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.