventually I found it it a patch of longer grass.

We set off towards Corris, knowing that there was more - considerably more - climbing to do. We turned right at the crossroads, I was forced to push my bike and the others waited patiently at suitable intervals for me to catch up. We passed some slate quarries and Kim suggested that we filmed an episode of Doctor Who while we were up here. I had to have the joke explained to me.





Corris is only about 300' above sea level (it feels a lot more) but soon the road became unrideable. Even Kim, who rarely gets off to push, found progress difficult and sent her pulse skywards as she tried to spin up the near-vertical road surface.

We left the "road" through a gate and joined a track. Its surface wasn't too bad, but it was immensely steep. After a huge effort we reached the top, at about 1350', but not before we had greeted a whole group of cyclists coming the other way. Then came teh descent, which was not nearly so steep. Another gate introduced us to the A470, which was not busy and Kim had ridden it before, so we took it. Eventually we arrived at the Cross Foxes and took a left turn towards Dolgellau.

Now came another easy descent. There were road works and the traffic was being controlled in single lanes, so I just let the bike go and sat up, allowing the breadth of my chest to act as a wind break. Even so, I think I topped 35 mph.

I had remembered that there was a hardware shop in Dolgellau and set about looking for it. It didn't take me long to find the old Parliament House with the name T. H. Roberts above the door, but, incredibly, it was now an up-market coffee shop. All the old shelves and cubby holes were still in place, but here we bought lunch rather than paraffin. It had taken us about 3 hours to cover 13 miles.

Something has to be said about the chocolate fudge cake in a glass cabinet on the counter. Even though we had all had a perfectly adequate first course, I felt that we owed it to medical science to find out what such a cake was capable of doing to three touring cyclists. I bought us half a slice each and it didn't take long for it to disappear. I believe Kim and Nikki spent some time photographing it.

When we emerged, the sun was shining and we felt quite optimistic for the afternoon. I found the hardware shop and, since the paraffin was sold in gallon containers, I went for a litre of barbecue lighting fuel. That would keep us going for the rest of the trip. We then pottered off towards the Mawddach Estuary path and the Barmouth Bridge.



After Barmouth we got onto the A road and, with the wind behind us, we cracked on at a fair old pace. We had seen the weather forecast and there had been some discussion about our accommodation for the night. I had found a particular camp site but Nikki, whose grandparents had lived in Talsarnau, knew of Barcdy, which was further north and would therefore put less pressure on us the following morning when we might well be pressed for time: Kim had a train to catch at Criccieth. I also suggested the possibility of spending the night at the youth hostel in Llanbedr, but that too was more southerly, so Barcdy it was.

Just before we arrived, we passed through Talsarnau and Nikki pointed out her grandparents' house. We also noted the Ship pub, as the rain was becoming more and more intense. Eventually we turned right into the camp site and found the reception area.

"Do you do special rates for cycle campers?" I enquired.

The woman at the desk looked at me, then at Kim and Nikki. She took pity on us.

"I can sign you in as an adult and two children," she suggested. "That will be £9 per adult and £3 per child."

I was very pleased with my bargaining skills.

Then came the time to erect the tents. The wind was howling off the sea, the rain was sheeting down horizontally and we were trying to put tents up. I did a bit of calculation. Fortunately the grass was perfectly level, so I didn't have to account for my feet being higher than my head, and I pointed the foot-end of my tent's footprint directly into the wind and pegged it out. It instantly became a lake. Then I stretched the tent over it, inserted the poles and pegged everything out, double-pegging the ropes at the windward end. It was up, but it was undergoing a pretty severe test of its Hillebergness. I checked all round. At the windward end, the fly sheet reached the ground. All around the tent, water was draining away onto grass. Nowhere did the footprint stick out to collect any rain. I felt that was the best I was going to manage, pumped up my downmat, spread my sleeping bag and silk liner and then thought about food.

"I'm certainly not going to cook in this!" I declared, knowing that the pub was not a great distance away. Nikki, who was relying on me for a stove and fuel, had little choice. Kim, who has a meths Trangia, which is better suited to porch cooking than is my paraffin monstrosity, and who was in any case running out of dry clothes to change into, decided to stay put and cook for herself. Nikki and I mounted our steeds once more and headed back along the road towards Talsarnau.

The pub had recently been refurbished and after an initial difficulty because they restaurant door was not unlocked, we went in by the front entrance, were seated at a table, and then ordered a drink and perused the menu. Again I plumped for the most calorific items I could find: soup, a curry and sticky toffee pudding. Nikki selected scampi and we did a bit of filthy food-swapping along the way. The beer was Marston's Pedigree, not my favourite real ale, but a perfectly decent pint nonetheless, and slowly but surely some of the moisture was driven off by our body heat. There was some discussion of the merits of different food types and at the end there remaineth these three: cacen, cyri and cwrw; but the greatest of these is cwrw.

A couple of hours later we emerged to find that the rain had almost stopped but the wind was still blustering and buffeting us as we cycled back towards the campsite.

I found some clean, dry clothes, ensconced myself in the disabled shower, where there was a good-sized table for spreading stuff out, dried, dressed, washed through some garments and headed back towards my tent. I hadn't been there very long when the rain started again, and I've never heard such rain on a flysheet. It hammered down for hours, but I was now sufficiently exhausted that I slept for some considerable time. At 3 am the rain was still at it. I was thinking about visiting the lavatory but it was not nearly so desperate that I was prepared to venture out in that. I checked the Met Office website (there was a reasonable signal at Talsarnau) and the forecast was for the rain to blow itself out overnight and for Friday to be warm and sunny. My bowels, I thought, could wait a little longer and, indeed, by 5 am the rain had stopped and the wind had dropped. Waterproof on, sandals on, and off I trotted, arriving back just in time to hear Kim stirring within her tent. I settled down again and slept for another couple of hours and when I awoke for the last time the camp site was bathed in sunshine. It was a beautiful morning.

[Canardly]

Excellent stuff

[Wowbagger]

Friday 16th August

Dawn could scarcely have been more different from the hours of darkness that preceded it. We awoke to bright sunshine peeping over the hills behind the campsite and quickly went into action. Nikki, nurturing a fine addiction to hot muesli, needed milk to be boiled. I used the surplus, topped up with cold, on my porridge oats. We had some bacon rolls. Kim ate whatever Kim eats or breakfast.

We had a schedule to keep to, based upon Kim's train which let Criccieth a few minutes before 2 pm. There had been an issue as to whether the bridge would be open, and once we discovered that it would, we were much happier as otherwise a long, hilly diversion towards Maentwrog would have been in order.

As we were dismantling the tents, Nikki found that she had shared hers with a small friend.



Shortly we were off and waiting for the lights so that we could cross the bridge.



The day was warming up nicely as we pottered towards Nikki's Auntie Megan's house near Minfordd. When we arrived we received a very Welsh welcome, and the offer of drinks and sustenance. I had coffee and as much home-made bara brith as Auntie Megan could throw at me. Nikki and Kim had cold drinks and rather fewer calories. Soon we left, with this view.



Some time later we had another estuary to cross, by The Cob.







and eventually after some climbing, we arrived in Criccieth. There was a bakery open just around the corner from the station and we bought ham salad rolls for lunch. Kim's train arrived at the appointed time and there were just the two of us. We headed along the A road for a while, but when the turning or Llanystumdwy appeared, we took it. I had a recollection that there was a statue o David Lloyd George there, but although there was a museum and a bust, we couldn't find a statue. We took a few minutes to pay our respects at his graveside.



From that point on, the afternoon became a bit of a route march as we were heading due west and the headwind was hard work. Also, we were on a B road, probably the busiest road we had used, ad the constant stream of overtaking cars was beginning to become wearing. Finally we reached Morfa Nefyn and I declared my intention that I needed an ice cream.

We belted down the hill into Edern, but the only shop visible was the butcher's. We climbed a hill towards a post office, but when we arrived we found that it closed at noon each day. A conversation with some locals indicated that the butcher also sold ice cream, so, much to Nikki's amusement, I descended again, scoffed a Solero and rejoined her at the top of the hill.

This coast road was also irritating so, just before Tudweiliog, we turned off onto a tiny lane. This was mostly traffic free, but in one or two places there were large numbers of cars where their owners had been to the beach. We arrived just as they were thinking of packing up for the night and we had to negotiate the occasional 4*4.

After a lot of effort we arrived at the Porth Colmon campsite, and, disappointingly, we could see the weather on the turn. The wind had risen and there was obvious heavy rain out to sea, from clouds that, for the moment, were travelling parallel to the coast. We agreed that our priorities were pitch the tents, cook some food and then have a look at the sea.

This time I had to point my porch into the wind because of the slope to the camp site. Again I double-pegged the windward end and made my bed. Nikki had carried two pouches of quick rice and two tins of chilli with her from Birmingham, so we ate those and followed up with Welsh cakes and some chocolate. I had a bottle of beer and was part-way through drinking it whilst Nikki went for her shower when a labrador pup named Millie came and threw herself at me. She was an absolute delight if you don't mind being slapped by about 20lb of wet dog, and I didn't. Millie's owners wer quite embarrassed.

I thought about a shower but there was no light in the loos. I washed up after our meal, mistakingly putting olive oil into the (cold) washing up water instead of detergent, got it right second time and returned to the tents. We then strolled down to the beach where the place was deserted. Never one to give up easily, I walked to the water's edge and put my hand in to test the temperature. I'd had worse and was just contemplating taking all my clothes off when my phone rang. It was my younger daughter asking for some advice on hiring men-with-ven for her move to Oxford for her MA next month. I told her that she had just saved Nikki from witnessing me gallumphing into the sea naked, Nikki called out her thanks to my daughter and my daughter appreciated the joke.

The sun had gone and after a little more small talk we retired to our tents. I made the tactical error of leaving the remaining Welsh cakes, jelly babies and chocolate within reach of my bed and by morning they had all gone. At some stage during the night I had disappeared off to the loo and, after returning to my bed, to my complete amazement the next thing I knew was that it was 8.15.