St Arvans to Fownhope – 32 Miles
Hardness of climb, distance to ride, size and type of road, these were the considerations that we were constantly rolling around in our minds, trying to find the perfect fit.
Rodney, the landlord of the Parkfield B&B in St Arvans told us that the high road over the hills to Monmouth was preferred by locals, and the low road along the Wye Valley, past Tintern, was preferred by incomers and tourists. Locals are fewer in number, but they drive more aggressively. Visitors are more plentiful, but slower and more leisurely in the way they drive. The high road would be emptier, but more hilly, the low road busier, but its curves would be more sedate. We went for the low road.
After a steep climb out of St Arvans, with engines roaring in our ears as we huffed and puffed our way to the top, we began a long glide down through the Wye Valley forest. I’d driven this road many times, but forgotten how long that descent to Tintern was, and how beautiful the tunnel of green you pass through. You notice so much less when you’re driving.
Tintern Abbey appeared like a beautiful skeleton on its bed of green velvet. We all marvelled, veterans of this wonderful sight and newbies alike. Nick wondered why his Welsh gran and auntie, who lived their whole lives on the outskirts of Cardiff, never thought to bring him here when he was a boy. Tim too was evidently awed by what he saw. I thought of the monks who once lived in this lush and quiet place. Was it possible to envy their lives?
Jools asked if anyone knew any lines from Wordsworth’s famous poem. All I could remember was ‘O, sylvan Wye!’, which I intoned like a comedy book tragic actor. Later I remembered more: ‘the sounding cataract haunted me like a passion’ and ‘his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love’ (actually I had to look that one up). Wordsworth was telling us that the mere memory of a beautiful place can make you a better person.
The Wye itself was more an old, beloved friend, cosy in the green, than a sounding cataract. We caught cool glimpses of its barely ruffled surface through the trees and hedges as we cycled along. I had a strong urge to call a halt and have a swim, but that’s hard to do when your companions are in full motion.
At one moment a cyclist drew level me and, as we rode along side by side, asked if I too was doing Lands End to John O’Groats. He’d obviously been chatting with Jules and Phil further back. He had once done the End to End in ten days, long ago when he was younger. We chatted for a while as we rode along then he wished me good luck and zoomed off up the road – a chance encounter, in motion!
As we passed through the village of Redbrook, I saw ‘Save The Wye’ posters in the windows. Far from being treasured for its ability to make us better people, it turns out we’ve been treating the Wye shabbily – pollutants, sewerage, manure, plastic, invasive plants, climate change have bought this beautiful ‘wanderer through the green’ to a perilous state. The Wye is dying from a thousand cuts, each one administered with the careless thought that ‘surely my little act, of dumping, polluting, fertilising, won’t make that much difference.’
We cycled into Monmouth, which was buzzing with bank holiday energy. It’s another market town with beautiful old buildings, winding streets, but prosperous this time, still the hub, in many ways, of the surrounding area. We found a café in an old building on a courtyard and ordered tea and coffees. The waitress persuaded us to have Welsh cakes rather than scones, and a chat followed about the difference between the two. When both were delivered to our table, Welsh cakes were, for me at least, the clear winner – their shape, size, taste and moistness were far superior.
Phil discovered that Lord Nelson sailed up the Wye to visit Monmouth in 1802. While he was here, he made a famous speech praising the patriotism of the locals, in the very house where we were conducting the great bakery debate. Lady Hamilton and her husband were in attendance. I imagine the evening was, in some ways, more challenging to the little admiral than the assault on Napoleon’s navy on the Nile.
As we left, Tim poured his coffee into his water bottle to help him up those hills. The climb out of Monmouth was severe but mercifully short, and we were soon gliding over the hedges and fields of Herefordshire, the sky a mottle of blue, white and grey. The conditions were perfect: warm, slight wind, long roads on steady declines, sparse traffic.
Passing a farmyard, we heard a loud continuous roar and saw flames leaping inside a kind of furnace. Phil was curious and stopped to have a closer look. Just then the farmer turned up and they began chatting. Phil has an impressive gift for starting conversations, especially with anyone who’s out working with their hands or anyone with a dog. The farmer, who was , middle-aged, fair haired, tall, well built and strong, but shy in his eyes, told us that the furnace was drying the recently harvested crop of barley. He explained that this August’s weather has been very unusual because despite high pressure, there’s been a lot of cloud cover and this meant that the barley was damp when it was harvested. If you store damp grain it goes mouldy, so they have to dry it out at great expense in terms of labour, fuel etc. He told us all this with quiet resignation. As we parted, I looked inside the open door of his pick up. Everything was caked in mud and the seat covers were in tatters.
On narrow roads, we had taken on the habit of calling out ‘car’ to warn each other of an approaching vehicle, behind or in front. We were cycling along a lane looking for Jools, who had gone ahead to scout a good place to stop for lunch, when I heard ‘car’ and pulled over, mildly irritated. When turned round to look at the offending vehicle, I thought ‘that’s strange…I know that number plate.’ Then ‘Oh my God! That’s our car!’
My wife Kate was at wheel, beaming. She had been doing an outdoor navigation course in North Wales and on her way back to Bristol had decided to follow our position by tracking my iPhone. You can do that with this app called ‘Find My Friends’. She stopped the car and I gave her a big hug. I was really glad to see her. We all were.
We found Jools and ate lunch under a tree by an old church, with wide views of the countryside beyond a stone wall, chatting about our trip, about her navigation course, catching up with all the news and eating our cheese baguettes, flapjacks, peanuts. Jules took a picture of Kate and I standing by the tree, then she gave everyone a hug and went on her way. Her appearance had been a moment of magic and as she left, I thought about her talent for producing moments like that.
Nick was worried he might miss his train at Hereford so we pressed on. As I was climbing through the gears on a particularly steep hill, I heard the jarring crunch of my chain coming off the top cog and wedging itself hard behind the cassette. It took Phil, Tim and I a lot of effort to wrench it back free, our fingers covered in black grease. Nick meantime had said good bye and pedalled on. The last half an hour into Fownhope was strenuous and hilly, and the pub appeared like a vision of salvation and that pint of Hobson’s bitter like nectar
None of us quite realised that we had to face some of the same hills again on our ride from the pub to the Falcon’s Nest B&B, which is run by cousins of Jools’s Kate. When you arrive at the end of a day’s pedalling, you exit battle mode, your body deflates, your muscles relax. After that pint, I found it almost impossible to re-engage. The hills on that last unexpected stretch were some of the hardest on the whole trip.
As we cycled down into the driveway of the Falcon House we were clapped and cheered by Jools’ Kate’s cousins Barbara, Helen and Viv, their mother Peggy, Barbara’s husband Peter and her son Nathan. It was a morale boosting welcome and, as always happens once you’re happily seated with a drink in your hand, the day was soon wiped clean of its sweat and strain.
Before supper, Barbara gave us a tour of their amazing collection of owls, often waifs and strays from commercial centres, or local foundlings, all housed in large, impressively built pens. I was fascinating by their fierce look and proud bearing. One, a female, was aggravated by our presence and began to ruffle her feathers and turn her eyes white to signal her displeasure. Those white eyes were haunting, the stuff of nightmares. Meanwhile, the male in the cage just sat and looked at us as if nothing was the slightest bit wrong with the world.
The male African Horned Owl was especially beautiful. He had apparently fallen in love with Barbara’s son Nathan, and would happily sit on Nathan’s head to prove his devotion. But the male owl had no idea what to do about the female African Horned Owl that Barbara had introduced into his pen, in the hope they would mate. It was a sad tale and a good plot for a TV romcom, even a tragedy.
Barbara and her sisters served us a lovely dinner of lasagne and risotto, and we chatted about cycling, lockdown, the stresses and joys of running a B&B. Barbara’s octogenarian mother Peggy, hearing me complain about all the hills in Devon and Cornwall, said ‘The good thing about a hill is that you know a time will come when you’ll be coming down and everything will be easier.”
That’s very true.
Andy Morgan.
