Mallwydd, Wales: And the animals went in two by two

July 5, 2015

THERE ARE days when every cyclist knows how Noah felt. Sympathetically. Today was one of those, but I'll get to that in a moment.

The campground was divided in two, the Caravan Club on one side of a wire fence and the rest of the world (just us, as it happened) on the other. The Caravan Club is an odd organisation that broke away from the Camping and Caravan Club because it took against scruffy people in tents. Don't ask me why.

The outcome is that sites affiliated to the caravan people won't accept tents. But people who run sites are as keen on small change as anyone else so, in this case, a cheerful, balding, overweight Londoner sitting beside his caravan with a guitar had divided the area in two. We could see those on the other side but there was little risk of spreading our germs.

Nature wasn't politically split, though, and the midges flew both sides.

"Keep away from the hedge on the far side and they won't be so bad," the man with the guitar had said.

His London accent was unmistakeable.

"You don't sound Welsh," I laughed.

He looked at me seriously.

"Yaki da!" he said. He sounded like Michael Caine. "That convince you?"

We both laughed.

"I see now how easily I was mistaken," I confessed.

I don't think we took his midge warning seriously. We were prepared for midges in Scotland but... Wales? And then at dusk they began swarming above the tents, dancing in bunches at first but growing thicker. We settled on an early night and escaped behind the tents' screens.

The midges waited all night, gathering reinforcements as the moon moved. By morning they were a thick cloud that followed us wherever we walked. They got in our eyes, our ears, stung our arms, flew up our noses. We hadn't expected to use midge masks before the Highlands but now we blessed our forethought. We ate breakfast like bank robbers, lifting the masks high enough for a bite of sandwich before tugging them down again.

Legend says the knack is to puff a pipe. But that dates to boys in short trousers and men in raincoats. And pipes. Never underestimate tales of other people's frustration. Midges can drive a sane man crazy.

Well, the Sunday road back through Wales was quiet. We passed the pub outside which we had met some other cyclists yesterday, the doors and windows now closed after a late Saturday.

Life passed peacefully until the next town, as chapel as all the others. And then the road objected to being disturbed on the Sabbath and stood up in defiance. It had a steepness we hadn't expected. We ground up past shops and grey houses with slate roofs. We passed small, respectable gardens with no-nonsense gates. We panted past men with comb-over hair out hunting for Sunday papers. And past children who stood and stared, unsure of the appropriate behaviour.

It was hard. And not the last. All morning the road demanded a toll for its beauty. And beauty there was. Yesterday we were on main roads, acceptable and practical but looking across at the narrow, quieter road we had declined because of its hilliness. That had been like watching a travel film, watching other people having the fun while putting up with an ersatz version on the couch.

Today we had the real thing. We were back among blue flowers and green, sniffing-dog hedgerows. There were hills and cliffs and leaves of a greenness that betrayed a long, wet summer. There were stone walls guarded by Sunday-best hollyhocks. Jeering sheep bleated disrespectfully. Buzzards swooped, graceful above the waiting death of their grasping claws.

We climbed and sometimes walked high above a valley drowned to provide water for English people far away, a fact that hasn't escaped Welsh militants demanding more separation of the two nations.

The descent was long and winding, fast, only the wind resistance of loaded panniers stopping us going even faster. We whizzed round hedged bends and under narrow brick bridges. And we pulled to a halt at a larger valley road decorated by a bunch of indecisive cyclists on slender bikes without bags.

They looked up, surprised but friendly, as we stopped with red, streaming eyes.

Might there be a café, we asked. And there was. Just down the road, full of mechanical, wooden, animated toys made by local craftsmen. It was as charming as it was odd.

It was there that we decided to tackle Bwlch-y-Groes tomorrow, when we're fresher. It's not so terribly hard but it's bleak and it's steep. Years back I pulled spokes right through the flange of my back hub as I fought up it in a brevet ride.

The weather confirmed our decision. It changed in a minute from warming strolling tourists in mail-order clothing to pouring hard on the back of cyclists dressed in yellow plastic. The rain fell with a violence to match the climbs of the morning. The reservoir and the deeply green leaves now had their explanation.

It rained like that for an hour. Maybe more. It rained so hard that it was hard to see our way. Drivers came cautiously the other way, their headlights peering with half-closed eyes through the deluge. It was deeply unpleasant.

Out of it all came the bleary image of a roundabout and, before it, a sign announcing the start of Snowdonia national park. On the other side of the road was a substantial, square hotel. Inside were hot drinks and perhaps a meal.

"I hope you don't mind my saying this," the woman behind the bar said in an accent that rose and hesitated on each word, "but I think you're crazy."

We stood there, dripping on the flagstone floor. Around us, everyone was speaking Welsh. So would have the woman behind the bar, she said, but even the Welsh wouldn't ride bikes in weather like that so she rightly took us for foreigners. She shook her head slowly in amused bewilderment.

We drank tea. We drank more tea. And we had another nem con. We stayed the night.

It was still raining Noah-like when we fell asleep.

Today's ride: 57 km (35 miles)
Total: 1,363 km (846 miles)

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