Racing the storm

June 13, 2024

LEJOG Day four: Weston to Hereford

Today I was thinking about my tour. It's odd really; I think I got so tangled up in the planning that I didn't consider what I wanted to take from the experience, or whether there was even a choice. I mean, superficially, any trip is about getting from A to B, with a number of midpoints to make the journey achievable. Nothing more to say. But some people use their tours to see notable places, others to wander and find undiscovered landscapes, yet others to meet new people and bond with fellow travellers. For me, this tour has become about the physical challenge: the passing roads, the changing landscapes, the challenge of the next hill (and yes, maybe the breakfasts, just a little).

Some cycle tourists clearly take more care about programming in interesting stop offs, or notable sights. Others are happy to deviate a bit, to go off route and explore as the whim takes them. Me, I'm following a black line on my GPS, and when it turns into a little chequered flag, I get off, clean up, eat, and chill. I've got rooms booked all the way, and I'm not planning to rejig them. This isn't - so far, at least - a particularly exploratory tour.

I reflected on this a bit today, because when you've six hours on your own, you've time to think. Also, today was very much a focused ride, about Getting There.

Last night, I checked the weather forecast and, not to put too fine a point on things, it was grim. Heavy rain from mid-afternoon, sweeping in from the west and covering everything. By the morning, the bank of cloud on the weather map was shaped like a vast 'c', embracing most of England in its grip as its top and bottom curves closed inexorably over the final clear patch - roughly where I was heading. To add to the fun, there was now also mention of strong blustery winds, which is the sort of thing that gets bridges closed to cyclists. And if I couldn't cross the river Severn to get into Wales, it was going to be one heck of a diversion.

With all this in mind, I had the earliest possible breakfast, and left before nine. By my usual start time, I was already a dozen miles along the flat roads of Somerset, and heading up to Bristol. Other than the occasional rise to bridge a railway line or cross a larger road, it was just a straight pedal through country lanes in high gears.

Crossing the M5 motorway. In a post-apocalyptic world, this is going to be an awesome cyclepath for the survivors.

Towards Avonmouth, things got more interesting. The area hosts two separate dockyards. Obviously, this means deep water, which doesn't mix well with bicycles. It also means freight, logistics, and constant fleets of thundering lorries - which don't mix well with bicycles. So I was putting a lot of my faith in that GPS black line, to direct me onto the various safe cycle routes which would enable us to survive intact, and also keep us off the motorway network from which we were, obviously, banned. If I ever get to a stage that I'm cycling comfortably at 70mph, I shall write to my MP and lobby to have this changed, but we're a little way off that yet.

Bearing in mind that my GPS had directed me to a muckspreader two days ago, and that trust was therefore at a low ebb, things didn't get off to an auspicious start. Although the suggested cycle paths did keep us safely away from the lorries, the directions for the crucial motorway bridge went immediately askew. The recommended track was unceremoniously shut, with impassable metal barriers in place and no sign of recent use. The suggested diversion seemed to take us on ever smaller and more unlikely tracks, but within 15 minutes Raven and I were successfully riding alongside about eight lanes of traffic on a dizzying track that I'd never even noticed before. We'd got there.

The view towards Bristol from the east of the motorway bridge. Behind us, hundreds of cars, lorries and SUV's, and a view toward the main dock on the western coast. You'll have to take my word for that, because we weren't about to cross over for a better shot.

From this point, the cycle paths worsened. Quite a lot.

I don't think this was a GPS issue, I think it's more about our poor cycling infrastructure. These hidden connections seem to have become forgotten: surfaces covered with chippings and glass, signage hopeless, and narrow lanes now almost closed over by nettles and brambles meeting from either side. Such a shame. However, it made for a challenging ride, and we emerged from the experience puncture-free, with a sense of real accomplishment, and not too far behind time.

I don't recall seeing routes like this on the Giro d'Italia. This was far from the worst we encountered, but on other tracks we were more focused on avoiding the hazards to take a picture.

Arriving at the bridge into Wales, I was relieved to find that the barriers were open, with a green sign telling us that it was still safe to cross. Still, it was a blowy experience, and with a pretty low barrier next to the water, I was glad to get over.

Crossing the Severn Bridge into Wales. To the left you can see the other crossing, further south. To the right, the motorway traffic kept up a steady accompanying roar.

I was planning to take the traditional picture at the entry point to Wales. A big bilingual sign welcoming incomers usually marks the transition. Raven's first venture abroad felt like an event that we should record. But it seems that you have to be in a car to get welcomed, as our cycle path avoided such niceties and simply deposited us on the outskirts of Chepstow. We didn't mind too much, because it meant that we'd arrived at our planned coffee stop.

The joys of using independent coffee shops. If I'd gone to the Costa just up the road, there's no way I'd have got an unsolicited fruit salad. Plus, I bet the independent cafe contributed some tax.

The view down to Chepstow's centre, on the approach. Great thing about cycling is that you can do impromptu pictures at a red light. In a car, not so much

Having taken us to foreign climes, the route planner decided that was quite enough excitement for the day, and as we dropped out the bottom of Chepstow, we passed a sign by the river which declared that we were arriving back in Gloucestershire, England. I'm not sure that we'll re-enter Welsh parts again, now, but at least if all goes well we'll have touched all three mainland countries. Of course, having now left Somerset, we were straight back to hills, today's ride being pretty much a mirror image of yesterday. Flat, flat, updownupdown. However, barring the Scottish Cairngorms, our worst climbs are now behind us, and what wind there was, was helping us up the gradients. Allied of course to the vastly more athletic quads which I've developed over the last three days. (Cake: the food of bodybuilders worldwide).

By now, the rain was just starting to make its presence felt, but given reports from elsewhere in the country we'd definitely escaped the worst of it. I grabbed lunch at a supermarket as I passed, not wanting to waste time, and finally made it in to Hereford at around three.

On a day of bridges, this was my favourite, on the entry to Hereford. Sculptural, functional, and missing six lanes of traffic.

GPS got me straight to the door today, clearly in an effort to make up for the faux pas at the Avonmouth Bridge. I was greeted by a welcoming host, who immediately offered me coffee, showed me to my upgraded room, and safely stashed Raven in the dining room. (I do hope she doesn't embarrass herself at breakfast).

Having arrived early, and with the rain still just about at bay, I had a quick chance to check out Hereford. If I'm honest, it kind of validated my intention not to focus on finding places of interest. Not that it isn't a lovely town, it's just that there are only so many permutations of Boots, Next and M&S that you can put on a high street. I didn't want to try my luck too much more with the weather, and it was getting towards closing time, so I quickly passed by the smaller - and no doubt better - boutique shops for a quick pic of the cathedral.

Hereford Cathedral is famous for housing the Mappa Mundi, a medieval map which is only slightly less reliable than my GPS. It's less famous for closing access at 1630. I arrived five minutes later. Some you win...

Tourist homework successfully completed, I then walked back to the hotel, ready to meet a friend for dinner. Late blog tonight as a result. Tomorrow we're heading north to Market Drayton, another waypoint on my black line about which I currently know nothing. But hey, it's about the journey, not the destination. There'll be roads, fields, hills and HGV's. And it's going to be amazing. I can't wait.

Scores on the doors, day four. Should you be one of life's masochists, you can find the intimate detail of Bristol's lesser-known cycle paths on the full route at https://ridewithgps.com/trips/189907966

Today's ride: 74 miles (119 km)
Total: 268 miles (431 km)

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