August 20, 2011
It's a Jolly good Ride. Near Minehead and over Exmoor way.
The wind which rose after nightfall had blown in a change of weather for the new day. On looking out this morning the sky was a dirty uniform grey and it would rain during the morning.
I wanted to get away as early as possible with the hope that the traffic on the busy A39 road between Bridgewater and Minehead which I had been cycling west on and would continue on this morning, would be quiet first thing on Saturday morning. I dropped down from where I'd camped on the hilltop and turned left. I had still thirteen miles to cycle to Minehead where I could get off this busy road. Not surprisingly the holiday-makers hadn't turned out yet but there was a fair amount of commercial vehicles out this early. The road was narrow, had high hedgerows growing straight by the edge of the road having a detrimental effect on an already dangerous road with many blind bends.
I was approaching one such bend while hearing the whine of a truck coming up behind. It all happen very quickly. The truck slowed almost to a halt, changed down gear and pulled out to overtake me on the bend just when another truck was coming the other way. The truck overtaking me braked to a halt instantly, while the oncoming truck which was coming much faster, luckily got slowed down and stopped safely too. It could have been so different. And because of the hedge there was no grass verge for me to escape onto. The overtaking truck them had to back up.
I reached Minehead in one piece and sat on a wall in the town-centre a short while before going further.
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The much appreciated B road onwards was a world of differences. There was only an occasional local vehicle which had to wait behind before passing as the road was only a vehicle wide between high hedges. It was hilly though. I past a steep gradiant sign, a red margin triangular sign whereupon on a white background was a black wedge together with seventeen per-cent, ahead of which was a steep incline. The climb was more gradual after it's abrupt beginning. It followed a green leafy valley along and up, and very soon towards ever increasing chances of rain.
I had gotten as far as the head of the valley and turned right onto a minor A road when it began to spit rain, gradually increasing in intensity until, it was raining down heavily and before very long causing water to stream down the road. Cold water came trickling into my shoes, in through the collar and sleeves of my rain-jacket. My cycling-tights were getting very wet from spray off the wheels. And after climbing so much there came a long gradual freewheel down in which I grew pretty cold with inaction.
A few miles before a place call Brampton, I saw the blue sign for the National cycle-network 3 (NCN 3) which pointed me along a narrow laneway with woodland along it's upper sloping side. As the rain continued and was showing no sign of easing I thought of ducking in under the trees to find a place to camp so I could get into the sleeping-bag to warm-up, but remembered that I'd no water. Maybe I could harvest the rain-water. Maybe. It was only a thought.
The laneway came out upon a road where a blue NCN 3 sign pointed the way ahead across the road and in along another laneway.
A few mile more and Is glad to descend to the village of Wulverton with the prospect of getting in somewhere out of the rain. Along the main street there were quite a selection of different eating places, tearooms, pubs and cafes. The first place I looked at looked expensive. Then I looked in through the window of a tearoom called "Lewis" at a framed food review in the "Daily Telegraph" newspaper giving it five stars, summing up, "The food is imaginative and the portions are generous.......". Inside the clientele where well turned out middle-class families, the adults speaking with nasal voices. I took the only table left which being next to the door, I got a cold draft every time someone opened the door on leaving or coming in. I order French Toast with Maple Syrup which when it came was a delicious combination.
When I came out again it was raining not as much. I pushed the bike along the pavement stopping outside a Spar supermarket where I went in and bough food for the rest of the day. Further along the street there was an Exmoor National Park office where I stopped and entered. I asked was there a campsite in town. The woman said no and when I asked is it far to the next place with a campsite, said yes, but then when I said near NCN 3 said no, not until Barnstaple, thirty miles. "But it's a jolly good ride" she stressed. "Is there any woodland on the way, perhaps I could camp there" I say. "Gosh no it isn't allowed in the National Park." she said. With a small green tent I won't be noticed, but I didn't say that.
Leaving town the road followed the river along a deep wooded gorge before turning up and climbing. It had stopped raining and the cloud was actively on the move above the trees and around the top of the wooded slopes which I climbed towards. Eventually I emerged from the vapoury wet whiff of the pine trees out to stone wall fields and open hillside, then open moor as the sun broke through with dramatic effect on the purple flowering heather and big stokes of Bracken growing by the roadside.
I rode on in fine weather with superb views through the afternoon descending to South Morton at five o'clock where there was a campsite. Not another overpriced place I thought as I rode in the drive seeing all the holiday maker's campervans, cars and big family tents. The price was fifteen pounds. "It's high season you know" said the woman. Is tire, otherwise I would've rode on. The place allot to me was a field still partially waterlogged from the morning's rain. I found a place not as swimming in water as the others, nevertheless the ground squelched when trod upon, though I was well away from all the big tents which later on had electric light and TVs flickering.
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