May 23, 2012
Holford to Bridgwater
train north to Cheltenham and solo to to Winchcombe
Bright morning sunshine makes the woods look a lot less mysterious.
The shiny foil sheet is like the ones marathon runners get handed at the finishing line. Roy lent me it to kept warm last night and we both enjoy a reasonable sleep in the quiet spot and just to make sure I didn't suffer like the previous evening, I also donned some socks and another top, and wore my light trousers over my shorts.
It's around 7:30 when a man who looks to be in his 70s walks by with his dog just as I'm taking a photo of the rolling green landscape. He points out that what I'd assumed were cattle are actually wild deer, congregating in a couple of fields owned by the League Against Cruel Sports and we agree that it's strange how they know they're safe there.
There's a large county house nearby, as I'd guessed, although it's become an up-market hotel.
He turns around and starts to walk back towards Holford after telling us the dirt track we're on used to lead to a Youth Hostel, but it closed down and the building is currently being converted into holiday units. This spot is as far as he goes with his dog - Windy Corner it's known locally.
As Roy and I cycle back along the gritty path to the village it's in better condition than it appeared last night, when our dim LEDs picked out all the potholes.
The one original pen and ink drawing of Frank Patterson's in my collection, titled Holford on the Quantocks, shows a cyclist riding towards a row of thatched cottages. It's a spot we must have cycled by on the way into the village, yet it takes a circumnavigation of Holford for me to realize this.
By then Roy has decided he'll wait for me at the main road, so I set up my tripod on the quiet lane shrouded by trees and take a few self-timed shots of the scene before we both ride off in search of breakfast.
Bridgwater is close, although just a bit too far for our liking and the village of Nether Stowey has a shop, according to a man walking along the A 39.
It's a short distance away, mostly downhill, and the shop turns out to have a tea room, which looks pretty new, and we sit inside and order tea and toast with jam. It isn't substantial and on the way out we buy a couple of flapjacks to keep us going.
It's already feels hot.
The A 39 goes direct to Bridgwater, but riding along country lanes appeals more and I twist Roy's arm and get him to cycle up into the Quantocks with me, in the direction of Over Stowey, to take in some of the wonderful scenery that the area is famous for.
The first hill is steep - I walk the last 100 metres - but our diversion doesn't last too long as we veer east and end up back on the main road, which is horrible. There's no shoulder and lots of vehicles. Thankfully Bridgwater is only about 8 miles away.
Lunch is soup of the day in a bar that has the ritzy décor of a nightclub. It's called Reflections and has a tacky, 70's feel to it and our meal comes out of a can, but there's Wi-fi, so I email Debbie simply to say so far so good.
We cruise past St John Street Cycles on the way to the Art Deco facade of the train station, where I buy a one-way ticket to Cheltenham, as it's on the route back to Lincoln and Roy's return allows us to get off there OK.
The plan now is to cycle around the Cotswolds and visit more spots Frank Patterson sketched.
Touring the hilly Cotswolds is my idea - Roy simply wants to chill out and drink beer in Cheltenham and we linger in the centre where people have gathered to watch the Olympic Torch parade through.
We eventually ride out of the city centre, but he drops back and after waiting at the side of the road for a while a few miles out I guess he's turned around, so opt to continue on alone.
The turning for Whittington village takes me on to a tranquil route and it's nice to be away from the rush of fast cars that whiz along the A 40. There's no hurry and it feels good to take my time.
The tiny road, just 2 metres wide, inclines sharply down to Sevenhampton and is even more delightful; a sign says it's unsuitable for motorized vehicles and yet the houses are large and old and look expensive.
The scene Patterson drew is easy to find and I set up my camera on the tripod to replicate it with me as the cyclist and also take a photo of myself pausing by the stream that flows across the one lane bending through the village.
I then head for the biggest dot on my map: Winchcombe, due north, as I fancy a comfy bed and a hot shower after two nights sleeping out. My scalp was itchy. There'll be places to sleep there.
The countryside is now cast in low sunlight and shadows are long, with a stately home set back from the road aglow, lit up in the dying rays. The landscape rolls and is a series of patches - hedges separating crops of rape and wheat and lush meadows.
The hill is steep - a sign says 17 percent - and I don't bomb down it too fast as it's winding.
Winchcome is a delightful surprise, a town rather than a village, but with streets oozing character, old fronts made of local stone that have a warm tone.
On what looks like the main street, I lean my bike against a terrace of houses leading to the center to take a snap and just as I get my camera pointed in the direction of the church spire I hear my tyre blow - PHLURR - the air rushing out in a second or so. If it'd done that on the steep descent just a minute before I'd have had big problems.
Maybe it's providence.
I just fit a new innertube, baffled as to what had caused the inch-long split.
My dinner is fish and chips with curry sauce which I eat sat inside the shop and the guy serving tells me a few pubs in town do B&B and once I've done it's time to ride around and check them out.
The first is full. Curious, I ask the rate and the young barman says 70 quid, so availability is academic. He suggests The Plaisterers Arms nearby and says Liz there has rooms.
It's an old inn painted pale yellow with two bay windows on the ground floor and once inside Liz sounds a bit posh, so I'm not too optimistic but she quotes me 40 quid for a single in her soft Irish accent even though it's a double room because she knows it's getting late and that the chances of other customers coming now are slim.
My bike gets wheeled down the passage and parked in the rear yard and later Liz serves me pub grub in the bar.
Today's ride: 54 km (34 miles)
Total: 3,042 km (1,889 miles)
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