Herefordshire - Inching ever closer

Apologies for the delay!
15^th May, Falfield – Cravern Arms, 119km

After my ritual porridge and coffee I pack up the gear. I do it with a little more care than I might usually. Increasingly aware that the end is nigh, I attempt to savour the details of my habits. Everything is folded in the same manner each time. And everything has it's place in my bags – it never does pack down as well if something is out of place. It took only a few of the three hundred and seventeen days for me to realise that there's a certain comfort that comes with the routine I have adopted. That's one aspect of travel people tend to overlook. It's easy to get blinded by ideas of careless freedom and exploration. But like it or not we are creatures of routine. We only need observe the cycle of the sun to remember this – it's the only reference point we need. It's one of many reasons I expect polar travel would throw up a whole new level of challenges.

I speak to my girlfriend on the phone and we make plans to spend the final night of my journey together in Shrewsbury. I plan to ride most of the way today and have an easy morning tomorrow. The short sharp hills of Hereford ensure my lungs get periodic workouts throughout the day. They are not the kind of climbs that have me spitting and swearing – but enough to keep boredom at bay.

Having spent a few years screaming around this part of the world on a motorcycle I begin to recognise many of the towns I pass through. And, though it may make me unpopular with my biker-buddies, I'd say it's more enjoyable at the speed of the ambling cyclist. I follow river valleys and pick my way North through the county.

A gentle, yet penetrating, rain begins to fall. I take refuge under a broad leaf Oak in a layby. Lunchtime. I pop a tin of tuna while my side order of porridge comes upto heat. It's been a quiet morning – no verbal exchanges, and I opted for no music. There are times when the silence helps my absorb my surroundings. I pluck bunches of long grass to clean up my pans. Pack the bike. Wrestle with the clammy waterproofs. Turn the pedals.

By early evening I cross into Shropshire and reach the market town of Ludlow. I take a short break from the riding to walk through the town and admire the castle. Then, conscious that the day is disappearing, I roll on out of town. Following the river Corve I scan the road sides for a picturesque camping spot – this being the last night I shall spend in my tent. The soft evening light is oppressed by the persistent mizzle – I realise that “scenic” might be asking a bit much form tonight. Through a field entrance I spot a sheltered copse. I put up the tent and eat outside (despite the rain). Given tomorrows luxurious accommodation, tonight feels like my last night on the road – and it wouldn't do to let the rain sour my mood.

                                                                                                                                                                    

Here's a wee video I shot on my iphone

Bristol - The first of many reunions

13^th May, 35km, West Huntspil – Puxton

After a phonecall to my mother my plans for the day change some. I now have an easy day towards Bristol and tomorrow I will meet her in the city. I enjoy a slow breakfast and coffee on the banks of the river. I barely find a rhythm on the bike before my first stop at Weston Super Mare. I've never seen the fascination with English seaside towns. As a child I remember begging my parents for money to spend on the (even then) decrepit amusement parks. These days I notice more the decaying facades of shop fronts and the interesting period styling of the houses overlooking the promenade. The “glory days” of such places are gone for now it seems. On this particular Friday it's a fizzing fusion of coach tours and zimmer frames.

Weston-Super-Mare

As I have no pressing engagements I let the hours waft by. After making a suitable dent in my latest book I decide to head inland. A few supermarkets catch my eye as I leave. After snorting three raspberry trifles, a cornetto, a punnet of raspberries and a gingerbread man I make the decision to leave supermarket bins alone for a while – for no other reason than my gradually declining health.

I spot a sign for one of the National Cycle Network routes. Their paths often have a rural routing and therefore scope for camping areas. I sit in a nature reserve and soak up the evening sun before skulking off to a field to pitch up.

14^th May, 48km, Puxton – Bristol – Flafield

Thanks to epic condensation I don't break camp as swiftly as planned. Once the tent is dry, I roll it up, and hit the road. The easy day yesterday ensures my energy levels are topped up. The weather is fine and the riding is easy. I have the added incentive that I'm meeting my mother and her partner Bob in Bristol for the day.

The A38 takes me right into the centre. I'm surprised how quickly the scenery changes from ash trees and meadows to brick and tiles – there's very little sprawl to the south of the city.

After a warm reunion and lots of excitable chatter we get to exploring the city. Still very much in travelling mode my “hobo-radar” picks up on things like well located youth hostels and accessible dustbins. Around the floating harbour many old boats have been converted into cider bars – I think Britsol would be a top night out. Endless music venues elude to a good spectrum of live entertainment.

The Clifton Suspension Bridge

In the evening we part company. I am, of course, offered a lift home. It's harder to refuse than I expect. They then ask if they can take some of the things that I don't need – the guitar mainly. I hand over a hole-riddled tarp that needs throwing out. But I can't bring myself to part with anything else, much to their confusion, and mine too. I conclude it has something to do with finishing what I've started. And taking the easy route at this late stage would only serve to undermine all the moments of stuggle that have come before. I know that if I give them the trailer I would regret it – even if I do tend to refer to it as “the damn trailer”. I may have mentioned this earlier in the blog, but the company that makes the trailer is call B.o.b “Beast Of Burden”. Only once you've used one do you realise just how aptly it's named.

Rain begins to fall as I ride north out of the city – I start to wonder if not taking the lift was the wrong choice. Moments later I hear a toot behind me. By chance we are on the same route out of town. As they pass I realise that riding is the right thing to do. I wave as they disappear into the distance - all the while chuntering to myself at even considering the lazy option. I like to use quotes when I feel myself slipping off course. Not that I found the riding particularly painful but Lance Armstrongs "pain is temporary, quitting lasts forver" came to mind on this occasion.

I admire the seven bridges set against angry skies over South Wales. Over several miles thehousing density drops off and I begin the routine search for a tent sized patch of flat ground. A dirt lane leading to several fields provides all I need for the evening. I make sure my tent is out of the way should I get an early morning visit from a farmer looking to work his land.

England - Bristol Bound

10th May, 89km, Lanner – Widemouth Bay



I wake up groggy with feeling that I could have slept another twelve hours. I breakfast with Matt Sara and Amelia. Once Matt leaves for work I begin to pack my things. With a “toodle pip” to Sara and Amelia I throw my bags on the bike and get going. The monotony of the road soon has me exploring my thoughts once more - obvious reluctance and sadness to leave good friends and a place I love. I sense the steadily developing battle between apprehension and excitement about being home in less than a week. I make a note to savour every moment. Every drop rain, every toot or wave – it all feels more precious than ever.

Out of Redruth I join the A30 (the main spinal road through the county). It ain't pretty, but it is quick. Once through Truro I split left for a more coastal route. Up and down over and over again, the short hills are relentless, but satisfying.


By mid evening I make it to WideMouth Bay. I explore the coastal footpath and sure enough – a camping spot appears. I spend a very pleasant hour staring out at the Atlantic while waiting for darkness to fall.

11th May, 87km, Widemouth Bay – Simonsbath


I wake to the sound of the ocean – taking note that it could be the last time I do so on this trip. Outside the tent the sun is shining. There is no better start to a day. The few clouds there are race across the sky heading NorthEast – signifying a notable tailwind. I pack up the gear and then kill some time talking to my friend Mongy on the phone – old habits dies hard! It's eleven o'clock before I get going.

For those who can't afford Cornish Cream Tea: Bin muffins, bid rice pudding and jam.

I amble along tiny country lanes until I join up with the Atlantic Highway (known to most of us as the A39). I pass the historic fishing village of Clovelly – the resting place of my relatives the Shacksons. I spy a multitude of pretty thatched pubs with their tempting array of amber nectar. But as I've decided to finish the trip in true skinflint style I don't indulge.

I push on out of Bideford (a very cyclist friendly town) towards Exmoor Natinal Park. I battle with the usual ups and downs until the light threatens to leave for the day. It's my first visit to Exmoor and I'm a little disappointed. I'm sure the best of it is only revealed once you get off the beaten track. The hilly open moorland is perfect for camping.

12th May, 85km, Simonsbath – West Huntspil

The familiar patter of raindrops rouses me from sleep. It's early, I can afford to sleep a while longer. When I wake again the soundtrack hasn't changed. I pack away all that I can from inside the tent, by the time I vacate my nylon enclosure the rain has subsided. I finish the packing in double quick time. It's just as well I do as the landowner arrives just as I pull my water bottle form the packed bike.


The top of the moors is not a flat as I'd hoped. The hill are short but sufficiently steep to have me standing on the pedals and gritting my teeth. My progress North is slower than I'd hoped. The land drops away towards Taunton. My broken trailer twitches spontaneously and throws me off balance -  making the faster downhills more scary than “scary fun”.

Once through Taunton I seek out the country lanes and begin the search for tonight’s accommodation. I consider asking at farms, having not tried this approach yet in Blighty. Before the opportunity arrises I cross a river. From the bridge I spy the perfect spot. With several hours of light left I opt to cook for dinner. As my spaghetti bubbles away some locals arrive to test their speedboat. I chat with Oz. He's an ex professional wake boarder who now makes his bread instructing. I spend a very pleasant half an hour sitting on the bridge watching the boat (capable of one hundred miles per hour) kick up huge “rooster tails” and screaming off down the river towards the sinking sun. They tell me this is final test before the race this coming weekend. A race in which they will be representing the UK. Good look fellas.