Day 9 – Back to Llanelli

So here I am, off again, back to Llanelli where my tour was cut short, aiming to get to St David’s Head and visiting the most westerly point on mainland Wales before cycling to Fishguard and returning home by train for about a week for previous engagements. After that, I will then return to Fishguard for the crossing to Ireland and hope to visit the furthest place west on mainland Ireland.

The night before my start I watched the late news and the main headlines were that there had been a fire and all services on my local Anglian main line had stopped. There was then a scene outside Ipswich Station showing a long line of replacement buses and a very cheerful cyclist loaded with panniers. He was due to go to Plymouth but replacement buses do not take cyclists, so a taxi was being organised. His problem would be that you are required, on the main line to Plymouth, to book a cycle reservation in advance and if you miss that train it is a question of luck if there is an unreserved cycle space on a later train; perhaps he was being provided with a taxi the whole of the way.

After the news, I checked the status of my upcoming train, but there were no problems so, next morning, I arrived at the station where I bumped into Keith Thorogood and Andy Carter, fellow members of Halstead Road Runners, cheerfully heading off to the annual CAMRA Beer Festival. Keith was hoping that Bishop Nick, our local Brewery, would win another big award.

Have now discovered the easiest, less busy, route from Liverpool Street Station to the cycling super way alongside the Thames and arrived at Paddington without any problem. The photo at the top of this post is of a temporary sculpture in Hyde Park that I passed which is by the artist Christo. Entitled “The Mastaba”, it consists of 7,506 oil barrels and is 20 meters high, 30 meters wide and 40 meters long.

At Paddington, for once, the train platform was announced in good time and I walked the length of the very long train with no sign of the cycle storage which usually has a cycle logo. As I had booked this, I inquired of the train conductor who said proudly that the train, on which he had just come up from Swansea, was completely new and he did not know where the cycle storage was. The ticket did show a seat number which we explored and, where there was usually a pair of toilets, the space which would have been occupied by one of the toilets had been converted, by the introduction of an ingenious
hanging arrangement, to take two bikes.

Another new useful feature on the line was a panel with two illuminated indicators by each pair of seats showing the status of the seats. Our pair showed mine with a red light “Paddington to Swansea” and the other green showing “Available “. This meant that when you entered the carriage you could see immediately where vacant seats were and you did not have to work your way down the carriage peering at the slips of paper on the seat backs.

The train arrived on time at Swansea and there was a train on the opposite platform just about to leave. It was a local train which you could take a bike on without booking outside the rush hour at the discretion of the conductor. I was urged on to the train, the whistle blown and off to Llanelli and the Travelodge where I was remembered and welcomed.

If you think I have a neurotic fascination with bike arrangements for trains you are right, they never seem to be as expected!

Day 8. Rest Day

I woke at 3am, stomach churning and took the first of many trips to the loo that week. I felt spaced out and wobbled all over the room. Woke in the morning with a not unpleasant  lethargy, went down to breakfast but had to go back to bed after half of bowl of cornflakes. I decided today was definitely a rest day and went down to reception to check that I could stay another night; it was a big hotel and had seemed half-empty the previous night. The receptionist apologised but said “no”. The entertainment industry had struck again – the whole hotel had been taken by a film company. Telephoned Juliet yet again and she found a Great Western Hotel nearby who would take me and the bike and had a good lounge and she gave me contact numbers for two taxi firms who had disabled transport and would be able to take the bike etc. Soon found myself there and, although it was still morning, they gave me the keys to the room and I was back in bed.

When I woke up next day, I felt no better and stayed in bed. Juliet was in touch to see how I was, she said that she would come over that evening after work. She arrived about 11pm – what a relief!

Next morning we went back to her home near Reading, where my friend, Jim MacTaggart, (who, incidentally has cycled across the USA three times) picked me up and took me home to Braintree.

So this is where what turned out to be the first part of my tour came to an undignified end. It took me a couple of weeks to get over what my Doctor tells me was food poisoning and I had been infected by campylobacter. The symptoms start within 2-5 days of eating contaminated food, often chicken, so the sandwiches from the petrol station on Day 6 may be the culprits.

This enforced hiatus gave me the opportunity to rethink my strategy for the next part of the tour. My reluctance to book accommodation before the trip started was partly because I had no idea how many cycling miles I could expect to do in hilly Welsh countryside on my new, heavier bike with four panniers and a tent; most of my cycle touring had been done with my grandson Mikey on my hybrid bike. We started with the Kennet and Avon canal, travelling from Reading to Bristol over two holidays staying at B & Bs. We then had a number of holidays in Holland, mostly staying at Stayokay hostels. We took two rear panniers and a rack bag each. However, those experiences would not compare to a heavily laden bike in Wales.

I now had some hard evidence; I had averaged 38 miles a day though Wales at a very modest 7 mph, too many miles spent pushing the bike up the hills, and can now plan the overnight stops on the route ahead booking in advance.

As anyone interested in fitness knows, a couple of weeks is enough to start to get out of condition, especially a fortnight of not being very interested in food. So I then had to get my fitness back to be able to attempt those Welsh mountains. But never fear, I am back on the bike and ready to finish Wales!

 

Day 7. To Llanelli – Swansea Bay and the Clyne Valley Country Park

I woke up with the sun shining through the canvas and looking forward to the day’s journey. I would have a chance to have a good look at the Stadium, then a traffic free ride into Swansea to pick up route 4 on the promenade which went for several miles around Swansea Bay before turning off through the Clyne Country Park to follow an old railway line towards Llanelli.

The Liberty Stadium was magnificent and I was shown proudly by an attendant how the front was designed so that one half was taken up by the football  entrance, signs and display, and the other half the Rugby so each set of supporters would have a sense of going into a stadium of their own sport.

The dark, crowded path from last night now seemed like a pleasant, wooded trail and emerging into Swansea by a very busy roundabout was a shock. I think I must have missed an underpass and found myself asking bemused pedestrians the way to the sea. I assumed they were wondering if I was going to float my bike but later, looking at the map, realised that the way was blocked by a marina one way and the Town Hall and dual carriageway the other so I was shown how to go through a car park.

I was interested to see Swansea Bay as there had just been announcements that the government would not support a proposed Swansea tidal barrier; the one in Cardiff had been a great success giving rise to considerable regeneration as well as supplying electricity. The government’s reasons were that the costs were so great that there would be cheaper renewables on-line before it was completed. You could see how long the barrier would have to be at Swansea’s lovely sweeping bay.

Then I took an old railway line heading inland through the Clyne Valley Country Park, and, as it was a lovely day, there were lots of families with children of all ages cycling along the path. Had a surprise a mile or so later when it emerged from the Clyne Valley  Country Park by a disused railway station. There was the old platform and, behind it, the small handsome Railway Inn looking welcoming in the sun. Bought a snack and drink from the pub and, sitting on the edge of the platform, watched the weekend cyclists and walkers arriving and leaving. There were more local real ales on tap than seemed necessary for such a small place but the person behind the bar, pleased at the interest I was showing, described how they had lots of customers coming along in the summer.

The traffic free path eventually emerged by the road going to the main bridge, guarded by a ruined castle over the end of the Estuary of the River Loughor but, before crossing, I was brought to a stop by another picturesque scene. The path ran alongside a large village green en fête. Got off the bike and sat on a seat munching on one of my bars while I listened to the ballad singer, who had connected with his audience, and watched the villagers and children on the amusements and looking around the stalls and generally having a good time. A lady, who then introduced herself as one of the organisers, came over and invited me to try their cake stall.

Passing over the bridge I found myself on a long flat main road into the town of Llanelli and, with the wind behind me, sped along and all was right with the world. The sat nav on the phone worked perfectly and took me to the Travelodge where I could keep my bike in my room. I was contemplating making the next day a rest day as I had wanted to be where the WiFi would be reliable, was comfortable, and could spend all the day planning if necessary. I checked in to the usual friendly Welsh welcome, sorted everything out and went out and bought a new helmet. Then, on recommendation, went round the corner to the Hungry Horse, felt ravenous and had a large plate of chick pea and sweet potato chilli.

Day 6. Bridgend to the Camp site – Margam Castle Estate and The Killers.

On going down to breakfast, the cheery voice of last night materialised into an enthusiastic sports gear clad thirty year old carrying a football with a seven year old boy in tow and they were shortly off to a juniors’ training session. We had a good chat about sport which turned into one of those “it’s a small world” moments when it turned out that his training had been at Loughborough University while I played for Lutterworth RFC who had an annual fixture with their thirds. They would run us ragged and then, on leaving the field, their players would do forward flips.

He said there was no possibility of my getting anywhere for the night at Swansea; it was fully booked everywhere because of the concert, the few available beds were being offered for £100s of pounds for the night. I had, however, spotted that there was a camp site a couple of miles up the Swansea Valley from the town so booked in there. Route 4 continued west from where I left it so decided to make a short cut across to pick it up later along an old railway line. After about six miles, stopped at a pub to get some supplies and check my route, hiding my bike in the pub garden leaving my helmet over the handlebars. I was the only person in the pub except a small group watching football who left shortly after I arrived. I sat down for a break, had a drink and some nuts, returning to my bike found a pannier disturbed and my helmet gone. I knew that I would not be passing any bike shop but would be able to get one when I arrived at Llanelli the next day.

Found the route and continued, mainly on traffic free paths, until I joined a cycle path running alongside the A48 where the route suddenly left the cycle path and joined a lane which I could see going straight up the hillside and, from the map, then passing behind Margam Castle Estate. This required  some thought, it could be that the cycle path, which was now running traffic free along the main road finished, or else there was something spectacular to see if one followed the path. Sustrans have a record for finding such places which annoys cyclists more interested in completing the route than looking at sites.

Decided to follow the route as a result of one of those “I might never be here again” moments and was soon off my bike pushing for what seemed ages until I reached iron gates which I needed to take off the panniers to go through. A rough gravel track then ran westward parallel with the coast and then I realised why it had seemed such a long climb and the reason for the diversion. Emerging from the trees there was an unforgettable view over the Severn Estuary and its islands to Devon and its distant hills. Looking steeply down were the Port Talbot steel works with smoke and steam rising from them looking like a working toy model. It had just been announced that 4,000 jobs were being saved there on an amalgamation of Tata Steel and a foreign company. Had a break and made my way along a rough track, stopping frequently to admire the changing view until another iron gate and off downhill.

Because of developing arthritis in my fingers and thumbs I had arranged to have long levers on my brakes and these now became very useful because it was as steep going down as it had been going up but now, partly, on a track. Some parts were stony, the bike was heavy with its panniers and I skidded and bounced until I reached some tarmac and eventually picked up the cycle path along the road. I then found myself cycling closely by the very smoky steel works which I had recently viewed from above.

Another trick Sustrans have is to take you though housing estates adjoining main roads to avoid conflict with busy traffic but soon after I entered the estate I was hailed by a resident who asked if I was following the bike route and, if so, it was blocked ahead and I would have to go on to the main road which I did and stopped to consult my maps. I was immediately approached by two female locals who enthusiastically asked if they could help. Explained the situation and one with an air of great authority said that it was blocked and gave me very clear directions as to where to turn off and how, after going under a bridge, I would find a car park on the far side of which was the cycle path. The directions turned out to be accurate in getting me to the car park but there was no way through a high wire security fence to the path. Back to the main road and stopped outside a corner shop to look at my maps again when, like magic, one of the young woman appeared from it, followed by the other carrying an open can of lager, who seem not abashed to be told what I had found and gave me another clear set of instructions to get to the path but invited me first to go across the road to a pub to have a drink with them. I made my excuses and left but never found the cycle path.

I continued along the main road when an oasis appeared in the form of a petrol station with a shop. I had only had a couples of bars and some nuts since breakfast and my stomach turned over at the possibilities of food. The shop was closed but there was someone at the night window where a customer was paying for petrol. He wanted something from the shop so the attendant went down a short corridor carefully closing the door behind her through to the shop, collected the item which she passed under the payment window as an excited woman dashed up saying “I just want a bottle of fizzy pop for my grandad, he says he is parched” so I motioned for her to go first. The request puzzled the attendant who could get no clear description so she  went into the shop. The pop bottles were mostly on the far side partly hidden by the centre counter and she then held up one by one. They were mostly, rejected or brought round to the front of the shop, pressed against the glass window still to be rejected. The reason became clear: the drinks that service stations sell are exotically designed to attract children and there were none that her grandfather would think were fizzy pop. After some trips the attendant found, in a remote corner, a large bottle of standard lemonade, pressed it against the glass where it was viewed with great suspicion and the two drivers now in the queue and I held our breath, “I suppose so” was the reply. Had no heart to make the drivers wait while I started similar negotiations so beckoned them on and then bought two packs of chicken sandwiches and some bars. Found a quiet corner disturbed only by the local rat who must have smelt the food, devoured one pack and kept the other for supper.

I carried on alongside the main road until I picked up a cycle path which, after a few miles, took me into the outskirts of Swansea where I needed to pick up route 43 along the river Tawe. It took some time to find and turned itself into a narrow dark cycle/pedestrian way made worse by the failing light.

An athletic looking pair came running towards me and I asked if they were on a training run. “No, the Killers” one said, “and there are loads more coming down here” pointing up the path. I put my rather small lights on, and soon they started coming using their phones as torches, my sudden appearance startling them and then turning to amusement when they realised I was harmless. Larger and larger groups started arriving and I could make little progress and they become more and more cheerful and wreathed in fumes of alcohol. Discovered they were coming from the Liberty Stadium, the home of Swansea FC and Ospreys RFC, with a capacity of 21,000, the third largest stadium in Wales. I had been reduced to walking slowly until the path eventually lead me round the Stadium. Eventually got going again towards the camp site which was away from the path a mile or so further up but the satnav on the phone could not cope with the post code and the camp site became a moving shining mirage until I met a couple walking there who invited me to follow them eventually though a gap in the hedge into the site.

It was very late and a notice outside the office directed me to an entertainment centre with ear shattering music.  I surprised the barman when I walked up with my bike and the Security Guard was called. The area for tents was in the far reaches of the site so he invited me to follow his car and I reached my fastest speed of the day. He parked so I could put the tent up in his headlights and eventually helped me erect it; he said he preferred to be doing this than throwing the drunks out of the bar which he would soon be doing. Sat in my tent eating my now warm and delicious chicken sandwiches.

Day 5. Caerphilly to Bridgend, a Goshawk and preserved railway lines

This promised to be an interesting day, almost all the route was shown to be off-road. The Valleys’ coal mines, ports and quarries were interconnected by mineral lines and, when the mines were closed down, the lines were preserved and converted for use by cyclist and walkers, almost always running through woods or along river valleys. They are a joy to ride as they are straight and level with a good, firm, well-drained surface, are shady with a lot of wildlife to see including a Goshawk which flashed across the path into woods. A rare bird in the British Isles, their numbers are now increasing, particularly in Wales.

After having another look at the Castle, and negotiating the outskirts of the town, found myself on the first preserved line heading to Taff Vale where I picked up another  heading north to Pontypridd from where the route headed up the valley towards the once great mining centre of Merthyr Tydfil. Turned off into Pontypridd, a pleasant town with a  small, busy pedestrianised centre with a convenient outdoor cafe for a sit down and a snack. The way out of town was not immediately obvious but with local help headed along “the little lane up by my aunts” by which time it was possible to see that I was off up the shoulder of a small mountain Mynydd y Glyn and was soon off the bike for a long push. The compensation is the extra detail you now see like the butterflies which are hard to recognise as they fly in front of you on the bike; those small but colourful  flowers which hide in the grass; the birds you disturb in the hedgerow and best of all those stops  when you get your breath back as the countryside is opening below. There is always the compensation of the downhill freewheel to come, this time with the exhilaration of two 1 in 10 hills on a narrow winding lane into the Tonyrefail valley. The route was then up a hill mostly along a dismantled railway to the top on the moors and I had a long tea break admiring the Estuary and sympathising, from a distance, with a Duke of Edinburgh Award looking group of young walkers with heavy packs crossing the moors in the hot sun. The long downhill  started with a very rough track which the bike took in its stride into the Ogmore valley leaving route 4 to travel a few miles South to where Juliet had managed to find me a B & B in Bridgend.

It had been a lovely ride, but it was becoming late as there had been so many interesting things to look at. Then I had some difficulty in finding the lodging as I had dropped my note with the address of the B & B which Juliet had found for me so it quite late when I set off for the 20 minute walk from the B & B into town. The first place I saw was a McDonald’s; a Whopper has never tasted so good.

Day 4. Newport and the Transporter Bridge

The B & B was called The Great House. It was 16th century grade II listed, all stone and beams and very fine china was displayed on any spare horizontal surface. The garden fell towards the river by tiered lawns and gave a picturesque view along the water. On a wall there was a framed testimonial from, I think, the Royal College of Surgeons, describing the distinguished career of the genteel owner’s brother and the landlady told me her husband had been in the same profession.

When I woke I started looking for the next night’s lodging to find all the obvious places inexplicably full again so, after breakfast, asked if I could stay to use the WiFi but it was made clear that the cleaner was coming at 9.30am so the room would not be available from then. I was still packing when the very friendly cleaner arrived and I told her of the problems I was having and she said that Ed Sheeran was playing for three nights at Cardiff to full houses and that is why everywhere was taken.

My daughter, Juliet, had said that if I had trouble finding somewhere, to get in touch with her, which, confident in her skills as a Researcher I did with some relief, and headed off into Caerleon.

There were three permanent bases of the legions in Roman Britain. Caerleon was the home of the Second Augustan Legion which was established by Frontinus in about 74 AD and lasted until about the end of the third century.

The first of the Roman Ruins I came across was an impressive, well-preserved amphitheatre. While the seats had gone it was still being used for events, but as I heard a Guide telling an attentive group of children, “no lions now”. They stared in awe down into the amphitheatre while the Guide gave a detailed description of what had happened there. It had been excavated by Sir Mortimer Wheeler in 1926 – 7 and is still the only completely excavated example in Britain. It was constructed in about AD 80, around the same time as the Cilesseum in Rome.

The very extensive remains of the fortress were further along; they were just the foundations and three large sewers along the sides which would have been surmounted by wooden seats. There was a cheerful depiction of them in use.

Returned to Newport to pick up route 4 again. To travel south through the town you ride along wide public promenades by the river. When the town centre was regenerated, the new buildings had been set well back from the riverbank and there were lots of seats, art installations and it had the feel of a holiday resort.  There were children, mothers with push chairs and office workers enjoying the sun. It was the bridges that took my eye. The main bridge over the River Usk, though replaced many times over the centuries, is guarded by what is now the shell of the 14th century castle and, a little downstream, a striking foot bridge, then the delicate curves of the 2004 tied arch bridge with road and cycle way.

I crossed over the high road bridge with wide views up and down the river where you could just about make out the sites of the old docks. The most famous of all the bridges in Newport is the Transporter Bridge, one of the two still working in Great Britain; the other is at Middlesbrough which I had gone over as a school child. It was constructed in 1906 to overcome the problem of getting tall ships up the river to the docks in the town and it consists of high pylons each side of the river connected by girders from which hangs a gondola. With similarities to a ferry-boat, it consists of a wide section of roadway and cover for pedestrians. When I spotted it the previous evening I asked a bystander whether it still works; he thought carefully before replying: “sometimes it does, sometimes it don’t”. I saw what he meant.

There was a small visitors’ centre filled with fearsome-looking, but very friendly, German motor cyclists who had made a special journey to visit it and their powerful bikes were parked outside. Were they then off to Middlesbrough?  Like Tower Bridge in London, which had a similar purpose, you could buy a ticket to climb up an open, scary staircase to walk over the top.  At quiet times the Transporter Bridge picked up vehicles or pedestrians from whichever side they arrived first.

I then tried to pick up route 4 without immediate success but following the principle “if lost just go in the right direction” found myself cycling scarily down the A48 dual carriageway to the peeping astonishment of some drivers before picking up route 4 and heading along quiet lanes towards Caerphilly where Juliet now had found me accommodation. I was in the hills proper and had a chance to try out my wide range of gears (24) but, on this type of road, what often matters is how long you can push the bottom granny gear until you are forced to get off, i.e. how much burn your calf muscles can take.  When racing, my personal vow is never to get off. I nearly had to do so for the first time in Soria in Spain last year but was saved by the width of the road which enabled me to take long tacks. I could not do that now so, after various degrees of burn, I decided that my legs still had a lot of cycling to do that day and I reluctantly got off.

Eventually, I crested the last rise and saw Caerphilly way down below and the reward of a long freewheel for the climbing. There was a good welcome when I found the B & B,  lots of advice about what to do and where took go and went to a recommended bar/restaurant which had a spectacular view over the Castle. After looking at the view, I found their kitchen was temporarily closed so went back to a Wetherspoons I had passed on the way down.

 

 

Day 3. Towards Caerleon and the Roman Fortress

Sustrans route 4 took me out of Chepstow to Caerleon, VENTA SILVRVM in Roman times, but there are no visible remains according to the OS map. My eventual destination for the day promised a Roman Fortress, Amphitheatre and Museums.

First a pretty, but hilly, ride though a wooded lane, and, rounding a corner, a sudden glimpse through an open door of a chapel. I declared a water break and went inside. It was small but beautifully proportioned; from memorials it seemed likely that it had been built by the local estate owner. It was good to  see how it was still being cherished, services were being held and it was beautifully kept: no dust and lots of polish.

When I conceived the tour I had decided to stick as far as possible to the Sustrans route but I realised that my hybrid bike would not cope with 4 panniers and tent on some of the surfaces that were often rough so I had had a sturdy touring bike built by Oxfordshire Bike Works and I was looking forward to see how it would cope on some of their routes.

The map showed some strange looking tracks ahead but first I had to find  the Severn Junction railway station near the coast. Emerging from the bridge by the station I was in another world. The road westward towards Newport was a busy main road, but south of the station and M4 were the expanses of Rogiet Moor which stretched down to the Estuary. Heading southwest was a track, straight for over a mile, and the surface was mainly angular small stones. I could not imagine a worse surface for cycling (except mud) so here was the chance to test the bike. The broad front tyre skittered about the stones but the bike was comfortably stable – all was good with the world.

A roar and over the horizon appeared a large dust cloud with some loud noisy vehicle within it and, as it slowly approached, it became clear that the track was only wide enough for one of us. Size would win so pulled off on to the grass, closed my eyes and stopped breathing until the patter of dust on my face ceased, and quickly closed my eyes again until the foggy dust cloud passed; a large trailer was being hauled, full of rocks. Frequently, more vehicles appeared which I dodged until, after a short dog leg with a final left hand corner to go round,  I could hear another tractor approaching. I could not pull off any more as had a ditch on one side and hedge on the other so accelerated and aimed at a space on the right of the corner where the tractor would swing out to turn. I just got there first and the driver slammed on his brakes and we came to a stop inches apart. We exchanged relieved grins.

The track soon turned into a lane and I was hit by that beautiful, sweet, grassy smell of new mown hay: recollections of a village childhood. Now, instead of moorland, the fields sweeping down to the Estuary had had their hay cut within the last 24 hours, there were swallows sweeping over the fields and a variety of small birds shooting out of the hedge on my passage but then another puzzle. The hay looked of very good quality and I decided this was probably because of the high water table on this old marsh and, with hay crops failing across the country as a result of the long heat wave, this would be valuable.

A small strange ancient looking building then appeared at the side of the road, dovecote holes in the side wall, mounting steps for horse riders then, against the neighbouring church wall, a set of stocks. The front was wholly open, inside an old press and vertical grinder too close together and without apparent motive power and seating. A man approached behind a wheel barrow as he had been tidying the hedge of the village hall opposite so I went over to him and I said how puzzled I was; he stalled but when he saw my genuine interest explained that when some buildings were pulled down, the site, which was on the prominent corner of the village and in front of the church, looked a desolate mess and stayed like that for a number of years accumulating rubbish. There was a lot of discussion about what to do and how to raise the funds and when a retired villager offered to rebuild what had been the bus stop and clear up the area, this was warmly accepted.

Over the next few years he worked on the building which he felt, rightly, needed to be in keeping with that area and adding curious items that he managed to acquire from time to time and creating what was a large covered bus shelter.

Route 4 then took me into Newport and then transferred onto routes 47 and 88 which went straight up the river front towards Caerleon. Leaving Newport from the north, lost the signs, the problem was that there had been substantial road changes and the signs had gone. Asked a fellow cyclist for help and he immediately gave me that kind Welsh response I had been receiving during the last two days and he told me to follow him and he would put me back on the route which was along a scenic cycling and walking route above a river. I asked him for advice as to where to eat, he suggested The Bell Inn for its excellent food. Arrived at the B & B and there, 100 yards up the road, was The Bell Inn. Checked in and dashed up the road to get there by 8.30 in case they stopped serving then. He had been right about the food and there was good real ale and a cheery atmosphere. Arrived back replete but shattered and decided to leave tomorrow until tomorrow and went straight to bed. The landlady had been surprised to hear that the Tourist Office at Chepstow had found her; she was not on their list.

Day 2. Into Wales – Chepstow and its Castle

Do you get that moment, perhaps when going on a walk, get out of the car, stretch, look at the hills you are intending to climb and a feeling of great relaxation spreads over you? It was one of those moments now perched on my bike at the apex of the Severn Bridge, looking way below into the muddy waters of the Severn and ahead at the hills and valleys of South Wales. Gave a shove and started freewheeling towards The Coach and Horses Inn in Chepstow. Had booked it beforehand, it was in the old part of the town, the reviews showed it to be a friendly place to stay and had WiFi. Walking in saw that all the beer pumps had Welsh brewed beer from Brains, was given a cheery welcome from both the barman and customers and was soon sitting down to the meal and, after a long day crossing most of England, this was well-deserved.

However, WiFi hardly worked in my room and it was explained that this was a 16th century coaching inn, had solid stone walls but there was good WiFi in the bar. It had been a long day, the bar was busy, a quick beer, bed and a prompt start in the morning seemed a much better idea.

After a good breakfast, decided to sort out the next night’s accommodation – got a shock, all the normal accommodation was full. It had seemed feasible, when researching beforehand, to choose somewhere to stay as I went along as there was plenty of available accommodation along the South Wales coast and it was out of season. I was intending to decide where to stay the next night based on the most interesting places and distance covered. Now, my position in the corner of the bar started getting more difficult as someone belonging to the pub or Brewery had arrived and an increasingly interesting conversation about the running of the pub was taking place and, embarrassingly, far more commercial information was being discussed than I ought to know so I upped sticks and headed through the historic town centre for the Tourist Office.

Chepstow has just been celebrating 950 years of history, on the banks of the Wye, the boundary between Wales and England. Its river crossing is guarded by the Castle. The original castle was built by the newly-created Earl of Hereford as a base for his advances into the Welsh kingdom of Gwent. His Great Tower still forms the basis of the castle today. The development of the coal and iron industries in the Valleys meant that prosperity moved west and Chepstow’s historic centre not significantly redeveloped.

The person managing the Tourist office proved very helped, a few checks on their accommodation site showed, to her surprise as well, that everywhere was full, but she was determined to find somewhere so suggested I started looking around the Castle while she continued. It is spectacularly perched above the river Wye. When I returned some time later she had not found any available accommodation but had the home and mobile number of a landlady in Caerleon who had left a message on both to say she had accommodation available tonight. Clutching these lifelines, I went to the topmost parts of castle and, after several tries, got through on the mobile number. The vacancy was confirmed, and I was on my way to Caerleon.

Day 1. Off to Wales

Lock the door, cross the road, down the path on to the Flitch Way, a former railway track now for public use leading to Braintree Station and also part of the Sustrans Cycle network. Intend to follow Route 4 from the Severn Bridge to St David’s, the most Western point in Wales.

Bikes and trains have a difficult relationship; bikes need to use trains, the train companies encouraged to accommodate bikes, but often seem reluctant. Not Abellio, though, a Dutch bike-friendly company which runs our train to London. It has put in new cycle racking at their stations and, ignoring some indignation, has converted some formerly first-class carriages by including a row of tip-up seats so space can be created for wheelchairs/pushchairs/bikes.

Stood with bike loaded with 4 panniers, tent and sleeping bag outside Liverpool Street Station apprehensively viewing the maelstrom which is the City, which needed to be crossed to the cycle super-highway along the Thames. There were scuttling pedestrians glued to phones, cyclists dashing everywhere. The trick, I discovered, was to become a “vehicle”, get well into the road and become part of the slow-moving traffic. It does not make you popular, but everyone can see you.

The super-highway is mostly separated from the traffic, its main problem along the Embankment being tourists obliviously wandering about taking photographs. Left the Embankment at The Houses of Parliament to connect to the cycle path along Birdcage Walk. Rounded the corner at the top – two large white horses were marching towards me so exchanged glances with the two mounted police and immediately decided it was now a horse path and shot into the tourists and stopped. A section of troops passed by and there were tourists were swanning everywhere: I had just missed the Changing of the Guard.

Escaped into the peace of Hyde Park, and had the pleasure of riding along the bank of the Serpentine where Ian has often taken me to see the wide variety of birds and their families. Then it was over the road to Paddington Station to join the crowd watching the destination board to see the allocation of platforms. Dashed to the Bristol train as the allocation was put up uncomfortably close to time of departure.

You have to book beforehand to take a bike on an express train and are also given a seat allocation: mine was coach J. When walking through the barrier I enquired where the bike store was; some deep thought and was told it was at the far end. The express stretched way out of sight around a curve in the platform but spotted the store fortunately just 20 yards from the barrier and secured the bike.

Staggered off down the platform carrying 4 panniers, bar bag, light hiking tent and sleeping bag. No sign of coach J and the lettering of the carriages lost their sequence. Tried to fight down growing panic when saw Porter – “Where is coach J”? “There isn’t one on the new trains, that was for an old train. Just get on here.” “But I’ve got a seat booked in J”, “GET ON!”. Collapsed puffed out into seat in nearly full carriage shortly followed by politely protesting English voice also wanting coach J and then saw large Scandinavian, being very firm in that Scandinavian manner, but quietening when she saw that the few remaining seats were being filled up. Her approach had some effect because, when the snack bar opened, a sheepish conductor arrived with a peace offering of a sandwich, muffin and drink which she, grumbling, accepted.

Had identified a local train from Bristol which went to Avonmouth and then continued along the bank of the Estuary in the direction of the Severn. Not only would this take me nearer the crossing, but it had the great advantage that I would not have to cycle though another city. At Bristol station I could find no indication where it left from until someone directed me to a siding in the invisible far reaches of the Station where a veteran two carriage diesel train arrived to eventually deposit me at a small station where the towers of the bridge beckoned me towards Wales.