Wow! What a week or so it has been. The Brave Traveller (in case you have forgotten, that means Heather) and the Fearful Voyager (Brendan) have had an amazing time biking across the wild reaches of Eastern Wales and Western England. Where to begin the strange tales of all that we have seen and done? I suppose I should start at the very beginning, it is the very best place to start. (Apologies to Julie Andrews)
We left the comforting shores of Parkgate Farmhouse one sunny morning, after being stuffed to the gills with a good solid English breakfast. We set out strongly and confidently; ready to face anything England could throw at us. We biked down the short hill to Picklescott, the nearest town, turned right and stopped. Ahead of us was the Long Mynd, a great big hill that no amount of confidence could carry us over easily. So we got off our bikes and pushed, and pushed, and pushed. The Long Mynd is not called “Long” because it sounded cool. Panting and sweating we pushed our bikes to the summit, looked back across at the amazing view, hopped on our bikes and rode them down like mad people, thrilling to be moving without exertion. Only to hit the bottom of the other side and…push. Yes there was another hill, there is always another hill. In our time here we have begun to truly understand the mechanics of hill and to understand what gravity really and truly feels like.
When we hit the bottom of the second hill we had hit the town of Clun and that was were we stayed. We found the youth hostel, a quaint converted mill that we had almost exclusively to ourselves. The Hoof and Mouth disease, while terrible for the economy of Britain, was a boon to us that night. We went to bed proud of achieving our goal and once more confident that we could face the morning. Morning dawned, sort of, through a thick veil of misty rain. We bundled up in raincoats so hot that we were soon soaked with sweat anyway, got our bikes out of the closet where they had been stored and biked up to Clun Castle. It was a beautiful ruin, rising majestically along the Welsh frontiers, but it was a little hard to enjoy half drenched and looking up at the hills surrounding us knowing that we had to bike over them. We took a deep breath, got on our bikes, rode to the edge of town, got off and pushed, and pushed, and…
Two more hills, and one tenth the distance we had intended, we stopped again, this time in the town of Knighton. Here we prepared to bike on King Offa’s Dyke. Here we discovered that what the British mean by “Bikable” is “Yes you can take your bike on it, you’re bloody crazy, but you can.”
We did not bike on Offa’s Dyke. Instead we found out that the hostel, every bed and breakfast and all the campgrounds in Knighton had been closed down because of lack of tourists, that night hoof and mouth did not serve us well. Too tired to do anything else we caved in and got a hotel room for the night. Despite the pain of being parted with more money than we wanted both of us greatly enjoyed watching British television to the wee hours of the morning. We also washed out our bike shirts and swore we would never let them get so stinky again (ha ha ha ha ha).
From Knighton we went to Kington, a fairly easy ride, from Kington to Vowchurch, the worst day yet. The Fearful Voyager, feeling a little less fearful and remembering that he was supposed to be a historian ventured to suggest that since there was a landmark called Arthur’s Stone near a campground we should head that way. So off we confidently biked (We hadn’t yet learned that confidence is a really bad way to begin) and travelled down the Wye river Valley. We got to the place where our campground was supposed to be, only to find a hill. “Well” we confidently (see, bad plan already) said to ourselves “its only a hill.” So up we went and up and up and…well you get the idea. Once we reached halfway point, after being chased by the dogs, we thought to ask and we found to our delight (that is sarcasm by the way) that not only was there no campground, there never had been a campground nor were there any plans for one in the future. “Well” said the Fearful Voyager, feeling fear returning but still having a little confidence “There is still Arthur’s stone.” So, the Brave Traveller in agreement, they went up and up and up, three or fours miles up a 25% grade they went up, only to find themselves no where near Arthur’s anything and no place to stay for the night. They biked around for another hour in desultory fashion, before giving up completely, biking off for the night and running smack into…Arthur’s stone. All I can say about this national monument is; only go in a car.
The Fearful Traveller now keeps his suggestions to himself. However we did complete that day by biking to the best campground we have seen and the farthest days travel we have yet put in.
We travelled to Monmouth after Vowchurch, along the way accidentally discovering Dore Abbey, a beautiful, though decaying, abbey that once dominated the entire Golden valley. Once in Monmouth we decided that here was a good time for a day off and we explored the small riverside town that was once the home of Geoffrey, the medieval monk who first wrote down the legends of King Arthur. Monmouth was very interesting. We toured first their church, which was very well maintained and full of brilliant examples of ironwork and carving. Then we explored the Nelson Museum. For those who don’t know Lord Admiral Nelson once saved England from the French and has never been forgotten. In fact this museum was more religious shrine than anything else and went a little overboard with their carvings of “the apotheosis of Nelson.”
Finally we visited the regimental museum were a slightly more realistic impression of war was presented. Both BT and FV were impressed with the description of the people of Monmouth during the Civil War “They supported both side so long as they were left alone.”
From Monmouth we went up (Yes, up once more) to the small town of St Briavels, where we spent our second night in a hostel. This time the hostel was a converted castle. The old rooms had been left intact and the Fearful Voyager got the experience of spending the night (fearfully) in the Hanging Room, where prisoners were executed (no ghosts, only snores). It was amazing to see what castles were like before the plaster left the walls and they became merely stone ruins. The Brave Traveller was very put out with having to share a room with ten or so snoring teenage girls and the Fearful Voyager missed his Brave Traveller so they resolved to avoid hostels in the future, besides they cost about ten times a campground.
After St. Briavels we bike down (WOHOO DOWN!!) into the Wye Valley beside the forest of Dean. Here we ran into, no not literally, Tintern Abbey. What an unbelievable place. To stand on a green lawn surrounded by a forest of stone columns and look at open blue sky. To look up columns larger round than two people can stretch their arms and see them holding up… nothing. That is something of what we saw at Tintern. The Brave Traveller found the experience almost spiritual while the Fearful Voyager, noting that the founders of the massively ornate place had broken away from the mainstream church in search of simplicity, saw a monument to hypocrisy in stone. Either way a good place to stop. We ended that day by coasting into the town of Portskewett (say it aloud, it sounds as funny as it spells) and we rested looking out to the massive bridges we had to cross.
The next day we headed into Bristol, crossing the mouth of the Severn on an enormous bridge that thankfully had its own lane for cyclists. The ride into Bristol was long and arduous, up the Avon Valley,
and we discovered that the youth here simply love to cover cliff faces in grafitti. Then, after stopping for some good English food in the form of Kentucky Fried Chicken, we proceeded to get absolutely and totally lost.
Bristol was an ugly horrible city that squatted on the countryside like a cancerous blemish and we could not wait to get out it. We biked up the fetid New Cut of the Avon River
and, absolutely against our will we found ourselves in the garishly overdone downtown core. With some direction from the tourist agency we found our way, through a slum of a neighbourhood, to our campground. We set up our tent, cleaned ourselves off and discovered…Bristol wasn’t that bad. In fact it was quite a nice city. It is amazing what knowing where you are staying can do to a bad attitude. In fact we discovered that our campground was right along the “Floating Harbour” that made up the center of Bristol and we ate our lunch on the beautiful quayside. In a short walk from our site was the industrial museum, with many displays on the quay side, an old revolving bridge, the trendy student section of town, the beautiful water sculptures erected for the millennium celebrations, free email (with terrible keyboards) in fact everything that would make any budget traveller visit amazing, thus producing our only regret for the trip, that we didn’t stay in Bristol longer.
From the unholiday centre of Bristol where we were delighted, we travelled to the holiday center of Bath where we were not. Bath is a city well aware of its reputation as a holiday town for the rich and it was the only place we found that there was a charge for maps to the campgrounds and B&B’s. Bath is a town dedicated to money and its tourist attractions are things such as the museum of Costume, displaying the extravagances of upper classes for five hundred years (men will be interested to note that the entire display of male costumes for the time was a single wall). The Brave Traveller loved this part, the Fearful Voyage would rather die than return. Bath would not have been so bad if the facades were maintained but there was an air of “let it be” so that despite its Corinthian columns and intricate carvings the wealthy face of Bath looked like nothing more than an industrial city.
However the Fearful Voyager did find some joy in the Bath complex itself. Here was the place the tourist industry shined. Reconstructions of Roman temples and actually facades lined the walls. Here the historian could actually reach out and touch history, walking where Roman legions and Roman prostitu…I mean Roman matrons, had walked thousands of years past. Everything from a beautifully carved Gorgons head that had once graced the temple to Minerva, to gravestones and more than 12 000 coins from all the eras the baths were in operation. The BT and FV even “took the waters” and drank from the ancient spring (disgusting with a bouquet of sulphur and a fine earthy texture).
From our day in the main tourists venues of Bath we next travelled to the seedy underbelly, the canals that had once served the industrial trade. If you ever decide to bike England bike the canals. Here Bath was redeemed and we spent the day on beautifully even surfaces, passing ornately decorate longboats and the most amazing backyards in the world. (O.K. I haven’t seen every backyard in the world).
After the Canals we biked to the ancient castle of Farleigh Hungerford, where we listened with disgust and fascination to the tales of the Hungerford family, who had burned each other to death, locked their wives in isolation for many years and done all the things a healthy noble family does.
But by this time we were ready for a nice warm bed and we pedalled with great enthusiasm to Colin and Hayley Orman’s house at Rolls Mills where we were warmly received and given the bed we longed for, only to find that we didn’t quite feel at home in a warm comfy bed any more. I kept tensing up all night, thinking the hard ground beneath me was collapsing.
Colin and Hayley took us out for dinner, travelling in 45 minutes what would take us two days to bike, and we discovered to our shock that cars now terrify both of us. I was dizzy and spent the whole ride clutching at the panic bars (or was it merely Colins driving?) It has only been a week away from cars, what shape will we be in a year from now? We have also had the first opportunity to see our wedding photos, and we would recommend Gordon Hunter for any such occasions even if he was not our father. We also have the opportunity to watch the wedding video of events at Parkgate and the Brave Traveller is doing so even as I write. I am too fearful to watch; I know how I look on video!
We are enjoying our trip immensely but we find we miss everyone far more than expected. We hope to see you soon (meet us in Italy) and look forward to sharing more of our adventures with you all. We hope to write before we leave Rolls Mills Farmhouse so until next time…
With lots of love
Brendan (The Fearful Voyager) and Heather (The Brave Traveller)
Next Entry: Day 25. Dorset Steam Fair
Previous Entry: Day 24. Sturminster Newton
When we hit the bottom of the second hill we had hit the town of Clun and that was were we stayed. We found the youth hostel, a quaint converted mill that we had almost exclusively to ourselves. The Hoof and Mouth disease, while terrible for the economy of Britain, was a boon to us that night. We went to bed proud of achieving our goal and once more confident that we could face the morning. Morning dawned, sort of, through a thick veil of misty rain. We bundled up in raincoats so hot that we were soon soaked with sweat anyway, got our bikes out of the closet where they had been stored and biked up to Clun Castle. It was a beautiful ruin, rising majestically along the Welsh frontiers, but it was a little hard to enjoy half drenched and looking up at the hills surrounding us knowing that we had to bike over them. We took a deep breath, got on our bikes, rode to the edge of town, got off and pushed, and pushed, and…
Two more hills, and one tenth the distance we had intended, we stopped again, this time in the town of Knighton. Here we prepared to bike on King Offa’s Dyke. Here we discovered that what the British mean by “Bikable” is “Yes you can take your bike on it, you’re bloody crazy, but you can.”
We did not bike on Offa’s Dyke. Instead we found out that the hostel, every bed and breakfast and all the campgrounds in Knighton had been closed down because of lack of tourists, that night hoof and mouth did not serve us well. Too tired to do anything else we caved in and got a hotel room for the night. Despite the pain of being parted with more money than we wanted both of us greatly enjoyed watching British television to the wee hours of the morning. We also washed out our bike shirts and swore we would never let them get so stinky again (ha ha ha ha ha).
From Knighton we went to Kington, a fairly easy ride, from Kington to Vowchurch, the worst day yet. The Fearful Voyager, feeling a little less fearful and remembering that he was supposed to be a historian ventured to suggest that since there was a landmark called Arthur’s Stone near a campground we should head that way. So off we confidently biked (We hadn’t yet learned that confidence is a really bad way to begin) and travelled down the Wye river Valley. We got to the place where our campground was supposed to be, only to find a hill. “Well” we confidently (see, bad plan already) said to ourselves “its only a hill.” So up we went and up and up and…well you get the idea. Once we reached halfway point, after being chased by the dogs, we thought to ask and we found to our delight (that is sarcasm by the way) that not only was there no campground, there never had been a campground nor were there any plans for one in the future. “Well” said the Fearful Voyager, feeling fear returning but still having a little confidence “There is still Arthur’s stone.” So, the Brave Traveller in agreement, they went up and up and up, three or fours miles up a 25% grade they went up, only to find themselves no where near Arthur’s anything and no place to stay for the night. They biked around for another hour in desultory fashion, before giving up completely, biking off for the night and running smack into…Arthur’s stone. All I can say about this national monument is; only go in a car.
The Fearful Traveller now keeps his suggestions to himself. However we did complete that day by biking to the best campground we have seen and the farthest days travel we have yet put in.
We travelled to Monmouth after Vowchurch, along the way accidentally discovering Dore Abbey, a beautiful, though decaying, abbey that once dominated the entire Golden valley. Once in Monmouth we decided that here was a good time for a day off and we explored the small riverside town that was once the home of Geoffrey, the medieval monk who first wrote down the legends of King Arthur. Monmouth was very interesting. We toured first their church, which was very well maintained and full of brilliant examples of ironwork and carving. Then we explored the Nelson Museum. For those who don’t know Lord Admiral Nelson once saved England from the French and has never been forgotten. In fact this museum was more religious shrine than anything else and went a little overboard with their carvings of “the apotheosis of Nelson.”
Finally we visited the regimental museum were a slightly more realistic impression of war was presented. Both BT and FV were impressed with the description of the people of Monmouth during the Civil War “They supported both side so long as they were left alone.”From Monmouth we went up (Yes, up once more) to the small town of St Briavels, where we spent our second night in a hostel. This time the hostel was a converted castle. The old rooms had been left intact and the Fearful Voyager got the experience of spending the night (fearfully) in the Hanging Room, where prisoners were executed (no ghosts, only snores). It was amazing to see what castles were like before the plaster left the walls and they became merely stone ruins. The Brave Traveller was very put out with having to share a room with ten or so snoring teenage girls and the Fearful Voyager missed his Brave Traveller so they resolved to avoid hostels in the future, besides they cost about ten times a campground.
After St. Briavels we bike down (WOHOO DOWN!!) into the Wye Valley beside the forest of Dean. Here we ran into, no not literally, Tintern Abbey. What an unbelievable place. To stand on a green lawn surrounded by a forest of stone columns and look at open blue sky. To look up columns larger round than two people can stretch their arms and see them holding up… nothing. That is something of what we saw at Tintern. The Brave Traveller found the experience almost spiritual while the Fearful Voyager, noting that the founders of the massively ornate place had broken away from the mainstream church in search of simplicity, saw a monument to hypocrisy in stone. Either way a good place to stop. We ended that day by coasting into the town of Portskewett (say it aloud, it sounds as funny as it spells) and we rested looking out to the massive bridges we had to cross.
The next day we headed into Bristol, crossing the mouth of the Severn on an enormous bridge that thankfully had its own lane for cyclists. The ride into Bristol was long and arduous, up the Avon Valley,
and we discovered that the youth here simply love to cover cliff faces in grafitti. Then, after stopping for some good English food in the form of Kentucky Fried Chicken, we proceeded to get absolutely and totally lost.Bristol was an ugly horrible city that squatted on the countryside like a cancerous blemish and we could not wait to get out it. We biked up the fetid New Cut of the Avon River
and, absolutely against our will we found ourselves in the garishly overdone downtown core. With some direction from the tourist agency we found our way, through a slum of a neighbourhood, to our campground. We set up our tent, cleaned ourselves off and discovered…Bristol wasn’t that bad. In fact it was quite a nice city. It is amazing what knowing where you are staying can do to a bad attitude. In fact we discovered that our campground was right along the “Floating Harbour” that made up the center of Bristol and we ate our lunch on the beautiful quayside. In a short walk from our site was the industrial museum, with many displays on the quay side, an old revolving bridge, the trendy student section of town, the beautiful water sculptures erected for the millennium celebrations, free email (with terrible keyboards) in fact everything that would make any budget traveller visit amazing, thus producing our only regret for the trip, that we didn’t stay in Bristol longer. From the unholiday centre of Bristol where we were delighted, we travelled to the holiday center of Bath where we were not. Bath is a city well aware of its reputation as a holiday town for the rich and it was the only place we found that there was a charge for maps to the campgrounds and B&B’s. Bath is a town dedicated to money and its tourist attractions are things such as the museum of Costume, displaying the extravagances of upper classes for five hundred years (men will be interested to note that the entire display of male costumes for the time was a single wall). The Brave Traveller loved this part, the Fearful Voyage would rather die than return. Bath would not have been so bad if the facades were maintained but there was an air of “let it be” so that despite its Corinthian columns and intricate carvings the wealthy face of Bath looked like nothing more than an industrial city.
However the Fearful Voyager did find some joy in the Bath complex itself. Here was the place the tourist industry shined. Reconstructions of Roman temples and actually facades lined the walls. Here the historian could actually reach out and touch history, walking where Roman legions and Roman prostitu…I mean Roman matrons, had walked thousands of years past. Everything from a beautifully carved Gorgons head that had once graced the temple to Minerva, to gravestones and more than 12 000 coins from all the eras the baths were in operation. The BT and FV even “took the waters” and drank from the ancient spring (disgusting with a bouquet of sulphur and a fine earthy texture).
From our day in the main tourists venues of Bath we next travelled to the seedy underbelly, the canals that had once served the industrial trade. If you ever decide to bike England bike the canals. Here Bath was redeemed and we spent the day on beautifully even surfaces, passing ornately decorate longboats and the most amazing backyards in the world. (O.K. I haven’t seen every backyard in the world).
After the Canals we biked to the ancient castle of Farleigh Hungerford, where we listened with disgust and fascination to the tales of the Hungerford family, who had burned each other to death, locked their wives in isolation for many years and done all the things a healthy noble family does.
But by this time we were ready for a nice warm bed and we pedalled with great enthusiasm to Colin and Hayley Orman’s house at Rolls Mills where we were warmly received and given the bed we longed for, only to find that we didn’t quite feel at home in a warm comfy bed any more. I kept tensing up all night, thinking the hard ground beneath me was collapsing.
Colin and Hayley took us out for dinner, travelling in 45 minutes what would take us two days to bike, and we discovered to our shock that cars now terrify both of us. I was dizzy and spent the whole ride clutching at the panic bars (or was it merely Colins driving?) It has only been a week away from cars, what shape will we be in a year from now? We have also had the first opportunity to see our wedding photos, and we would recommend Gordon Hunter for any such occasions even if he was not our father. We also have the opportunity to watch the wedding video of events at Parkgate and the Brave Traveller is doing so even as I write. I am too fearful to watch; I know how I look on video!
We are enjoying our trip immensely but we find we miss everyone far more than expected. We hope to see you soon (meet us in Italy) and look forward to sharing more of our adventures with you all. We hope to write before we leave Rolls Mills Farmhouse so until next time…
With lots of love
Brendan (The Fearful Voyager) and Heather (The Brave Traveller)
Next Entry: Day 25. Dorset Steam Fair
Previous Entry: Day 24. Sturminster Newton
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