July 10, 2014
Hills Are Nothing New, South Wales
Well its sunbathing weather as I chill out all afternoon in Rosslare, a village along the roadside which services the ferryport, and reflect on cycle-touring in Ireland. Most people it seems go clockwise with the prevailing wind. Also judging by journals on this site, most don't venture far inland from a western coastal tourist-trail; usually, starting in Cork and finishing on the Antrim Coast, where many go on to Scotland. Sure enough, areas like the east, from Dublin north almost to the border is boring. But just before and over the border is some wonderfully scenic countryside, as are other inland northern counties, such as Tyrone. Also the inland south east, Kilkenny and Tipperary is worth a look. So plan to get off the beaten track, and ride across the country.
My daily expenditure was in the region of thirteen-fourteen euros. Working in pounds and pence, eighty pence buys one euro at the moment, so that works out at ten to eleven pounds on food, though in cities where I took days off, a hostel cost thirteen pounds in Derry, and seventeen euros in Galway. The only real downer is the climate. High Summer can be disappointingly cool. I worn my warm fleece top over a short slieve cycling top most of the time, and it was almost too cool for shorts.
There's certain food things I won't get when I get to Wales, such as wheaten bread and the oatmeal here is superior; so, I do some shopping in Supervalu.
As someone who loves beer, I though I'd mention my favourite Irish beer is Smithick, which is a cloudy red ale. I only buy cans, costing a little over two euros, as pubs charge over four euros.
The ferry sails at 20.45, which would be fine if it sailed all night; but it's only a short crossing, and scheduled arrival time in Pembroke is 00.45. So I'm in for a night of trying to sleep somewhere at the terminal building over there, waiting it out to daylight so I can ride onwards.
Later: when the ferry does arrive, it makes a quick turn around as it's due to return to Ireland the same night. So the terminal building is open with passengers sat round waiting for a boarding call. I didn't think, but assumed it would be open all night, so wheel the bike in and choose seats where I can perhaps sleep, or at least kill time until daylight.
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I lay down and set the music to play Atom Heart Mother, by the Floyd. A fusion of orchestral and rock music, opening with loud baritone horns and a male-voice choir, then descends into bedlam with rearing wild horses, followed by a motor bike revving and accelerating off into the distance to orchestrated horns like in an action film. Then the opening sequence boomingly cuts in a second time, leading to a violin solo, followed by dreamy electric slide guitar playing. Soon it sends me asleep, missing the beautiful guitar solo in the middle, which suddenly fades away and the bass guitar reacts by stopping dead, then lets out a wimmer, like a sudden misunderstanding and walking off of an old friend, whereupon the friend left standing, wonders what they've said.
The next I'm aware of is a yellow hi-vis jacketed young man glaring down on me. "We're closing in ten minutes, sir!" "Wha-ha, what!" I shake from my sleep.
I move outside the front doors of the terminal building. Once all the lights are switched off and the staff lock up shop and go home, I roll out my mat and lay flat out. Silence at last. After a while I've to get the sleeping-bag out as it's cold. I should be okay if it rains, as the building has a broad overhang. The next I know it is daylight, having slept, so I start moving.
There's a cycle lane, National Cycling Network (NCN) designated, along the main highway east, the A477. Not really needed at this early hour, as there's little traffic; until, I've stopped at a village of a few white houses and a red phone box, to breakfast sitting on a parapet wall of an old stone bridge, which used to be the old road. It is then between seven and half past and rush hour traffic steadily builds. Shortly after the cycle lane ends, and I fail to find the NCN alternative, and so I'm left riding on a narrow shoulder.
Unexpectedly, though I should've known, the way ahead become relentlessly up and down, with the dual carriageway climbing steadily for about a mile, then sweeping down, where I hit fifty-seven kays on the clock. Here I move out into the lane as I reckon I'm more likely to come to grief by hitting the inside curb, than being hit by a car.
Then the road reaches a fork, joining the busier A40 at a big roundabout. Thereafter it is like a motorway, but without much of a shoulder. I had to get off, so turn off down the next side road.
The minor roads, the width of a car with high hedges, are hellishly hilly, with gradient of fifteen per cent and higher. And soon I haven't a clue where I am or the direction I'm going, as the places signposted at crosses, are little, too small to appear in my road atlas. I get directions at a house, putting me right for Melkan, which is the right way, but not after a lot more climbing. Then its a mile until re-joining the A40, five miles short of Carmarthen, the main town ahead. .
I sit down to lunch on a path on the inside of the crash-barrier. Shortly, along come more cycle-tourers, Aron followed by two girls, I didn't get their names. In their early twenties, they're cycling from North Wales to Cardiff for a charity. I think they are Welsh, but I didn't hear mush of an accent. I think if they can cycle on such a busy road, so can I.
Later, before setting off again, more of their group arrive. One is riding a nice old Raleigh from the eighties, as are most, riding old and inexpensive bikes, touring gear and kitted out in hi-vis vests.
Beyond Carmarthen, I'm on roads I can find in the road atlas, albeit busy roads, as South Wales it would seen is extremely densely populated. Although in valleys and hills on the edge of the Brecon beacons, it is continuous urban, one village ends where another begins, just as it is getting late and I'm looking for a place to camp. After looking at many possible camp spots, all of them too close to housing, I find a near perfect spot along a public footpath.
Friday dawns with clear blue sky and turns out a scorcher. I take the A476 via Merthyr Tydfil, then on to arrive in the nice old market town Abergavenny by lunchtime. Then the afternoon is a pleasant ride through farming valleys of Monmouthshire, to Chepstow, to exit Wales via the Severn bridge.
Today's ride: 252 km (156 miles)
Total: 1,336 km (830 miles)
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