May 21, 2012
The Quantock Hills in Somerset
Taunton, Triscombe and Crowcombe
The train leaves at about 9:30 and I arrive at Ruby's just after 9:00 and get flummoxed when Roy decides to take a shower at 9:15. We miss the train, and wait over an hour for the next one.
The delayed service from Birmingham takes us to Taunton and the town centre was closed off due to the Olympic Torch coming through, but that isn't due to arrive until at 6;00 and it was only 4:30, so after a late lunch we ride north out of town with bright sunshine making a great change from the cold and dismal weather that plagued Lincoln for the last few days.
At a roundabout where a small group has gathered a few miles out we stop to see the torch pass by, but all it is is a convoy of fast traffic and so we feel puzzled and disappointed that we've seen such an irrelevance that has been so hyped up.
We make a right off the main road and head to Triscombe, a village Frank Patterson sketched. The lane is steep in places, hemmed in by high hedges, and it bends and curves its way across the undulating landscape. We're now in the Quantock Hills.
The Blue Ball is really all there is in Triscombe. There're a few other buildings - houses - but the pub dominates with its row of cottages where tourists can stay. I show the Patterson drawing to the landlord, but he can't pinpoint where it was sketched from and neither can I.
Roy buys two half-pints of Guinness and we sup them slowly, sat in the lawned garden with the sun getting low, and eat crisps while I persuade Roy that rather than having more beer, we ought to ride a bit further.
We cycle up another steep lane that leads north, towards a village named Crowcombe, a place Patterson had sketched.
Finding the scene is easy but recreating it is not so, as a barbed-wire fence and a high wall are barriers, plus a high hedge obscures the backdrop. I do my best before we set off to find another pub.
The sun is getting low.
It's just a minute away and is a nice place, the slate floor and wooden furniture having that rustic charm that makes British pubs so unique.
We sample some Exmoor ale before trying the strong scrumpy cider - just a small glass each. It's potent stuff.
Our camp spot is about a mile away and the sun has gone below the horizon when we push our bikes across a field that's designated as a public footpath. There won't be anyone around until morning and we're sure that the nearby road will be quiet.
We pitch below a large tree and Roy heats a can of soup on his dinky stove and later sleeps on a blue nylon tarp, with a Gortex cover over his sleeping bag. I put up the mesh of my tent and watch through it to see the sky turn to darkness.
Today's ride: 51 km (32 miles)
Total: 2,908 km (1,806 miles)
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