DAY 5: Going through people’s lives

Wellington to Glastonbury – 31 miles

Our first day off had become a day of catching up on lost miles. Only 31 of them, but still. When I took a look at the Komoot profile I texted it to Jools in Bristol with a simple ‘Hallelujah!’.

Jools meanwhile had looked into replacing all our remaining campsite bookings with B&Bs or youth hostels. We had tried to do it the ‘pure’ low cost way, but it had proved to be to much for us. Fact is, setting up camp, cooking a meal over a burner, dealing with the damp, the cold, the lack of wifi, all after a long day in the saddle is a challenge suited to younger limbs and minds than ours. We were bailing out and going into ‘credit card’ touring mode. Amen.

The morning’s ride took us along Somerset lanes to Taunton where we stopped for coffee and Phil admired the cranes. ‘I like a good crane,’ he said.

We travelled miles on canal towpaths past barges and fishermen (they’re always men). Canals are charming at first, but soon grow tedious. The narrow walkways under the canal bridges feel treacherously narrow. You’re often pinging your bell to forewarn joggers and dog walkers, and the surface is scrunchy and juddering.

Had it not been for the north wind, which had been blowing in our faces with varying degrees of strength all the way from Lands End, we would have cruised those flat roads on the Somerset levels. ‘Don’t you feel like you’re going through people’s lives,’ Phil said, and he was so right. On two wheels you have time to look and notice: that old lady mowing the grass verge, those men building a new patio, that young woman bringing her kids back from school, those old people out for a group walk, that postie delivering mail, that child on a swing. The same archetypes everywhere with minor but all important variations, every village with its primary school, its pub, its village hall, its old church, its grand house, its row of council houses, its war memorial, tens times, a hundred times, a thousand times over, on and on through England.

Riding up a hill into the wind, which felt a bit like riding whilst being held back by a large elastic band, Glastonbury Tor floated into view in the distance. We told Tim about the spiritual pull of the place, about ley lines, King Arthur and the Jesus legend. It must have sounded quaint and puzzling to him.

I knew Glastonbury was a strange place, but I wasn’t ready for how strange it was in flesh and stone. The backdrop is another beautiful English market town, with its old cross, its abbey, its grand houses and winding streets. Into this scenario fate has placed a circus of Merlins and Frodos, Bodhran girls and acid casualties. In fact mostly old hippies, some of whom have aged with both grace and eccentricity intact, but many who haven’t managed this skilful balancing act, and come across like the remnants of a blissful party that ended long ago. In general, I like freaks, outlaws and rule-breakers. I find their courage inspiring. But Glastonbury doesn’t quite do it for me. There’s something sinister about all that crystal gazing, all that dreaming. You can imagine a vicious murder occurring there, the product of a mind that has drifted too far to care any more.

We sat outside the Market House Hotel, who told us we couldn’t check in for another hour. Dawdling over a few pints and lunch, and chatting to some of the locals, we forgot the time, and arrived at the bike repair shop, which was a ride to the edge of town, too late. A stressed and harassed mechanic told he had two many urgent MOT jobs on to look at Tim’s rear brake.

The problem was becoming urgent. I couldn’t help imagining a few doom-laden scenarios of failing brakes on steep hills and the disasters that might result. But drawing inspiration from the cool-headed manner of Sapper Jools, I rang ahead to Mark at TLD cycles in Bristol and set up an appointment for the next after noon. Breathe, believe, all will be well.

Back at the Market house, I repaired to a corner of the bar to blog for a while. Then I saw my old friend Nick, ruddy from his ride from Castle Cary, walking to the bar. He was due to join us for a few days. My original plan had been to have all kinds of friends and relatives joining us for various legs of the journey, but in reality, people had found it hard to carve out the time. So it was a real pleasure to have Nick with us. He dovetailed with the crew immediately. I knew he would.

That evening we ambled over to a near by Italian restaurant, but were told there would be a hours wait for a table. So Tim, with the honing instinct of the dedicated foodie, got on Google, and found a Mediterranean restaurant called The Queen of Cups, highly-starred, rave-reviewed, just a few minutes walk away.

We were shown to our table by a young waitress with dyed blonde, green and purple hair, a large nose ring, rings in plenty of other places, copious tattoos and the cheeriest and most welcoming smile you could wish for. She bubbled with enthusiasm for her role in life, and called us ‘ducks’ and ‘dear’ and ‘me darling’. The style was Middle Eastern mezze style, which put the fear of God into Phil. But when the food arrived – beautifully flavoured aubergine and humus dips, pickles, Hispi cabbage, venison, lamb köfte and a totally irresistible kind of flattish crispy bread called frena bread – all his worries vanished and he ate with the same enthusiasm as the rest of us.

The coup the grace was a desert called knafeh, a new creation of the young female chef, who looked very Middle Eastern with her black curly hair and dark eyes. When it arrived on the serving counter it caused great excitement, and pictures were taken by the chef and her team for posterity. How to describe the experience of eating it without veering into pretentious foodie speech? It was a gorgeous melt in mouth mix of honey, spices, cream, filigree pancake, and other unidentiable flavours that came at you one after the other. We ate and were lost for words and that’s only happened to me a few times in my life. A very special place that will be revisited.

On the way back to the Market house we hung around the old Glastonbury cross. ‘I’d love to take that home for my garden,’ Phil said. Tim wondered how old it was. Late Gothic, I reckoned. I was wrong.