Something, clanking, this way comes.

I felt the urge to do a little more writing on this blog that is mainly unrelated to the subject of touring. My bike, on Saturday, showed itself to have developed a problem of unknown origin that caused a strange feeling of shame in me as I cycled towards Bristol centre that day.
Having investigated the rear of the bike repeatedly, at intervals of roughly twenty feet, I came to the conclusion that whatever the problem was, it was unlikely to be solved by staring at it in frustration at the side of the cycle path.

I had a strange thought that, when combined with my reading of a possible inclusion in my dissertation for this year, The Sadeian Woman, induces a mildly philosophical feeling. Why is it that I seem to anthropomorphize my bicycle to the extent that my feeling of shame, associated with the conspicuous clanking of a seemingly serious fault, is more associated with the feeling that I am somehow broadcasting my misuse of my mode of transport?
I felt, to put it plainly, that I'd been neglectful of a creature I am duty-bound to care for and that the noise it was emitting was simply a cry to others of my mistreatment. When I think about this logically, it seems like a very strange thing to feel!

Anyway, having also been watching David Starkey's Monarchy, Episode 2, I'm feeling strangely eloquent. I best, for that reason only, retreat into my reading again before somebody gets the impression I'm well-read or something similar.

ps. I'd very much like to know how to change the time on blogger. It's 6:40pm. 

Day 2: water water everywhere...

The next day that dawned was unremittingly wet. Having expected us to get up somewhat earlier than we actually did, I got some reading done this morning. However, having lain inactive during the (as I found out) only dry part of the morning, we got up to dress and pack up in a steady drizzle that didn't end until we went inside for breakfast. I'm ashamed to say that, being completely unused to camping and moving on, I was somewhat useless in terms of packing up.

Having returned from the shower to find that Dan had mostly packed up the tent and the tarp and put the panniers on the bike and done our dishes, I sheepishly went to put away the fire-tray and we left, soggy and a little the worse for the late night 'marshmallowing'.

We headed first into Brecon to get food (of which we ate much) and finally rolled out of Brecon at past 2pm: somewhat of a late start considering the distance we had to travel. During our meal, we left the bikes outside the cafe. Dan's bike was the subject of many stares, and we had a good giggle at how many people seemed to walk around it, hands on their chins, muttering.

We were heading for Llanidloes, which was a good-sized portion of our Wales distance and a not-too-ambitious ride. Soon enough though, it became evident that the rain with which we had begun the day was not going away.

We came to the highest point on the journey so far, Dan resolutely taking pictures of me following him up the 16% gradient hill preceding it.

 Me, heading up the hill. 

...and still heading up the hill. Sadly, the camera doesn't really show the steepness as much as I'd like. 

  
At the top of the climb, was mainly flat but very very windy. Dan's flag, as you can see, is fluttering madly. 

As I said, it was also very wet.

While stopping to take the above pictures, I donned my waterproof jacket to prevent the wind freezing me, and we began the descent. Dan didn't think I was going fast enough, I think. To me, a windy road on a steep downhill with no barriers nor windbreaks of any kind, warrants extra caution on the corners. He, on the other hand, silently overtakes me on the right-hand bends... 

We followed the cycle route down many obscure and winding lanes after this point, always looking out for the route 8 signs. The search reminds me somewhat of the novel, Kushiel's Dart, where following a Tsingani (traveller) route through the countryside involves such direction markers as bent twigs sticking out of grass verges. True to previously settled form, the signs were rarely more than a simple sticker of a red square with the number eight in it, pasted onto any convenient post, and rarely contained any more detail than that. We discovered the unforeseen issue with this slightly later in the trip. 

We had just (so we thought) got to around the middle of the maze of single-lane B-roads south of Rhayader when we came across the, now much talked of, 'Ancient Coach Road'. Little did we know that, although it began simply as a gate with a muddy track behind it (of course, labelled with simply an eight), it was set to be one of the most time-consuming and difficult portions of our whole journey. We soon found that, after having to jointly push Dan's bike up the hill because the mud was too deep for him to cycle it, the road was simply a set of three, often very deep, ruts which gave way intermittently to very bad, rocky road surface that happened to be periodically bisected by streams with steep, near foot-high banks on either side. 

This stretch of track could not have been much over four miles long, which is barely fifteen minutes of cycling for me on a road with good surface and no mountain. This stretch took us much longer than we had anticipated. Dan's panniers kept beaching on the grass either side of the ruts, and he was having quite a bit of trouble with the rocky terrain. I got off relatively easily, carrying less weight. It wasn't the most cheery of journeys, especially in the pouring rain. 

 It was so wet that we couldn't take clear photos, because Dan's camera lenses were steaming up. 

 We stopped at a couple of points along this stretch for snacks, and made liberal use of the biltong and marzipan.

We finally arrived at the end of the track, at close to 7pm. We had lost near two hours of our journey for want of a good road surface, and wisely determined to stop at the next accommodation that we came across, rather than travel on to Llanidloes at such a late hour to camp. We found one place on our route that advertised accommodation, but didn't actually provide it. Luckily, after another hour or so of cycling, we finally reached Rhayader and got a room at The Elan Hotel. It was still pouring with rain as we hauled ourselves indoors, apologetically covered in mud. 

Our stay there was perhaps the nicest part of our whole day. They were very friendly and accommodating, and offered a locked shed in their car park for the storing of our bicycles, and some very tasty food.

We, after a very quick wash and change, a good meal and a chance to dry off, went to bed in much more comfort than we had anticipated at any point during the day.

Day 1 (or day 10): A Beginning....

I'm back from the trip now. I had intended to blog this consistently, but I had not really contemplated that it would bee quite so difficult to get wifi or 3G connection. That said, here it is.

This is our route. Dan tells me that this is not the route we took, but since I remember what it looked like, rather than its shape on a map, this will have to do unless he improves on the detail.

We had some bike troubles on the night that I arrived at Dan's house. These were not troubles with my bike, of course, but with Dan's. His stand was almost completely seized and rather wobbly; we were up until late making sure everything worked, and pulling like crazy at the giant alan key.
Eventually, it was fixed, and the morning was spent packing with this result:

 The first view of the duck-related articles.

To my lasting shame, Dan's version is entirely more impressive than mine. Sadly, he was to be proved right in that it would be much quicker if I were to carry nothing but emergency gear. My pack consisted of a set of lights, my wet weather gear, a set of dry base layers, arm and leg warmers and my fleecy-snuggly softshell. In short, it boiled down to this: 

Well, soon enough we were on our way. Our trip that day was Route 47 of the National Cycle Network, for the most part.The track was good in the beginning, but punctuated by very awkward access controls that seemed to get narrower and more awkward as the day progressed. It was not long after these had taken a turn for the muddy-and-awkward that we came upon an unusual little teashop where a very kindly gentleman was good enough to bring us tea through his stable yard.

 Dan, map-reading at the cafe.

 Dan's bike in the stable-yard.

After this pleasant stop we were warned vehemently by a young boy, who was travelling with his father, about the following 'Hump-Backed Bridge of Hell' and subsequent huge hill. The bridge section certainly deserved the warning, as it was situated at the very bottom of a steep descent and would almost certainly have caused me to flounder on my still-fresh SPD's (my disengagement was still a little uncertain). Luckily, with warning, we survived its almost legendary hump.

The following climb was possibly the only one that we had to do entirely on foot, as someone had (unwisely, I may add) decided to insert steps onto a steep and winding hill and leave a narrow gutter-track to the side of the steps for the wheeling of bicycles. This proved highly inconvenient with Dan's full touring load and required a good deal of joint manual handling in order to get it around the corners. Regrettably, we've no pictures of this, being simply too frustrated by the time we got to the top to bother taking any. 

The next stage of the journey was speedy and relatively uneventful. We were mostly on railway-path route from that point onwards, with only the regular addition of access controls too narrow to fit our handlebars through to break up the otherwise speedy progress. A stop of few minutes on a viaduct near to Methyr Tydfil supplied some gorgeous views and the nomming of snacks. 

On the onward journey, in our search for helpful meals, we stopped at a lovely narrow-gauge railway station where a steam train was being set up for its journey. Unluckily, the cafe contained no promising or substantial food. We did however manage to get some lovely pictures of the process.

Me, heading off to try to find food.

The steam train getting its dosage of (Dan assures me) water.






After this, we got into the Brecon Beacons proper, which happened to contain some stunning views, exhausting climbs, and missing signposts. We did get lost at a few of the junctions, the signs for Route 8 that we were following being either conspicuously absent, or misleading (I shake my fist at SusTrans). We were running late by the time we took these photos, having finally found the proper route on our most major misstep.

 Badly-surfaced path, "woo touring-load!"

A nostalgic snapshot for Dan, of the very area that he and some friends 'camped' on on a previous trip to the Beacons. 

We had a brilliant descent off the mountains on a path just technical enough to be fun for me and challenging for Dan on his fully-laden bike, and finally rolled into Brecon in a tired but confused state to find the campsite that I had booked. It was everything we had hoped for, and after a dinner of seasoned cous-cous and eggs, we settled down to our log fire and a whole big bag of marshmallows.

Our yummy dinner (that Dan cooked, for the most part).  
I had bargained with the owner for half a dozen eggs and a slightly wrinkly red pepper. 

 Me, helping the fire to become blazey...

Mmmmm, marshmallows... 

Needless to say, we were up rather late....

Needing to rest my mind from the constant whirl of planning and making sure I've not forgotten anything, I decided to browse iplayer tonight. I found this, a very good film about the life of Oscar Wilde, that I've not seen before.

It seems to me to prove that others at least sympathise with my long-held view that Stephen Fry could be Oscar Wilde reborn, as he is cast in the title role and plays the part to perfection. Other notable characters are: Sphinx, by Zoe Wanamaker, of My Family and Harry Potter fame, and the actress who plays Elizabeth Bennett in the best BBC version of Pride and Prejudice (the one best known for Colin Firth as Mr Darcy).

Perhaps the most significant highlight was a particularly perfect recitation of part of the speech of Salome to  Jokanaan, in Salome, of course. I've never heard it read so well.

Perhaps I'm waxing slightly lyrical, but I can't get over all the positives. I'd very much recommend it.

Tomorrow I leave for the trip; time for bed I think.

Things to do!

It's the last day before I leave for Dan's house. I've a mountain of things to do, including:

• Servicing my bike, cleaning my chain and re-adjusting my pannier hooks.
• Re-waterproofing the rest of the items that need it (i.e. my day pack and Dan's full-finger gloves) and drying those things that have already been done. 
• Cleaning the bathroom, and washing all my dishes and making my room presentable enough to be a comforting place to come home to. 
• Unpacking all my items, and repacking them in the order they will be in when travelling, because now I have a dry-bag to make it possible. I've also to make sure I don't forget to pack some items... 
• Going to Zero G in Downend in order to get Dan some longer pannier bolts. 
• If I have time, clean and repair my flip-flops. 
• Buying all our travel money. 

 
Now that, because I need a to-do list, and I also need to write a blog entry, is me being efficient. It's all you're getting.

Yet more things...

Well, the leaving day is getting closer and closer, and I'm finding that my main feeling about it is amazement that I'm actually going away, on holiday, to a place where I've not been before. I'm trying to remember the last time this happened, and concluding that it hasn't since I last went on holiday with my parents - as a child.

Dan has provided a possible route plan for Ireland.


View Larger Map


We'll likely be camping at points B and D (a fact that caused a lot of amusing confusion last night). Dan, being cunning, arranged a 90mile route after point D for the final day in Ireland, but while managing to ensure that we are at no point on the route further than 35miles from Rosslare. His reasoning is that if we run short of time (our ferry is at 9pm), or I can't do the distance, we can turn and head directly to the ferry at any point. 

Today, I'm waiting for my last lot of parcels. My bottles from Wiggle, and my waterproof trousers have arrived so far, and I'm hoping for the main part of the Nikwax to come from Chain Reaction Cycles by tomorrow at the latest. 

Now, a very late lunch to be had. Bike done, squeezy bottle of chamois creme filled, small teflon spray completely forgotten: sounds like the day has gone just how I hoped. 

Listening to Ludovico Einaudi in case you were wondering.

A sleepless night...

Strangely, despite cycling over twenty miles yesterday, and doing half of that with full panniers, I simply cannot sleep. Instead, I decided to rough out a map of our tour route on googlemaps, for anyone who's interested. It's only the roughest estimate; I did it purely for the way points and the general route.

The Itinerary:

26^th August: Newport to Brecon.

• Accommodation @ Priory Mill Farm. Www.priorymillfarm.co.uk

27^th - 28^th August: Brecon to Harlech.

• Accommodation tba.

29^th August: Harlech to Caernarfon.

• Accommodation tba.

30^th August: Caernarfon & Anglesey.

• Accommodation booked @ 'The BoatHouse', http://www.boathouse-hotel.co.uk/

31^st August: Ferry from Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire.

• http://www.irelandholidaypark.com/camping/

1^st September: Second day @ Hidden Valley.

• http://www.irelandholidaypark.com/camping/

2^nd September: [something Dan perhaps has planned]

3^rdSeptember: Ferry from Rosslare - Fishguard 

•  http://www.beachhousebbpembrokeshire.co.uk/#!
  

 4^th September: Fishguard to Haverfordwest.

• via St David's & Pembrokeshire National Park.

5th September: Train from Haverfordwest to Newport.

I'm also toying with the idea of doing a kit list with pictures and reviews, but perhaps another time. It's amazing what sleeplessness can do for one's productiveness sometimes. I always used to get the most done when I couldn't sleep through exam periods. 

For now, he's are picture of a dusty me with a bottle. 

In the next field, to my right, is the tree on the hill from the last blog entry.

****

And with that, I give in and go play Skyrim. 

The Beginning of the End.

Well, I'm going on tour. It's been a while now since I decided to respond more to my inner nature (and my bank balance and dislike of car-parks), and cycle rather than drive. I do own a driving licence, unlike some people, but I've decided that biking is much cooler. I was inevitable, eventually, that I'd have to go on holiday in the same vein. 

Above: Dan's freshly washed tent arrangement (because it's the only picture I have so far).

 

The plan is to cycle up from Newport to Holyhead on Route 8 (for the most part) of the National Cycle Network. We'll be camping along the way, with diligently waterproofed camping gear. The next stage will involve a ferry to Ireland, and more camping. Really, we're camping most of the way; when you've spent as much on kit as I have, camping is pleasingly frugal. We'll cycle through the Wicklow mountains to Rosslare, and so take the ferry to Fishguard, passing on for a pleasantly light cycle towards the last, train-based, leg of the journey. All in all, Dan estimates it'll be around four hundred miles.

Notable events of the past few weeks:

Wells -

We used Route 3, that threads its way through the Mendips and around Chew Valley Lake. It was a lovely trip, involving us being too late to do many of the things we had thought to do there. There seems to be a wonderful quality to some cycle routes that involves carefully missing the direct route to one's destination at least a few score times before finally arriving there. At the last point, it was six miles to Wells and we took the main road in frustration; ergo, we've still no proof that Route 3 ever arrives at the town. For all we know, it could easily wind away infinitely, bringing one nearer, but never really closer to the destination. I choose to believe this is so; it's a magical route that mysteriously adds miles and intersections where there are none, and finally drifts upwards into the clouds and culminates in a miasma of white mist, with Wells nowhere to be seen.

Luckily, we did eventually arrive, after a stunning downhill of 11% gradient, and finished up the digesting of a large, late, lunch on the green in front of the Cathedral.

 On the green in front of Wells Cathedral. I suspect I caught Dan in a suave moment below.

 Below: me, in Wells Cathedral.

A rather impressive capture of a hill-top tree during our ride back from Wells (by Dan).

'New' SPD Pedals -

After weeks of putting off the inevitable, I finally decided to temporise and accept Dan's generous offer of an old set of SPD pedals that he didn't like. I must note here that if he had liked them, they'd likely not survive long enough to be fitted to their second bike. I cannot believe I left it so long to get SPD's.

I fell off. It must have been spectacular to watch, which now makes it a shame that no one had been recording my first few laps of the pavement in front of my house. I've, sadly, no pictures.

It happened thus:

I got on the bike, clipped into the pedals and began to ride. After a couple of laps, I felt comfortable enough with the release to take a rather tight U-turn on someone's driveway. I reached the second tight turn and the bike came to a stop. Unable to release my left foot from the pedal quickly enough, there followed a rather comic sideways tilt, from stationary, that ended in me hitting the concrete elbow-first and laying there in consternation for a moment until I worked out how to release my right foot. Needless to say, I've taken care not to do that again.

Here, one of the cruel SPD 'cleaty' shoes that hurt my elbow *pout*.

Devizes -

In my ineffable wisdom, I decided that, after the Wells trip, it would be sensible to attempt a seventy-mile round trip on my own (as that is the maximum intended mileage during the tour). I chose Devizes (pronounced Dev-eye-zes, as I learned during the trip) as a convenient point exactly 35.5 miles from Bristol.

I had not counted on the endless miles of puddle-strewn tow path, nor the recent rains... I arrived at Devizes, late, to a closed pub and a deserted car park, wet and plastered in mud. Lunch was a chunk of leftover marzipan, some crisp breads and a coconut water, sitting alone on a bench in the deserted beer garden. Cheerless is certainly the word. With company, it could have been nice; without, it was less so.

I shopped in Bath on the way home, and travelled the last fourteen miles in total darkness. I am sad not to have been able to photograph that; it was the queerest feeling of flying through a dreamlike mist with flies, lit white by my head torch, whipping past my face in the darkness. I saw not a single soul on the path until I reached Bristol. It was an eerie, unreal kind of journey: one that I'm likely to imagine I dreamt within a couple of years.

There are things still to do before I travel to Dan's house on Saturday 25^th August. In the meantime, I'm reading George Gissing's The Odd Women as part of my preparation for my final year at university. It's the most curious book; the most curious part so far has been an uncannily accurate depiction of someone I know. 

For the title of this blog, I'm indebted in the most fundamental way to Dan. Platypus will likely be coming with us, so I'll try to get some pictures of him posted up as soon as I can.