May 29, 2022
Carmarthen to Llandeilo
Riding east
With it being a Sunday in Wales, the streets of Carmarthen are empty, while my stomach is full after a nice buffet breakfast. The shops are all closed at this time - before nine - but they'll likely stay that way today.
I cruise down a few streets to the Towy and find the newish bridge for cyclists and pedetrians and head across the river, then stop at a petrol station on the south side, hoping to use a compressed air hose to get my tyres nicely inflated. The guy inside says the air supply is not free, so I just pump the tyres up with my Topeak and ponder how slow my puncture actually is.
The morning sunshine disappears quite quickly and by 10 o'clock there's a blanket of grey cloud above. It looks quite iffy as I ride eastwards on small lanes that go up and down.
It's all seriously rural, with the odd house, farm and chapel dotted here and there, with sheep grazing in the rolling fields. There's nobody around.
My first goal is the Botanic Garden of Wales and I reckon it will have a cafe where I can enjoy lunch. It's almost noon when I arrive. Good timing.
Entrance is £13 and I don't have enough time to fully justify that. Unfortunately the cafe got closed during Covid and all that's on offer now is some over-priced chocolate in the outside gift shop, so I make do with a banana that I picked up back in the hotel, then pump up my front tyre again and go back along an undulating cycle path that skirts around the vast area before veering towards a nearby historic landmark known as Paxton's Tower.
It's only a couple of miles, but just after reaching the halfway point my tyre goes completly flat. The OS map says the spot is called Penalltuchaf, which is Welsh for highest, but I can see this is not quite the top as goes up more to the east. The place seems to consist of just two dwellings, but there may be others hidden away.
While it's obvious the puncture needs fixing, it's with some anxiety that I lean my bike against a low garden wall of a bunglaow close to a crossroads and get my repair kit out. Experience tells me that the wide tyre objects to being removed and that this is going to be another struggle.
As I'm working on it, a car pulls into the drive and the owner asks if things are OK. He doesn't really want to know. You can just tell. Spots of rain start coming down and it's very humid and my Nylon tyre levers are bending.
Eventually I succeed and pull out the tube, but the hole is just a tiny pinprick that takes some locating before I can put a patch on it.
The homeowner never comes outside before I set off.
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The rain holds off and it's two o'clock when I get to Paxton's Tower. A couple arrive in a car at the same time and we all go through the wooden gate and walk up the grassy hill.
As we do so, the rain that had looked imminent starts falling and we make it to the shelter of the Gothic-looking tower just in time. Wind blows from the north and wets half of the inside of the shelter and I put on my arm-warmers to help keep the chill out. I stand in a recess out of the way and hope it's just a passing shower.
The couple eventually leave, but soon after a group of four turn up. One seems to know the history and could be a guide, while another man chats to me. He's from Irvine, Florida, but was born around here. Like me, he's a tourist in his native country.
The 36-foot tower resembles a castle, but is basically a folly with no real purpose, expect to honor Lord Nelsom, who died in 1805. Apparently the upper floor was a banquetting room that had stained glass windows. It's hard to imagine dining comfortably in the remote place and the man who commissioned the structure, Sir William Paxton, clearly had money to burn.
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It's nice, quiet cycling along lanes that take me further east to somewhere called Golden Grove. My plan had been to explore some tracks going through an estate, but what with the weather being damp, I stick to the road that's not busy and cruise at speed down to Cilsan Bridge.
The sun miraculously comes out as I get there, so I rest the bike against a hedge, climb over a wooden stile that has a Pulic Footpath sign next to it, then walk across the corner of a field that has foot-long, wet grass that soaks my cycling sandals and socks before reaching the bank. There's a nice view of the arched, stone structure that was built nearly 200 years ago and I take a few snaps, then trek back to the fence, trying not to get stung by nettles as climb over.
Once across the long bridge, I pedal east again and literally reach the end of the road just past Cilsan. Actually it's a lane with grass growing along parts of its centre. It only leads to a farm house and the owner pulls up in a car as I study my map and she confirms the sign on her gate forbids access. She points to a track that goes up a grassy hill. I'll have to walk and that won't be easy with a loaded bike. It's pretty steep and slippery.
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The track eventually comes to a meadow that has a wide, mown strip marking the public right of way. Although it's not clear where this is, my compass says it's going in the right direction and, besides, there's little choice but to continue riding.
After a few minutes of bumpy along it brings me out at a road - the A40 - and a sign points to Llandeilo and shortly after I'm outside a pub called The White Hart Inn, which is one of two places in the town that I'd earmarked as somewhere to sleep.
This hotel was going to be the cheapest option and the barmaid quotes a reasonable rate of 70 quid with breakfast. My bike gets locked up in an inside room and I crash out for a while before popping down to the bar to see where I can get some dinner. The Great Wall takeaway seems like a good bet. It's a five-minute walk away.
My legs are aching on the walk there and I order fried rice with sweet and sour crisy beef, and ask for a fork. Back in my room, it soon gets demolished and the bar calls my name. Beer is required.
Th eplace is now pretty busy and resembles a family party, on ethat I feel I've gatecrashed. Everyone is a local and the age range is from about 10 to over 60. Two girls in their teens are trying to play pool, wihile some older women - their mothers - take turns selecting music on the jukebox. A TV is on but nobody is takig any notice. I keep myself to myself and have two pints before the bed calls my name lud and clear.
Today's ride: 50 km (31 miles)
Total: 778 km (483 miles)
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