Of plans, ideas and notions.

I can't remember the exact date or programme I was watching but sometime last year I caught a snippet on television about the Wayland's Smithy and the folklore attached to it. Now I'm a superstitious pagan at heart, and the the thought of being able to plan a trip around this location; and the village of Avebury somewhere else I had long wanted to head to, excited me.
I booked a chunk of leave off work many months in advance and began to plan.
It made sense to make use of the Ridgeway* to travel between the sites and as I was doing it by bicycle I might as well see how far along the Ridgeway I could get as well. After all, April was normally nice and warm wasn't it?

Last week was certainly warm, but with an unerring inevitability that comes with trips being planned this week marked a turn in the weather toward the rather fresh side. Still the forecast (ha ha) looked manageable for cycle touring. The last comparable trip had been in September with my friend Dave with whom I explored the southernmost bothy in Wales on my cyclocross bike. This time I had a new bike; my hefty Raleigh Maverick which has an all-up weight heavy enough to plough furrows.

Loaded up with seat pack containing sleeping bag, tipi flysheet and gas canister, frame bag containing tipi pole and pegs, flapjacks, wash kit, loo roll and other ephemera, and bar bag containing sleeping mat and mess tins I rounded off with a small Acre Hauser backpack containing some spare clothes, super noodles and maps. I was carrying my water on the bike this time instead of on my back and that helped a lot. I still took too much and I think each trip is an exercise at thinning down. What would be beneficial would be fork mounted bags or a larger bar bag or porteur rack so I could ditch the backpack all together. I digress.

Setting off from my Mum's just outside Chippenham I headed cross country toward Avebury. I was using the frankly excellent Polaris map trap to keep ahold of the maps and it made life so much easier. As a note, OS maps fold just right to fit into a large Ziploc bag. Instant waterproof map! My step-dad had kindly given me the map of the local area as it was one I was lacking, and he provided the details for the first leg to Avebury.

The first sighting I had of something really exciting was the white horse at Cherhill and set me in good mood for carrying on toward Avebury.

A gentle trundle along the A4 and soon I reached the chance to leave the main road and head along the byway taking the more traditional route into the village. This meant passing by the two long stones, Adam and Eve, the only two left standing from that direction.

Leaving them the gentle byway took me right into the village with only a pause to stop by the community shop for postcards, and not bother looking in the commercial gift shop next door.

Postcards written and posted it was time for a pint and some lunch in the pub. Mixed affair but still it filled a hole. I had a quick look at the other stones around the village and chatted to another cyclist before pressing on.

The village was nice enough but still lots of signs of erosion around the stones and the National Trust doing a lot of work to keep things in order. Granted I was a tourist too but it was a quiet Monday afternoon and there were enough people milling about to keep it busy. Out of Avebury and to West Kennett where the recent iteration of the Ridgeway begins. The photo at the top was taken by the initial fingerpost. The conditions were dry and the ground firm with plenty of washboard and ruts to bounce across. I'll be honest I didn't feel too much hope about enjoying it at this stage as my arms and legs took a pounding from the rigid bike and surface.
Gradually it smoothed off, as the distance from the car park grew and soon it was quite pleasurable to ride.

I wasn't sure when to expect surface changes but with each rise and fall of the landscape the underlying geology revealed itself where the grass or crops were worn away. The views from Barbury Castle were quite spectacular and it took me a while to realise that the large grey/purple/blue patches weren't lavender (too early) or water (too neat) but solar farms.

Heading on from the tops I paused to chat to a chap riding the other direction and who it turned out lived locally. As I asked a few questions about directions and conditions he told me that the Ridgeway as a route had many iterations and most points could be reached by several of them. I stuck to the main trail as marked on my map, and supported by the fingerposts but it was interesting to know. I caught up with a couple of walkers further along and rode alongside chatting for a while. The common denominator was we were both carrying whisky. I said I was stopping to make a brew further along the route toward Liddington and would maybe see them there.
At an intersection of 3 ways I had a pause and look back to see from where I had come and to see if I could spot the walkers.

I couldn't so I pressed on toward the hill fort at Liddington and a chance to find somewhere out of the wind to brew up. Whilst the view from where I had come was pleasant enough

The spot I was brewing in was rather less salubrious!

Still, it was out of the wind and a chance to rest up.
As I packed away the skies darkened and the wind began to pick up in gusts; bending the trees above me and really whistling around the pillbox I was sheltered by. I paused a moment to consider waiting out the ensuing rain in the pillbox but it was just too scuzzy so I donned my rain jacket, tugged the peak of my cap down and pressed on. I was only in the rain for about half an hour but with the wind chill it was enough to have me considering options for tea and warming up. My back was twinging and the thought of somewhere warm was appealing. At another byway intersection I slowed to speak to two ladies in a pony and trap and ask their advice about local pubs. With a couple of names in my ears I carried on until I found a water stop at Ridgeway farm and then another chance to drop off the Ridgeway down into Ashbury. I noted wryly that the descent down carried a warning sign of 10% gradient. Wryly as I knew to rejoin the trail I'd be riding back up it!
With the kitchens just opening and some tasty pie on the way I soon settled in.

If you're ever passing, I can heartily recommend the Rose and Crown in Ashbury.
The problem I now had was that I was warming up, comfortable and with a few hours of daylight left, contemplating my next move. My inner monkey was twitching to head back to my Mum's 30 miles away by road but I knew I wanted to get to the Smithy which wasn't too much further up the trail. After a coffee to spur me on I departed the comfort of the pub and climbed back up that hill.
It was worth it.
Utterly worth it.

My goosebumps had begun from the moment I turned off the trail to get to the Smithy and they tingled strongly the whole time I was there walking around the barrow.

It really is quite impressive. With a tot of whisky poured and supped I moved on.
Next up was the White Horse at Uffington and the ground began to reveal the bone-white underlying chalk as I rode.

With the time passing and the sun beginning to set as I wandered around the hill fort I saw the horse from an odd angle

with Dragon hill just below and the hill fort behind me it was a commanding view of the landscape.

I made the call to stay the night instead of taking the stupid option of riding back. After all that was the underlying reason I had come this far and carried all the kit. I found somewhere out of sight and set up the tipi before turning in for the night as the cold came. I was so cold I put every item of clothing I had on. Predictably it was about an hour later when I woke in sweat absolutely baking. Removing all the extra layers and just down to my base layer and ron hills I was settling back down to sleep when I cold hear a rustling outside. Peering out of the fly and I was bemused; was it the wind just being amplified by the tipi? A moment of silence was broken by rustling and the shadows of rabbits moving about. Phew, it wasn't the smithy come to get me, or ancient horses.

Woken at just after 4am by a skylark my grump at being awake was tempered by the beauty that is birdsong. I was warm and cosy in the sleeping bag but a peek outside revealed that the temperature had dropped enough to frost any damp areas. With more layers donned I set up a brew for breakfast, cursing the lack of a windbreak.

The backpack helped a bit and once the coffee was made I dropped the tipi and packed everything up. Coffee drunk and the recalcitrant sleeping mat squeezed into the bar bag on the second attempt with numb fingers I double checked my surroundings and pedalled off.
I had decided that I didn't have enough warm cycling gear to continue further along the Ridgeway, and this was reinforced as I rode out to head back towards my beginning. Again despite having all the clothing I had with me on, I was shivering. I rolled along the lanes instead of along the top to try and find warmth out of the wind but it was no good. The weather was bitter. Surprisingly I passed several other cyclists though all with far more clothing on than I! A brief pause at a village shop for a Snickers, my long-standing favourite snack of choice and a phone call from a friend and I was away again. The change from riding along the Ridgeway to passing through the villages beneath meant I was spending time checking my route on the map a lot more instead of being able to roll freely. I should have stuck to the top and gritted it out. A lesson learned.

By around 9 I was feeling somewhat jaded and my hummingbird metabolism was kicking in. Time for second breakfast. It was to consist of the same as the first but still it would be welcome.

I sat for 20 minutes whilst the water boiled and I subsequently supped the coffee and munched the flapjack. I was about an hour from finishing and felt satisfied with what I had done. No great mileage but certainly a challenge and an opportunity to see new old sights. My final few miles took me alongside the Maud Heath Causeway and despite the road being dry at this time I felt the need to make use of the monument.

Within a quarter of an hour I was back at my car and able to change and warm up. It was almost 22 hours since I had set off yet it seemed like so much more time. The stats, dull as they are; were 78 miles ridden, 4,800ft climbed, average speed 12 mph. I really learned a few more things about bikepacking and how best to do it, I'm sure these will be refined further. I've not finished with the Ridgeway yet. I also learned more about my anxiety and how to deal with it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. The trick is to keep trying and to remind myself to keep trying.

*I found the National Trail website very useful in detailing where the route went, and water points as well as additional info regarding the leniency on trail-side camping; leave no sign of doing so and be considerate AKA don't be a dick. Good rule for life.

Harlech to home Part 2/3

Harlech is the forgotten place.
Or so we were told by our host as we were packing to leave. After a slap up breakfast and a small back twinge it was time to load up the bikes and depart.
But not without fixing that puncture first.
Removing the lovely Veloflex Master tyre I couldn't find any debris in the carcass to suggest something remaining, however there was no denying the lack of air in the second inner tube so far. A second glance showed that the tyre itself had holed and there was a little protrusion from the carcass that appeared to be causing the tiny slow punctures. I applied a couple of patches to the inner of the tyre to cover the hole and then fitted my remaining spare tube. This one was a thicker and larger 23/28 so should provide a better chance of keeping the air in.
Tyre back on, wheel in and luggage on. Bottles are all filled, let's roll out.
So why is Harlech the forgotten place? It's really rather beautiful up there, and I would recommend it to anyone. It just seems to be one of those places you have to want to get to as a destination, rather than happening across it.
Anyway, the sun is shining againg and it's time to top up those odd cycling tans.

Given that my rear tyre is causing me punctures we decide it best to get a replacement as soon as possible. Our host Mike, had advised us there was a bicycle shop in Barmouth. The road swooped gently up and down and took us there in good time. In fact we were halfway through it before realising that we were in Barmouth.
So where is the bike shop?
Plenty of cafés and general tourist convenience shops but no bike shop yet. As we were abandoning hope and consigning it to the list of shops-that-no-longer-are I spotted it. Tucked into what appeared to be an old car workshop there was a bike hire shop. This had to be it. Peering into the dark and cool interior we were greeted by the proprietor.
'Can I help you lads?'
'Yes mate, have you got any 700 x 25 tyres please?'
sucking of air through teeth...
'for that?'
'Yes please'
After a rummage on overhead racks I was presented with a Sri Lankan special. 700 x 28 and £12.95 to you, sir.
Best get it fitted then, the original plan of buying a modern folding tyre and packing it along in case the problem recurred having now been consigned to the bin of nice ideas.
So, for the second time that morning I removed the old tyre, and fitted the fresh, heavy, stiff and other end of the spectrum in quality tyre. The shopkeep kindly inflated it for me and as he removed the pump there was that annoying hiss that signals air is not remaining where it should inside the tube.
'You've pinched it' he says.
'Not likely' says I, 'I pushed it on with my fingers.'
Off the tyre comes again, worryingly leaving some of the bead rubber hanging free. The tube has split by the valve.
Dead.
Tube number three gone.
Friendly shopkeep provides another tube. I swear this one is heavier than the tyre, and that was no lightweight.
Back together it goes. In goes the air and it stays inside the tube this time.
'Put it to 95psi' I ask.
Shopkeep looks at tyre rating of 75psi.
'You sure?'
'Yup'.
So there we have it, after almost an hour of fannying about, I am back with a functioning bike. The old tyre is folded up and slid onto the rack for fixing further at home.

At least the new tyre has gum walls so sort of matches the front.
Sort of.
Ah my little whippet is becoming more of a mongrel.
Nevermind on we go.
Out of the shop and we almost immediately drop down onto the tollbridge over the estuary. Except yet again there's no toll. Railway tracks run alongside us on the wood and iron bridge. The views are amazing, more riviera or continental than Welsh.
I perch in against the railings and snap away.

Just stunning.

No time to hang around sadly so on we pedal.
Across the water and up the other side as a train pulls in to the halt. We mull over jumping on. I'm quite glad the train hadn't come past us on the bridge. There wasn't much confidence in the structure on my behalf.
The road clings to the coastline once more with rises and falls despite the constant flat of the sea on our right. Pausing at a little shop we eat some eccles cakes and file away some Haribo for later. 'Kids and grown ups love it so, the happy taste of pigs feet and sugar'.
Tywyn and Aberdovey roll by and the sun is still beating down.
This was always going to be the hardest day, both in length and climbs. The thing is we're not even at the hardest part yet.
Five or six miles out of Machynlleth we manage to get a couple of bottles of water from a village shop before it closes for lunch. A bit of banter with a pie delivery man and then off again. Lunch is in Mach. I can't wait.
The long arches of the bridge over the River Dovey signal we're very close indeed.

The streets of Machynlleth are full of market traders as we roll on. Pete stops suddenly. His front tyre has called time, or rather the tube has. We walk the bikes down the street to find a café for lunch. Leaning the bikes against the wall outside we order in the small friendly place. Lasagne for me, double ham rolls for Pete please. While we wait, Pete wanders up to the bike shop to borrow their track pump to inflate his freshly fitted tube. With no sign of a cause it looks like the old one had just had enough and blown. Better now than on a descent...
After lunch, and chinwagging with a work colleague who happened to be passing, we're on our way. This is where it gets tough.
We're past the halfway point of distance but the climbing really kicks in as we head out towards Llanidloes via Llyn Clywedog.
It's not too bad to start with and we agree to regroup at the top. Each bike is running different gearing and I've got less luggage weight to carry than Pete so cut an early lead as the road begins to meander steadily up.

That dot is Pete.
The road goes on some more, and up some more.
I'm so thankful that the clouds have rolled in and given some cover. This would be absolute hell if the sun were still beating down.
I seem to be hardly able to keep my pedalling smooth. I'm not even pedalling squares, I'm into all kind of weird quadrilaterals.
My heart is pounding out a decent rhythm on my chest at a rate that would keep a techno fan happy, but the climb still goes on. There's a small plateau and I pause to get some breath back and neck a gel. I really don't like gels, but sometimes they will get you out of a hole. The lasagne is a distant memory.
Behind me, in the silence, the verge is full of white tufts of seeding flowers. The wind is nipping at them and every now and then some blow off. For the most part they just wave gently. Not quite ready to leave the ground.
Pete catches me and passes, carrying on. I watch him go. It's pretty tranquil here.

Tranquillity won't get me to my bed for the night though.
The next bit is tough. The road winds around and kicks up hard.

The Wynford Vaughan Thomas memorial is on our right and I holler to some waiting bikers 'give us a lift mate!'
'You're bloody heroes!' he laughs back.
Thanks, but a tow would've been nice.
This is getting a bit much. Up on the pedals and trying to keep a decent momentum going as the road climbs and curves.
My jersey is open, and I've taken my glasses off. My cap peak is up and I'm trying to get all of the air in to my lungs.
I hate my luggage so much right now.
Dragging me down with every pedal up.
I reach Pete at the top and bend over the bars, laughing.
It was either that or crying.
'That was fucking hard' we both surmise.
Thing is there are two more climbs to go.
Gobble some sweets and onward.
Heading to the next climb a bus comes the other way, the elderly driver, his white hair wisping in the breeze from the open window smiles and nods.
Best get on up this then.
Somehow it's not as bad as before, or maybe everything is dulled.
Stopping at the top, at the viewpoint, we have time to take it all in. It is lovely up there but by heck it's hard to get there by bike.

There's still a climb to go before Llanidloes.
The coach come back past and the driver gets a cheery wave, responding with an even bigger grin.
We hurtle down the road, trying to eke out momentum before the next up.
It doesn't work, and my chain ships as I change down to climb. All momentum gone.
Stopped in the verge.
Hands blackened by oil it's back on and push the pedals.
Over the top and as we go down there's a car just beginning to pull out from further on.
I'm going to have you.
The speed rushes up, all memories of crashes, blowouts, dislocations are gone as the speedo hits the high 40s. Then there's a little climb and again all my momentum is sucked back.
Still, there's not far to go now, surely.
The rest of the road seems gentler and we roll into Llanidloes. Stopping at a garage where Pete reads my mind and comes out with an ice lolly each and water.
The last 19 miles have taken a long time and taken the edge off us.
We're both coming close to sitting in the bottom of the rut.
That was the road that just kept on giving and taking.
Only 15 miles to Rhayader now and our stop.
Out past the lovely black and white buildings of Llanidloes and onto the A44, then the A470. The time for scenery appreciation has passed and there's a hard edge to the pedalling now.
I'm hurting and I'm tired.
Pete, I think, is the same. He sits in my wheel and we slog on.
Down to the roundabout and 5 miles done just 10 remaining. . The road is kind to us and I sit on the rivet, hands on the drops and go.

I won't sit down, I won't shut up, and most of all I won't grow up.

Numb hands grip the bars, the battle-scarred cork tape yielding slightly. My fingers throbbing into emptiness.
Shoulders are crying and burning.
My legs turn robot like and my finger finds the lever to click another gear home as the speed rises.
A glance and Pete is still there in the wheel.
All the pain is going through me and into the road.
I shout-sing songs, or rather the lines from them as I empty myself onto the road.

One drink too many and a joke gone too far, see your face drive like a stolen car.

The speed is far higher than it should be at this time in the ride. We're up in the high 20s. This can't last, but it does as the miles run under the wheels.
Rhayader hoves into view and after a few more pedal strokes we coast up to the guesthouse.
Today we earned it.
Today we were in the elements.