DAY 6: Pedalling Home

Glastonbury to St Arvans – 46 miles

The four of us – myself, Phil, Tim and Nick – sat outside the Market House in Glastonbury waiting for the manager to come and release our bikes from storage. The streets were quiet in the soft morning sun. We had packed our bags, breakfasted and were ready. The manager had promised to be there between 9.30 and 10am, without fail. But it was already 11. We had to cycle to Bristol, fix Tim’s brakes, sort out some technical issues to do with the blog, meet friends, and then cycle to St Arvans, a little village north of Chepstow.

But there we were waiting. I was scrunching up inside. How were we going to fit everything in? We had to mend Tim’s brake. Imagine if they failed. But that’s my weakness…to imagine things.

Should we take the long route around the Mendips, via Cheddar, the Strawberry Line (a beautiful and easy cycle path) to Yatton, and Nailsea. Or should we take the shorter route to Wells and then up over the Mendips? We debated this point as we waited. Distance or elevation. Which was more important?

Nick called the Market House number and eventually got the manager, who told him that the chef had been inside the pub part of premises, where our bikes were stored, since 9am. He had just nipped out to the super market and would be back soon. I seethed quietly. When the chef turned up and unlocked the door to the pub, I asked him if he’d been there since 9am. He exploded. He wasn’t the manager. It wasn’t his responsibility. Don’t have a go at me. ‘And I live here,’ he added with a final blast.

I reasoned it through. He was on a minimum wage. The place was understaffed. Some plonker had forgotten to put us in touch with the chef. It would have just taken one text.

I cycled off and my mind beat back the dark clouds. By Wells, they had dispersed. The sun was up and the lanes to Wells were flat and straight. We cycled through the old city, past the cathedral and then began to climb and climb, cars roaring past us on the busy road up to the Mendips. The climb was as tough as anything Cornwall or Devon had thrown at us, but we struggled to the top, past the immense communications tower and onto the Mendip uplands, with their land-that-time-forgot feel.

Once we’d traversed those uplands, we freewheeled down Harptree Hill with the whole of the Chew valley laid out before us. Tim’s brakes were always in my mind. Please don’t let us down now. They didn’t. We raced past Chew lake and then through Chew Magna up to the saddle of Dundry Hill. Beyond it lay Bristol. This was home territory and I was navigating with the sure instincts of a homing pigeon. Stopping by a curve in the road, Phil twisted his torso as he was sitting on a lump of concrete that had been left in the middle of a grassy path. Henry the hernia erupted with pain. Phil was stalwart, but looked uncharacteristically worried.

We floated into Bristol along the N3, via Whitchurch and Brislington. It’s my favourite cycle way into the city: along the river, round the back of Temple Meads and through St Philips. Tim, Nick and I pealed off to Stokes Croft for our rendezvous with Mike at TLD cycles. Within minutes of our arrival he had diagnosed the problem. Knackered brake pads (not as obvious on disc brakes as they are on V brakes). We cycled to Evans Cycles in the centre to buy new ones, and when we came back, Mark made the brakes good as new in about 15 minutes. It was fascinating to watch him at work – assured but not aloof, always ready to explain what he’s doing, and give advice where necessary. Use the front brake a little more, and the back one a little less, he said to Tim, and you’ll be fine. Job done. Enjoy the rest of your ride.

We went round to Jools’s house where friends had gathered to celebrate our arrival. Ric came round with jamon and fino. Magdalena came to be with Tim, bringing a big box of Yucca chips from the Cuban restaurant on Stokes Croft. We chatted and toasted our progress. The gathering revived us.

I had been contemplating staying in Bristol and cycling up to St Arvans early the next morning. Phil had gone to rest and see if he could calm Henry down. Should we stay or should we go? In the end we decided to go. It would make the next day’s ride much simpler. I nipped back home to download some photos from my camera and add a few touches to the blog, and then came back ready to ride.

It was already 6.30 when we saddled up and said our goodbyes. St Arvans was two hours away and we had to hurry if we didn’t want to ride along major roads in the dark, and arrive at our B&B at some anti-social hour. We set off up the Cheltenham Road for Westbury on Trym. As we were cresting the hill near Waitrose we heard a loud bang. I turned round to see Jools leaning on his bike with a resigned, gentle ‘Oh for God’s sake’ expression on his face. The inner tube of his rear wheel had exploded. Jools just sighed and said ‘You press on. I’ll try and fix the wheel and catch up with you. If not I’ll get Kate to come and pick me up and I’ll join you tomorrow.’ His coolness in a tight corner was impressive, humbling even, especially in the light of my jitters back in Glastonbury earlier in the day.

So we left Jools by the side of the road and pedalled at high speed toward Henbury and the Severn Bridge. The sky was darkening and none of my lights were working because I’d forgotten to charge them up. I wish I’d bought old school battery operated lights. Modern life can be so complicated. Along the dual carriageway that leads up to Aust we cycled in a single file, hugging the side of the road as cars and juggernauts sped by. That kind of proximity to speeding engines is unnerving. Jools called to say that he’d managed to fix his wheel and was powering after us with all the vavavoom his eBike had it it. I was very happy to hear the news.

Eventually, we cycled through the metal gates at the start of the bridge and enjoyed the epic feeling of riding under its huge white towers, as if down the nave of an immense cathedral, with open water to the left and the new bridge faintly outlined in the distance. Tim filmed the whole thing, holding his camera phone in one hand and the bike handlebar in the other. That was impressive too.

We cycled up the long straight road that leads from the bridge to Chepstow. Half way along Nick pealed off to find the B&B that he’d booked in town. We ploughed on up the hill, past the race course. I rode between Phil and Tim, both of whom had lights. They were my protective shield.

Just as I was beginning to find it hard to see the path in the fading light, and buckling all my concentration onto the small section of path lit up by Tim’s front light, I heard a voice behind me gently enquiring whether my rear light was working. No, I answered, I need to charge it up, thinking I was talking to Phil. But Phil knew my battery situation already. Then it dawned, the voice belonged to Jules, not Phil. He’d caught up with us and secretly stolen behind me, thinking it might be fun to surprise me. He did, and it was.

He told us how he’d managed to replace his burst inner tube by the side of the road, which is not easy task on an eBike, only to realise that the ‘team’ tyre pump was in one of my panniers. He was rescued by someone who lived in a house across the road, by the name of John. He’d done LEJOG and he understood. The solidarity of the two-wheeling brotherhood had saved Jools’ bacon.

Elizabeth and Rodney, owners of the Parkfield B&B in St Arvans, gave us a welcome that could easily have been used as a model for hospitality students the world over to follow. It was the perfect mix of can-do friendliness, concern, willingness to help. I haven’t written my review yet, but when I do, five stars won’t be enough.

Elizabeth pressed us to order a takeaway before it was too late. We rang the Red Lantern, with the numbers of the dishes we were after written down. Could they deliver to St Arvans. No. This was the Red Lantern in Caldecott. Are you sure you’ve rung the right Red Lantern? Ah but no, we hadn’t. There was another Red Lantern in Chepstow, no relation. Confusion over, we ordered and ate and slept soundly.

Andy Morgan.